Children of the Knight, Michael J. Bowler [classic book list txt] 📗

a clean and recreated one. What be thine opinion, Justin?”

Justin said nothing, but involuntarily glanced at the squalor surrounding them and the anxious residents pooling on the sidewalks. Some looked dirty, clearly street dwellers, but the others were simply poor people struggling to live their lives. The buildings around them had been hopelessly tagged up.

TV cameras were rolling, recording the whole scene. Justin looked from the cameras to the knife in his hand, and suddenly didn’t appear puffed up with confidence as he had moments before.

“Don’t listen ta him, homies!” Dwayne screamed. “He don’ know nuthin’ ’bout us!”

Suddenly, from somewhere to the side, a gunshot rang out, and the bullet struck Dwayne in the upper arm, causing the shotgun to clatter to the ground and crimson blood to spurt from the wound like water from a busted pipe.

Dwayne screamed in pain, throwing his uninjured hand around the damaged arm in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding.

The other youths whipped around instantly, aiming their weapons, only to find themselves facing a large crowd of local residents, mostly African-American, massed behind them, a few armed with their own guns aimed straight at them. An older gray-haired man, who looked to Lance like somebody’s kindly grandfather, limped out front with his rifle trained on Dwayne’s head.

“We don’ want you filth roun’ here no more, Dwayne,” he announced to the accompaniment of many head nods from the crowd. “So you kin git yo’ drug- dealin’ ass outta here an’ don’ come back!” Then he mad-dogged the other boys. “An’ you other punks kin either go wit’ him, or stay wit’ Arthur an’ us an’ fix up this place. What’s it ta be?”

The youths suddenly deflated, all their bravado of the previous moment gone as quickly as it had appeared. They eyed the old man, the crowd, the TV cameras, and Arthur’s knights aiming weapons at them. Needing someone to decide, they all turned to Justin, eyes wide and imploring.

“Okay, man, you win,” Justin said, tossing his switchblade to the ground.

The other boys quickly threw down their guns and knives, and the older man winked at Arthur. The king gave a slight bow.

Justin walked slowly over to stand beside Lance, who squinted at him uncertainly. Seeing Justin make the move, the other youths quickly did the same until all stood beside Llamrei and Lance.

Dwayne stood alone, blood forcing its way through the splayed fingers of his hand and spilling onto the cracked and pitted asphalt, his face twisted with fury and betrayal. He cursed them all. “Mr. R. gonna be pissed!”

Justin turned a cold stare toward Dwayne. “Let ’im. I don’ think I need him no more.”

Dwayne hopped back and forth, twitching with need, and Lance could clearly tell he was high as a kite.

The grandfatherly man limped forward and snatched up Dwayne’s shotgun before the kid could make a grab for it. “Get out, Dwayne. You ain’t welcome here no more!”

Dwayne began backing away from the crowd, away from Arthur, away from everyone. “Who needs youse all anyways? I got friends that’ll take good care a me. They’ll take good care a you too!”

He practically spat out this last threat then turned and stalked off down the street, leaving a thin trail of blood as his legacy.

A cheer arose from the crowd of people as Arthur’s knights lowered their weapons, but still eyed Justin’s posse with suspicion.

Lance vividly recalled the night he’d first met Arthur, when Justin had threatened to kill him, and eyed the bigger boy with caution. He was no longer afraid of him. Didn’t matter that the black boy was taller and buffer than him. In a fight, Lance knew he could cut the young thug to ribbons. No, he searched Justin’s face and delved into those flinty brown eyes for truth.

“You really in with us, Justin,” Lance asked with conviction, “or you lying? Cause if you are, I’m gonna kick your ass.” His eyes flared, and he raised his sword for emphasis.

Justin flinched at the sight of the blade so near his throat, but his eyes met Lance’s straight on. “No lie, man! I’s gettin’ in too deep wit’ R. anyways. And besides….” He trailed off, glanced at his feet, looking embarrassed.

“Besides what?” Lance watched him intently.

Justin squirmed, flicked his eyes toward his posse of boys, who waited to take their cue from him, and then settled them squarely on Lance. “I ain’t never been part a no winning team before.”

He broke eye contact with Lance to gaze up at Arthur. “My dad thinks youse dangerous, Arthur, but I think yo’ dangerous is bad. And on the street that means good.”

Arthur nodded, and Justin turned to Lance. “That okay by you, Pretty Boy?” He stuck out a hand.

Lance hesitated. Silence ruled as he studied Justin’s eyes, searched the boy’s face. The hardness, the anger, had vanished.

He sheathed his sword and clasped the offered hand. “It’s Sir Lance to you.” He tossed off that winning smile the media so loved to highlight.

“Hey, cuzz,” Justin replied, his voice sounding small and relieved, “that’s cool wit’ me. Sir Lance.”

They shook vigorously, and a cheer arose from the knights as Lance turned, flanked by Justin and his boys, to raise the banner once again. He resumed the march, the band began playing, and the parade continued amid cheers from the locals.

Justin reached out a helping hand for the banner. “Can I—” he started, but an intimidating glare from Lance made him pull his hand right back. He dropped a few steps behind, apparently deciding it might be best not to push his luck. Arthur smiled in amusement. The media people, catching every dramatic moment, looked ecstatic.

With nowhere else to turn, alone and wounded, Dwayne went to the only place he believed he belonged—Mr. R.’s warehouse. Yeah, the guy was Mexican, not black, but he’d given Dwayne a job when nobody else would, and he pretty much let the boy run the streets the way he wanted. Hell, Dwayne controlled the traffic from Watts to Inglewood, a big turf. He was important, and he felt sure Mr. R. would understand that what had happened wasn’t his fault.

He was wrong.

Mr. R. regarded Dwayne with disdain.

“I couldn’t do nuthin’, man!” Dwayne stood before his polished oak desk, shifting and shaking, clutching his wounded arm in pain. “They dun bailed on me. Justin too. They all joined that fool king. An’ I got shot, man!”

Mr. R. examined his fingernails. Mr. L. stood off to one side, behind the whimpering teen.

“Yes, I know. You’re dripping blood on my Persian rug.” His voice was icy cold, his eyes scrutinizing his fingernails. Dwayne shifted anxiously. “I shall deal with the police officer’s son in my own time,” R. continued, finally looking into the boy’s wide, fearful eyes. “You, Dwayne, have outlived your usefulness.”

Mr. L. slipped a handgun from his expensive jacket and fired a bullet point-blank into Dwayne’s head. The youth barely had time to register his shock before dropping dead to the floor beside Mr. L.’s two-thousand-dollar shoes. Mr. L. casually replaced the gun inside his coat and turned to Mr. R.

“What do you propose we do about this King Arthur?”

Mr. R. sat back in his thick, leather chair and considered the matter. “Undetermined, Mr. L. If he succeeds in wooing enough sellers away from us, we shall be forced to take action.”

“He could cost us millions.”

Mr. R. thought about it. “Yes, but never forget my influence in this city. Already our illustrious mayor is calling me for help with this so-called king. But I find the man interesting. He’s making the power brokers in this city look like chumps, which they are, of course. And since I’m the real power here, this Arthur could give me an opportunity for even greater control. After all, I’m the only one who can really stop him, aren’t I?”

He grinned at Mr. L., who remained impassive, as always.

Over the ensuing weeks of summer, Arthur’s Operation Clean-Up Tour spread from around downtown Los Angeles to encompass communities in Compton, Gardena, Hawthorne, Lawndale, Lennox, Inglewood, and Venice. The media continued its onslaught of coverage, and the public ate it up. Donations to Arthur’s cause flooded in, from all over the country, mostly in the form of monetary support.

With Helen’s help, and despite being an illegal alien without a valid birth certificate, Arthur set up a bank account for all the donated money—fame and celebrity often trumped details like birth certificates. Between Helen and Lance, he learned the use of an ATM card, but preferred to let Lance do the withdrawing. He continually marveled at the inventions of this century but still felt dwarfed by most of them.

With the money rolling in, Arthur and his knights were able to buy more cleaning supplies and paint, and ordered new manufactured clothing that replicated the tunic-style of old, but felt more comfortable, less rough-hewn, more easily washed and dried.

The mayor and city council continued to monitor the situation, and when questioned by reporters always praised the king and his efforts, always flashed their best public relations smiles for the camera, while secretly meeting behind closed doors to discuss ways Arthur could be undermined.

Following the debacle at Round Table, the two sergeants had been “formally” removed from the “Arthur matter,” as the Chief called it, and were told to focus strictly on gang activity. But that had been the problem—gang activity had slowed considerably. Just how many gangbangers might have joined up with Arthur was impossible to determine, but apparently those who hadn’t were taking a watch and wait approach to the king and his crusade.

Gibson now spent most of his time sulking and brooding over the embarrassment of their failure. Adding insult to injury, he’d been stunned to see the footage from Watts, with his own son affirming allegiance to Arthur. Ryan had tried to help him through it, but the exchange had become a bit heated.

Ryan had walked into the station that day, swigging his antacid, and spotted Gibson staring intently at the flat-screen TV, the other officers silently watching with him. Ryan almost gasped aloud when he saw Justin but said nothing until the news story played out, and Gibson killed the volume. A couple of the officers patted him on the back, but Gibson didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry, Gib,” Ryan said, looking pained. Justin had virtually admitted on TV that he’d been selling drugs. “What’re gonna do?”

Gibson wilted into his desk chair in despair, his shoulders sagging. “How, Ry, how did I lose my own son?”

“This job,” Ryan replied, sitting on the desk beside his partner. “It killed both our marriages, and now it’s killing your kid. You know what this whole Arthur business has shown me?”

Gibson shrugged.

“That maybe I been wrong about kids all these years. You neglect ’em or abuse ’em, they go bad. But you give ’em a purpose, and they seem to shine.”

Gibson flared with anger. “You tellin’ me I’ve been neglecting my own kid?”

“Not on purpose. But you’ve been so obsessed with keeping other people’s kids out of gangs that you’re missing out on your own.”

“Back off, Ryan. You’re outta line!” Gibson had vowed to be a good father, to be a father, to not be absentee, like his old man had been.

Ryan gazed at the younger man intently, his craggy old face more serene than usual. “Don’t you see, Gib, what this Arthur’s trying to teach us, all of us, the good men like you and the narrow-minded jerks like me?”

Gibson raised