Southtown - Rick Riordan Page 0,1
miss?” Luis grinned.
Gonzales tapped the fence with her flashlight, reminding him to keep his feet behind the line. “Why—you got plans?”
“Picnic,” Luis told her. “Few beers. Patriotic stuff, miss. Come on.”
Pablo should have told him to shut up, but it was harmless talk. You looked at Luis—that pudgy face, boyish smile—and you knew he had to be joking.
Back home in El Paso, Luis had always been the favorite at family barbecues. He held the pi?ata for the kids, flirted with the women, got his cheeks pinched by the abuelitas. He was Tío Luis. The fun one. The nice one. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
That’s why Luis had to shoot someone whenever he robbed an appliance store. Otherwise, the clerks didn’t take him seriously.
“No picnic for me,” Officer Gonzales said. “Got a promotion. Won’t see you vatos anymore.”
“Aw, miss,” Luis said. “Where you going?”
“Never mind. My last day, today.”
“You gonna miss the fireworks,” Luis coaxed. “And the beer—”
A hand came down on the scruff of Luis’ neck.
Wil Stirman was standing there with his cel mate, Zeke.
Stirman wasn’t a big man, but he had a kind of wiry strength that made other cons nervous. One reason he’d gotten his nickname “the Ghost” was because of the way he fought—fast, slippery and vicious. He’d disappear, hit you from an angle you weren’t expecting, disappear again before your fists got anywhere close. Pablo knew this firsthand.
Another reason for Stirman’s nickname was his skin. No matter how much time Stirman spent in the sun, he stayed pale as a corpse. His shaved hair made a faint black triangle on his scalp, an arrow pointing forward.
“Compadres,” Stirman said. “You ’bout ready for chapel?”
Luis’ shoulders stiffened under the gringo’s touch. “Yeah, Brother Stirman.”
Stirman met Pablo’s eyes. Pablo felt the air crackle.
They were the two alpha wolves in the gospel ministry. They could never meet without one of them backing down, and Pablo was getting tired of being the loser. He hated that he and Luis had put their trust in this man—this gringo of al gringos.
He felt the weight of the shank—a sharpened cafeteria spoon—taped to his thigh, and he thought how he might change today’s plans. His plans, until Stirman had joined the ministry and taken over.
He calmed himself with thoughts of seeing his wife again. He looked away, let Stirman think he was stil the one in charge.
Stirman tipped an imaginary hat to the guard. “Ma’am.”
He walked off toward the basketbal court, Zeke in tow.
“What’s he in for?” Gonzales asked. She tried to sound cool, but Pablo knew Stirman unnerved her.
Pablo’s face burned. He didn’t like that women were al owed to be guards, and they weren’t even told what the inmates were doing time for. Gonzales could be five feet away from a guy like Stirman and not know what he was, how thin a fence separated her from a monster.
“Good luck with your new assignment, miss,” Pablo said.
He hoped Gonzales was moving to some office job where she would never again see people like himself or Wil Stirman.
He hooked Luis’ arm and headed toward the chapel, the rough edge of the shank chafing against his thigh.
“Like to get a piece of that,” Zeke said.
It took Wil a few steps to realize Zeke was talking about the Latina guard back at the fence. “You supposed to be saved, son.”
Zeke gave him an easy grin. “Hel , I don’t mean nothing.”
Wil gritted his teeth.
Boy doesn’t know any better, he reminded himself.
More and more, Zeke’s comments reminded him of the men who’d kil ed Soledad and put him in jail. If Wil didn’t get out of Floresvil e soon, he was afraid what he’d do with his anger.
He was relieved to see Pastor Riggs’ SUV parked out front of the chapel. The black Ford Explorer had tinted windows and yel ow stenciling on the side: Texas Prison Ministry——Redemption Through Christ.
The guards only let Riggs park inside the gates when he was hauling stuff—like prison garden produce to the local orphanage, or delivering books to the prison library. The fact the SUV was here today meant Riggs had brought the extra sheet glass Wil had asked for.
Maybe things would work out after al .
Inside the old Quonset hut, Elroy and C.C. were hunched over the worktable, arguing about glass color as they cut out pieces of Jesus Christ.
Wil let his shadow fal over their handiwork. “Gonna be ready on time?”
Elroy scowled up at him, his glass cutter pressed against an opaque lemony sheet. “You make me mess up