“Hardly anything. Mostly say only what I tell you to say and nothing more. Can you do that?”
“Depends.”
“Here’s the deal: you give me the deposit bag. How much is in there?”
Mike shrugged. “A few thousand.”
“Perfect. You just drive over to the bank and park near the night deposit drawer. Then call Red and tell him some guys—in fact, make it a man and a woman, and say one of ’em’s black. Anyway, they pulled up and held a gun on you and took the bag. You gotta sound all scared. Can you do that?”
“What? That’ll never work.”
“’Course it will! Red’ll call the cops, and you can tell them you were too scared to think about what kind of car it was and say they wore ski masks or something, but you could tell the guy was black. C’mon, man, forty bucks!”
“I do all the work, you get all the money, and I get forty? No way.”
“How much then?”
“Half.”
“But it was my idea!”
“You’re gonna skate, Brady.”
“I’ll give you a fourth, then.”
“Deal.”
“Really, Mike?”
“I can use the money.”
“Me too. Good man.”
They went to the back and counted the money, and Brady was thrilled to see that his part of the deal would give him more than forty-five hundred dollars.
“That’s more’n fifteen hundred for you, Mike.”
“Plus the forty.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna be rich, Brady. I’m taking all the risk. . . .”
“All right, fine.”
After a few more words of coaching for Mike, including a little acting advice, Brady headed back to the trailer park. Along the way he tossed the bank bag in a ditch and stuffed the wads of cash in his pockets. Then he went directly to the laborers’ shack and paid off both Manny and Pepe.
“And let me have a quarter kilo too,” Brady said.
“I still got work for you,” Pepe said, handing him a taped cellophane package. “As long as you keep up with your bills.”
“Or what? You’ll threaten my family again? I don’t need that, and I don’t need you.”
When he got home, Brady left the cookies on the kitchen table for Peter and a stack of cash for his mother with a note telling her he was paying his rent a month in advance. He stored the remaining booty deep in the closet with his sawed-off and ammo, smoked a joint, and dropped into bed.
But despite the grass, Brady was so wired he wondered if he would ever sleep again.
38
Adamsville
“I saw you on the news,” Grace said, padding out in her robe. It was one in the morning. “They showed you walking past the demonstrators. Something wrong with the car?”
Thomas shook his head. She helped him shed his hat and coat and scarf and led him to the couch. He buried his face in his hands.
“You don’t need to talk about it, Thomas. It’s written all over you.”
He leaned over on her and she enveloped him.
Thomas was so glad he didn’t have to go to work in the morning. He would request Thursday and Friday off too, meaning he wouldn’t have to return to the prison until Monday. If there was any getting over this despair, he ought to be able to manage it in five days. But just now he couldn’t imagine returning to the grind, the routine, the bureaucracy. If it were up to him, he would issue a challenge, hold prison-wide meetings, tell these desperate men to show up if they were serious about getting to know God and to otherwise stop wasting his time with their games, their requests, their endless challenges and minutiae.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Grace said.
He allowed her to lead him to the bedroom like a sleepwalker. The phone startled him. An officer from the penitentiary was asking about the car. He told Thomas it was okay to leave it there, but that he should have cleared it first.
Brilliant, Thomas thought. All these days off and I’ll have to walk back.
Defeated. He could think of no other way to put it. He was beat, his tank was empty, and he couldn’t even conceive of how to muster the energy to try to refill it. Oh, he’d show up at church Sunday, and Pastor Kessler would preach the Word, as they both were wont to say. And if God’s promise was true that His Word would not return void—whatever that meant—maybe something would knife its way through.
Thomas had so counted on that promise. How was it that God had not allowed him to utter even a word of Scripture to a dying man? What was he supposed to do if not minister to someone on the brink of eternity?
Finally sitting on the edge of the bed in his pajamas, Thomas would normally have read some Scripture, quoted some, prayed, kicked off his slippers, and stretched out on his back. But he had left his Bible at the office. That would be embarrassing come Sunday morning. And he didn’t feel like quoting. Or praying.
He just sat there, lower than he had ever been, trying to muster the wherewithal to bare his feet and pull back the covers. Was Grace going to have to do even that? Before the thought was fully formed, here she came, kneeling to take his slippers, helping him stand so she could make room for him under the covers.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, too spent even to weep.
Thomas stretched out on his stomach and pressed his face into the cold pillow. He felt as if he’d been strained through a cyclone fence. He should pray for the release sleep would bring, but he didn’t much feel like talking to God.
Touhy Trailer Park
Brady Darby had nearly drifted off when he heard a car slowly roll up to the trailer. It wasn’t his mother, unless she was half in the bag, as it stopped on the wrong side. Now whispering, then a flashlight, then another car in the front.
Brady sat up and peeked out. He swore under his breath.
Already?
He reached over and grabbed Peter’s toe and twisted. As soon as the boy roused, Brady shushed him. “Whatever you do, don’t answer the door. We’re not here, got it?”
“What? Why? What’s going on?”
“The cops are after a friend of mine, and I don’t want to lie to them, but I don’t want to rat him out either. Better if they just think there’s no one home.”
“What if they break in?”
“They can’t do that without a warrant.”
“Where’s Ma?”
“Probably won’t come staggering in till morning. Now be quiet.”
Brady heard footsteps on both sides of the trailer. He hid under the covers, showing Peter how to do the same. Soon came three sharp knocks on the door.
“Police department! Open up!”
“Brady!” Peter whined.
“Shh!”
“Brady Darby! If you’re in there, open the door!”
“You gotta answer it, Brady!”
“Shut up, will you?”
“We know you’re in there, Darby! Don’t make us damage your place!”
“Brady! Answer the door!”
“Shut up, Petey! They’re bluffing.”
“No, they’re not!” Peter cried out. “Now go!”
They had to have heard that, and Brady lost it, cursing his brother in desperate whispers. “You answer it and tell ’em I’m not here! You let ’em in, you’re dead meat!”
Peter ran to the door as Brady locked the bedroom. He leaned against the door so he could hear.
“Coming!” Peter hollered.
“No problem, ma’am!” a cop said. “We just need to talk to your son.”
“I’m not a ma’am, sir,” Peter said, opening the door. “I’m a kid.”
“So you are,” a female officer said. “Your mom here?”
“She’s working all night. Waitressing.”
“Uh-huh. This is the Darby residence, right? And your brother is Brady Darby? We need to talk to him.”
“Yeah, but he’s not here either. He worked late too.”
“Where?”
“Burger Boy.
”
“He’s working at Burger Boy?”
“Yup.”
“Who else is here?”
“No one. I was just sleeping.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Oh, that must have been the TV. I like to have it on when I’m here alone.”
“Even when you’re sleeping.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah. Do me a favor, son. Grab a blanket or a coat and step outside here a minute, will you?”
“It’s awful cold.”
“You can sit in the squad car. It’s toasty in there.”
“I’m not supposed to let anyone in.”
“Son, we have a warrant to search this place and to arrest your brother. Now do what I say.”
“Arrest him? I thought you were just going to ask him about his friend.”
“We might. Who’s his friend?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said, pulling on his jacket and slipping into his shoes.
“Where is Brady?” the woman whispered as Peter stepped outside.
“In the back bedroom, but don’t tell him I told you.”
“You’re a good boy and a good brother,” she said, leading him to the car. “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt him. Does he happen to have a weapon?”
“A sawed-off shotgun, but it’s way up in the closet.”
“You stay right here.”
She unholstered her gun and joined two other cops as they entered. “Potentially armed,” she whispered.
Brady heard them approach. He crept back under the covers and pulled them over his head. A cop knocked.
“We got a man outside the window and there’s three of us here, Brady. Open up and show us your hands.”
The lead man’s radio crackled and word came from the post at the window. “No movement inside.”
The cop knocked louder. “You got five seconds, scumbag. Open this door or we kick it in.”
Brady fought not to stir when the door burst open, the flimsy wood frame breaking into pieces and flying about the room. He could feel the room fill with bodies. A huge boot pushed his rear end. “Get up, you faker!”
Brady groaned and rolled over, shielding his eyes from an overpowering flashlight. “What? What do you want?”
“You’re the worst actor in history,” the woman said. “Get your tail out of that bed and get dressed.”
“What’s up, officers?” Brady said. “Something wrong? This about my ma?”
The biggest of the cops grabbed Brady as soon as he stood and threatened to cuff him in his underwear if he didn’t get dressed immediately. Brady pulled on his shirt and pants and slipped into his shoes, trying to smooth his hair.
“If you’ve got any of the money left, you’ll do yourself a favor and produce it right now. Don’t make us find it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking—”
“Okay, find it, people.”
“All right, all right, I’ll get it.”
“You gotta be the dumbest perp in history, Darby. You recruited the wrong guy. Mike What’s-His-Name had his share of the take in his car, man! The first thing we do in a robbery like that is suspect the caller of being in on it. Kid sang like there was no tomorrow.”
Brady spent the night in the county jail. His mother refused to come, let alone to try to bail him out. He was assigned a public defender who didn’t look much older than he did.
Despite the pleading of his lawyer, Brady refused to help himself by telling where the rest of the money had gone. Even though it was a first offense and he was a minor, the judge gave him six months in juvenile hall, reminding him that he could have gotten off with a few weeks plus probation if he had decided to exhibit even a little cooperation.
Adamsville
Consecutive sun-drenched winter mornings, even without having to go to work, had not budged Thomas from his funk. This was a new one on him—a wilderness experience, he called it. He tried to hide at church Sunday morning, glad the Sunday school teacher was there and he didn’t have to substitute.
After the service Pastor Kessler asked if he would wait around until the others had left. Thomas knew what was going on. He could see it in Grace’s eyes. She was worried about him and had clearly confided in the pastor. But hadn’t she herself said that the pastor was too young to be their shepherd?
Grace waited in the car while Kessler walked Thomas back to his office. “What’s going on, friend?” the pastor said.
“I don’t want to keep you from your family, Will, really. I’ll get through this.”
“Nonsense. Now you’ve suffered a blow, and it’ll be good for you to talk about it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t yet. Sorry.”
“You upset with God?”
Thomas let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t think that’s the way I’d put it. Disappointed maybe. Frustrated. Puzzled for sure. Not upset. Not angry at Him. How could I ever be?”
“It’s okay to be, you know. He can take it.”
“I know. And I’ve told people what you’re telling me. But how could I ever be angry at the One who has lavished so much on me? We both know I deserve Henry Trenton’s fate, not the life I enjoy. No, I could never really be mad at God.”
Kessler seemed to study him. “Thomas, I’m in a rather awkward spot, trying to counsel a man with your experience. But I’m going to ask you to consider something—just consider it. Allow for the possibility that you’re so low because you’re in denial about your thinking about God right now. Now, don’t look at me that way. I know all the denial stuff sounds like psychobabble. But I just have to wonder if your crisis, your inability to start seeing this in context and perspective, is because you’re not allowing yourself to be honest with the Lord.”
Thomas lowered his head and gazed at the pastor. The young man was trying so hard. And he seemed to genuinely care. “I appreciate your concern,” Thomas said. “And I will think about what you’ve said.”
Part Two
39
Addison
Brady Darby spent much of the next two years in and out of juvie hall, then was tried as an adult at eighteen for a botched escape attempt when he was just days from having served his time. He spent most of the next year in the local jail, which he would not have survived without having earned his chops in juvie.
One place he didn’t want to wind up was back in the county jail. That, many said, was worse than the state’s supermax, because rather than being isolated from each other, prisoners were crammed together all day every day.
Every time Brady had been released from juvie—once for good behavior, twice due to overcrowding—he had used the new criminal knowledge gained inside to find more and more creative ways to ruin his life. Petty theft, a clownish armed robbery (which he claimed he didn’t realize he could be charged with since he was faking a weapon with his finger tenting his jacket pocket), and finding himself in the middle of a very real drug bust had turned him into a jail rat, on his way to becoming a career criminal.
At yet one more sentencing, a judge clearly at the end of his patience cocked his head and squinted at Brady. “Listening to you will spoil my lunch, Mr. Darby. To hear you tell it—” he grabbed a sheaf of papers and waved them about—“none of this is ever your fault. Misdemeanor, misdemeanor, petty crime, felony, felony, felony. But no, in your sedated mind, it’s always a misunderstanding. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, blamed for someone else’s crime, victim of bad counsel or an overreaction from a hanging judge, you name it. Well, I’ll gladly serve as your excuse this time, son. I’m tired of your sorry face.”
Even Brady’s aunt and uncle had given up on visiting him, having heard, Aunt Lois said, “one too many tall tales. Just know that we will continue to pray for you, Brady. But you won’t be seeing us again until you’re out and make the effort to come to us.”
That last hurt Brady, because they were the only ones who ever brought Peter to see him.
His mother made a huge show of disowning Brady and bad-mouthing him to everyone she knew:
“He knows better.”
“He wasn’t raised like that.”
“I don’t know where he learned that kind of behavior. Must have got it from his no-account dad.”
When such comments got back to Brady, he just shook his head. As if she’s ever been a real mom.
Truth was, Brady had given up on himself. Since his brief, so brief, season in the sun as Conrad Birdie, he seemed to be at the mercy of his impulses. He found it hard to admit, even to himself—and certainly never to anyone else—that he seemed incapable of making good decisions.
Not even his old friend Stevie Ray would have anything to do with him anymore.
Brady hated himself for the example he was setting for Peter. When his brother visited, he looked more and more like Brady each time, and he talked tougher, sounding more cynical. Brady tried to tell him to be good, but who was he to talk? While Peter was no longer listening to Brady, it was clear he liked being known as the brother of a bad guy.
Terrific.
When he finally got out for what he hoped was the last time, Brady talked his mother into taking him back and letting him live in the trailer. He accomplished this by promising to pay rent. Embarrassed and humiliated though she might have been because of him, he knew she could never turn down the lure of cash.
Brady promised himself he would never smoke dope again, and when he landed a job driving a truck (or, as the drivers called it, driving truck), he was ready to get back on the straight and narrow once and for all.
Funny, what he’d missed most while in the joint (he loved calling it that, and it seemed to come up frequently in conversation) was seeing movies. He still fancied himself an actor, a natural, as Clancy Nabertowitz had once said.
Who knew? Maybe once he got on his feet financially he would be able to get his own car and be mobile enough to try some community theater after work. He would be just as much a curiosity there as he had been on the boards in the Little Theater at Forest View High School.
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