11

The next two jobs are plumbing problems, a common sort in these old cell blocks. The first one is easy enough to deal with, a sink trap plugged by a sludgy buildup of soap and hair. The second is a toilet stopped up with T-shirts jammed into the trapway by an aggrieved convict who had then copiously evacuated his bowels into it before wedging open the flush valve to keep the intake water coming. When the enraged guards sloshed into the cell through the foul overflow, the perpetrator laughed at their disgust and then made matters much the worse for himself by resisting his removal to the isolation block before at last being borne away unconscious.

By the time they clear the clog and mop up the reeking cell and the flanking corridor and clean off their shoes and rinse the mops in the outdoor spigots, it’s nearing 10:30, the start of the lunch period and midday yard time.

They return the cart to the storeroom and get to the dining hall fast enough to be near the front of the line when the hall guards open its door. The hall is most crowded at the beginning of a feeding period, and especially so at lunch, the biggest meal of the day, when the guards are much quicker to eject any man lingering at a table or running his mouth instead of eating. Like most inmates who strive to be at the front of the chow line, Axel and his crew don’t dally. Their usual mode is to eat in a hurry and then hustle away in order to have more time out in the yard before having to return to their cells for the next head count. Today Axel and Cacho cajole the servers into giving them a little extra of the mashed potatoes and gravy, and they take additional slices of bread as well. They clean off their trays to the last crumb because there’s no telling when they will eat again, or even if ever again, as Axel anxiously reflects while mopping the last of his gravy with the last of his bread.

Earlier that morning, when they crossed from the officers’ hall to the cell block with the clogged drains, the sky was a cloudless blue but for a few sallow wisps above the mountains far to the west. “Rain, my ass,” Cacho had said low-voiced. “Weathermen don’t know dick. No big deal. Be a help, rain, but nothing depends on it.”

But now, out in the yard after lunch, they’re looking at a long, lean bank of bruise-colored clouds extending over the western ranges.

“Well now, lookee there,” says Cacho.

“It’s not much and a good ways off,” says Axel, “but could turn into something.”

“You feel it, bro? Feel God’s big smile on us?”