Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [119]
“Fine. I grew up in church. I know what baby dedication is all about, and it’s hardly about the baby.”
“Pardon me?”
“Dad said it every time he conducted one of those things. What you’re really doing is dedicating the parents to raising the kid for Jesus, right?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“And we’re supposed to stand up there pretending to be good soldiers, committing ourselves to the task?”
“I’d certainly like to think the people at Village Church will get to know Summer and love her and want to commit themselves to teaching her and—”
“And so do you.”
“Of course,” Grace said.
“Then dedicate yourselves, but leave us out of it.”
“You mean we can dedicate her?”
“Without us? Not on your life! How would that look? You and Dad up there with our baby, making it plain to the world that the heathen parents are nowhere to be seen and oh, the poor child . . . ? No way. You just privately dedicate yourselves to having whatever influence you want on your granddaughter, and yes, we’ll let you take her to church now and then.”
Thomas and Grace did just that, hoping the day would come when Summer was old enough to be involved in a church program that Rav and Dirk would be unable to miss.
Adamsville County Jail
Brady had really done it this time. Violating his parole in just about every way possible, being found with a deadly weapon and ammunition and too many drugs for personal consumption, he found himself in the county jail before he could catch his breath.
His aunt and uncle buried Peter at their own expense, and Brady was allowed to attend the funeral, sitting in the pew between two sheriff’s deputies. He saw his mother there only briefly, just long enough for her to report that there had been no clause in Peter’s school insurance to cover death by act of God. She told him she was taking possession of Peter’s car, selling hers, taking the tiny insurance settlement on her trailer, and moving to just outside Nashville, Tennessee, to work in an auto manufacturing plant.
Brady nodded as she talked and shook his head as she left, then was escorted to an unmarked squad car for transport back to his cell. The county jail rivaled Los Angeles County and Cook County in Chicago as the most crowded such facilities in the United States—jam-packed, understaffed, and full of violence, gangs, and drugs.
Brady used his acting skills and gift of gab to get next to, of all people, the head of one of the most notorious black gangs. He told the glowering, heavily tattooed fat man—who called himself Tiny—that he wanted to become a member.
“You? Pasty white boy? Prove it.”
“How?”
“Lemme give you a tat.”
“A tattoo? Oh, I, uh, can’t do that, ’cause of my career.”
Tiny laughed, his big belly jiggling. “You got a career?”
“Yeah, I’m an actor.”
Tiny squinted. “I watch a lot of TV. Never seen you.”
“Uh, just regional commercials so far—mostly West Coast—but my agent says I have big potential, so, you know, no tats. And you want me to keep my options open on that front, Mr. Tiny, because it can mean a lot of money for you guys when I get out.”
“That so?”
“Yes, sir, and I also have a lot of money stashed away from an armored car robbery I engineered, which was what got me sent here.”
Tiny’s eyes lit up. “You pulled that job?”
With that enticement and more every time he thought of something, Brady bought himself protection from one of the most feared cons in the place. He had no idea what would become of him when he got out and never came through on all his promises. But why worry about tomorrow today? The story of his life.
Of course it was not beyond Brady to play both ends against the middle, putting him in position to risk his life every day. As the only white aide to Tiny, he became both a target of other gangs and vigorously protected. And when the antigang unit at County called Brady in, he saw the opportunity to help himself in new ways.
Lieutenant Dale, head of the task force, sat Brady down and told him that since he was a known gang member, he was missing out on an important opportunity.
“Such