Southtown - Rick Riordan Page 0,2

this halo.”

“Should be white,” C.C. complained. “Halo ain’t no fucking yel ow.”

“It’s yel ow,” Elroy insisted.

“Make Jesus look like he’s got a piss ring around him,” C.C. said. “Fucking toilet seat.”

They both looked at Wil , because the picture was Wil ’s design, based on one of his sketches.

“C.C.’s right,” he said. “Can’t have the Savior looking less than pure. Might disappoint those kids today.”

Elroy studied him.

He could’ve snapped Wil in half, if he wanted to.

He was a former wildcatter with arms like bridge cables, serving forty years for second degree murder.

His foreman had cal ed him a nigger one too many times and Elroy had punched the guy’s nose through his brain. The left side of Elroy’s face was stil webbed with scars from the white policemen in Lubbock who’d convinced him to give a ful confession.

“You done shown me the light, Brother Stirman,” Elroy said, real sober-like. “Can’t disappoint those children.”

C.C. tapped the stained glass until it split in a perfect curve along the crack. “You both ful of shit. You know that?”

Elroy and Zeke laughed.

C.C. was a nappy-haired little runt with skin like terra-cotta. He could talk trash and get away with it partly because Elroy backed him up, partly because he was so scrawny and ugly his bad-ass routine came off as funny. He also worked in the maintenance shop, which made him indispensable to Wil . At least for today.

At ten o’clock, the buzzer sounded, signaling al trustees to their jobs, the rest of the inmates back to their cel s. Pablo and Luis arrived a minute late, completing the flock.

Pastor Riggs came out of his vestry. They al joined hands for prayer.

Afterward, the Reverend went back in the vestry to write his sermon. The trustees settled back to their work, getting ready for the juvies’ visit at one o’clock.

Wil wrote notes for his testimonial. Luis and Pablo got out their guitars and practiced gospel songs in that god-awful Freddy Fender style they had going. Elroy, C.C. and Zeke worked on the stained glass.

The panel would show Jesus in chains before Pontius Pilate. It was supposed to be finished by the time the juvenile hal kids got here from San Antonio, so they could hang it behind the preacher’s podium, but the trustees knew it wouldn’t be ready. Pastor Riggs had agreed they could work through lunch anyway. He’d seemed pleased by their enthusiasm.

Two civilian supervisors showed up late and plopped folding chairs by the door. One was a retired leatherneck named Grier. The other Wil had never seen—a rookie, some laid-off farmhand from Floresvil e probably, picking up a few extra dol ars.

Grier was a mean son-of-a-bitch. Last week, he’d talked trash to Luis the whole time, describing different ways HPL was planning to kil him. He said the guards had a betting pool going.

Today, Grier decided to pick a new target.

“So, C.C.,” Grier cal ed lazily, palming the sweat off his forehead. “How’d you get two Cadil ac jobs, anyway? Gospel and Maintenance? What’d you do, lube up your nappy ass for the warden?”

C.C. said nothing. Wil kept his attention on his testimonial notes and hoped C.C. could keep his cool.

Grier grinned at the younger supervisor.

Reverend Riggs was stil in his vestry. The door was open, but Grier wasn’t talking loud enough for Riggs to overhear.

“Good Christian boy now, huh?” Grier asked C.C. “Turn the other cheek. Bet you’ve had a lot of practice turning your cheeks for the boys.”

He went on like that for a while, but C.C. kept it together.

Around eleven, the smel of barbecue started wafting in—brisket, ribs, chicken. Fourth of July picnic for the staff. The supervisors started squirming.

About fifteen minutes to noon, Supervisor Grier growled, “Hey, y’al finish up.”

“We talked to the Reverend about working through lunch,” Wil said, nice and easy. No confrontation. “We got these kids coming this afternoon.”

Grier scowled. Continents of sweat were soaking through his shirt.

He lumbered over to the pastor’s doorway. “Um, Reverend?”

Riggs looked up, waved his hand in a benediction. “Y’al go on, Mr. Grier. I don’t need to leave for half an hour. Get you some brisket and come back. I’l keep an eye on the boys.”

“You sure?” But Grier didn’t need convincing.

Soon both supervisors were gone, leaving six trustees and the pastor.

Wil locked eyes with Pablo and Luis. The Mexicans reached in their guitar cases, took out the extra sets of strings the pastor had bought them. At the worktable, Elroy pul ed a sweat-soaked bandana off his neck.

C.C. handed