He walked off toward the basketball 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 allowed 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 Will 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 Will 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. “Hell, I don’t mean nothing.”
Will 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 killed Soledad and put him in jail. If Will didn’t get out of Floresville 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 yellow 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 Will had asked for.
Maybe things would work out after all.
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.
Will let his shadow fall 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 this halo.”
“Should be white,” C.C. complained. “Halo ain’t no fucking yellow.”
“It’s yellow,” Elroy insisted.
“Make Jesus look like he’s got a piss ring around him,” C.C. said. “Fucking toilet seat.”
They both looked at Will, because the picture was Will’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 Will 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 called 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 still webbed with scars from the white policemen in Lubbock who’d convinced him to give a full 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 full 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 Will. At least for today.
At ten o’clock, the buzzer sounded, signaling all trustees to their jobs, the rest of the inmates back to their cells. Pablo and Luis arrived a minute late, completing the flock.
Pastor Riggs came out of his vestry. They all 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.
Will 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 hall 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 Will had never seen-a rookie, some laid-off farmhand from Floresville probably, picking up a few extra dollars.
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 kill him. He said the guards had a betting pool going.
Today, Grier decided to pick a new target.
“So, C.C.,” Grier called lazily, palming the sweat off his forehead. “How’d you get two Cadillac jobs, anyway? Gospel and Maintenance? What’d you do, lube up your nappy ass for the warden?”
C.C. said nothing. Will kept his attention on his testimonial notes and hoped C.C. could keep his cool.
Grier grinned at the younger supervisor.
Reverend Riggs was still 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 smell 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’all finish up.”
“We talked to the Reverend about working through lunch,” Will 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’all go on, Mr. Grier. I don’t need to leave for half an hour. Get you some brisket and come back. I’ll 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.
Will 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 pulled a sweat-soaked bandana off his neck. C.C. handed him a half-moon of white glass, a feather for an angel’s wing. Elroy wrapped the bandana around one end of it. Zeke unplugged his soldering iron.
Will got up, went to the Reverend’s door.
For a moment, he admired Pastor Riggs sitting there, pouring his soul into his sermon.
The Reverend was powerfully built for a man in his sixties. His hands were callused and scarred from his early years working in a textile factory. He had sky-blue eyes and hair like carded cotton. He was the only hundred percent good man Will Stirman had ever known.
This was supposed to be a showcase day for Riggs. His prison ministry would turn a dozen juvenile delinquents away from crime and toward Christ. The press would run a favorable story. Riggs would attract some big private donors. He’d shared these dreams with Will, because Will was his proudest achievement-living proof that
