Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(2)

“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 this halo.”

“Should be white,” C.C. complained. “Halo ain’t no f**king 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.