break your face. Unless he was packing, which he
always was. Starting out as the muscle guarding cigarette shipments in St.
Paul, he’d worked a few bank jobs with the Barker Gang in Minnesota.
According to the police, he’d rubbed three cops in the process; according
to Brickbat, the body count was seven. He’d been in the opening months of
a permanent holiday courtesy the state of Illinois when he was liberated during
the same jailbreak that freed such now-infamous hoods as Henry Pierpont and John
Makley, of the Dillinger Gang. Brickbat knew Owney through some work
they’d done on a Minnesota bootlegging line, and at the time Jason needed
an extra torpedo and figured the man’s brand of pugilistic cockiness
would make him a natural for the job. Thus was a regrettable relationship born.
Jason quickly tired of the way Brickbat’s palsied trigger finger made
bank jobs more violent affairs than they needed to be. Jason had handed
Brickbat an extra cut when he booted him from the gang, in the hope that it would
constitute ending on good terms, but something in the man’s demeanor had
left Jason with the uncomfortable feeling that this was not yet a farewell.
Elton Roberts, Brickbat’s only friend, was a heavy drinker, a trait the
Firesons distrusted. A little here and there was fine, but a man who
couldn’t be counted on to drive straight or think straight was an
unnecessary risk. Fortyish and debonair, Roberts was a grifter who’d
spent thepast few years ripping off the hopeless
jobless across the Midwest. Decked out in a dapper suit and possessing a smooth
voice, he looked every bit the trustworthy businessman, or at least what a poor
egg thought a trustworthy businessman would look like, if there were any. He
would troll the breadlines and find a few suckers, preferably immigrants or
farmers who had lost their property and were overwhelmed by their urban
environs. He’d tell them he was the manager of a new building in town
that needed four elevator operators; the job paid thirty a week— not bad
at all—and all the fellows needed to do was front him fifty each for
their uniforms. The fellows usually didn’t have that much cash, but
they’d ask for a day or two to rustle the funds from their cousins or
in-laws or dying grandparents. Once Roberts had their money, he’d tell
them the building’s address and ask them to show at eight the next
morning. When they did, they would find that Roberts wasn’t there and
that the building had no elevator. Roberts bounced from city to city working
that grift and a few others before the cops got wise. Then, while doing time,
he met a jug marker with a list of banks to hit once he got out. Like a
skittering asteroid, Elton Roberts eventually came into Jason’s orbit.
Because Roberts looked straight and could talk his way out of trouble, Jason
had taken him on as a faceman. He learned about Roberts’s jobshark scams
only after a few weeks of working together, when Elton got drunk and boastful.
That’s when Jason realized he’d never liked the man.
“Look,” Chance said, “I know Brickbat’s crazy, but I
don’t see him for a finger-louse. Last I heard he was gearing for some
big job. Was trying to get the Barkers involved, but they wouldn’t
bite.”
“What was the job?”
“He wasn’t that talkative.”
Jason eyed him. “You’re not telling us everything.”
“It’d take a week to tell you everything, and you never seem to
have enough time. But I’m telling you the important parts.”
Jason turned around and started the engine. “You’re
right—I’d love to chin with you all night, but, yeah, we’ve
got to go.”
“Where you headed?”
That was at the top of the list of questions Jason wouldn’t answer, so he
lied. “Very far from here.”
“Any messages for me to pass on?”
“Dead men don’t pass messages. This never happened.”
“Got it. Except, dead men pass lots of messages. You can take just
about any message you want off a dead
always was. Starting out as the muscle guarding cigarette shipments in St.
Paul, he’d worked a few bank jobs with the Barker Gang in Minnesota.
According to the police, he’d rubbed three cops in the process; according
to Brickbat, the body count was seven. He’d been in the opening months of
a permanent holiday courtesy the state of Illinois when he was liberated during
the same jailbreak that freed such now-infamous hoods as Henry Pierpont and John
Makley, of the Dillinger Gang. Brickbat knew Owney through some work
they’d done on a Minnesota bootlegging line, and at the time Jason needed
an extra torpedo and figured the man’s brand of pugilistic cockiness
would make him a natural for the job. Thus was a regrettable relationship born.
Jason quickly tired of the way Brickbat’s palsied trigger finger made
bank jobs more violent affairs than they needed to be. Jason had handed
Brickbat an extra cut when he booted him from the gang, in the hope that it would
constitute ending on good terms, but something in the man’s demeanor had
left Jason with the uncomfortable feeling that this was not yet a farewell.
Elton Roberts, Brickbat’s only friend, was a heavy drinker, a trait the
Firesons distrusted. A little here and there was fine, but a man who
couldn’t be counted on to drive straight or think straight was an
unnecessary risk. Fortyish and debonair, Roberts was a grifter who’d
spent thepast few years ripping off the hopeless
jobless across the Midwest. Decked out in a dapper suit and possessing a smooth
voice, he looked every bit the trustworthy businessman, or at least what a poor
egg thought a trustworthy businessman would look like, if there were any. He
would troll the breadlines and find a few suckers, preferably immigrants or
farmers who had lost their property and were overwhelmed by their urban
environs. He’d tell them he was the manager of a new building in town
that needed four elevator operators; the job paid thirty a week— not bad
at all—and all the fellows needed to do was front him fifty each for
their uniforms. The fellows usually didn’t have that much cash, but
they’d ask for a day or two to rustle the funds from their cousins or
in-laws or dying grandparents. Once Roberts had their money, he’d tell
them the building’s address and ask them to show at eight the next
morning. When they did, they would find that Roberts wasn’t there and
that the building had no elevator. Roberts bounced from city to city working
that grift and a few others before the cops got wise. Then, while doing time,
he met a jug marker with a list of banks to hit once he got out. Like a
skittering asteroid, Elton Roberts eventually came into Jason’s orbit.
Because Roberts looked straight and could talk his way out of trouble, Jason
had taken him on as a faceman. He learned about Roberts’s jobshark scams
only after a few weeks of working together, when Elton got drunk and boastful.
That’s when Jason realized he’d never liked the man.
“Look,” Chance said, “I know Brickbat’s crazy, but I
don’t see him for a finger-louse. Last I heard he was gearing for some
big job. Was trying to get the Barkers involved, but they wouldn’t
bite.”
“What was the job?”
“He wasn’t that talkative.”
Jason eyed him. “You’re not telling us everything.”
“It’d take a week to tell you everything, and you never seem to
have enough time. But I’m telling you the important parts.”
Jason turned around and started the engine. “You’re
right—I’d love to chin with you all night, but, yeah, we’ve
got to go.”
“Where you headed?”
That was at the top of the list of questions Jason wouldn’t answer, so he
lied. “Very far from here.”
“Any messages for me to pass on?”
“Dead men don’t pass messages. This never happened.”
“Got it. Except, dead men pass lots of messages. You can take just
about any message you want off a dead
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