Children of the Knight (31 page)

D
OWN
in South Central Los Angeles, Justin was hard at work, standing on a shadowy street corner between two buildings, waiting for the junior high down the street to let out. He wore a long trench coat and designer sneakers, the newest style, lots of bling, and of course, his cartoon-character backpack. When he did business, he liked to show off. His father had wanted to have dinner tonight, but Justin didn’t want any part of his dad and the other pigs. Except maybe to pump him for information about that Arthur guy so he could pass it on to Ramirez.

That crazy old Mexican scared the shit outta Justin, and he wished almost daily that he hadn’t let Dwayne talk him into selling for the guy. Sure, the money was great—he probably pulled in more in a good week than his old man did in a month. But Ramirez was dangerous. He’d as soon kill a kid as hire one.

So avoiding dad and not pissing off Ramirez seemed to be his only activities these days. He didn’t even have time for a girlfriend anymore, and that
really
pissed him off. He hadn’t gotten any action in months, and he was frustrated. His ex kept texting him, and he considered hooking up with her, but just couldn’t stand her bitching. So he ignored her texts just like he ignored his dad’s.

Just then his phone beeped. Pulling it from his pocket, he saw the text was from dad. Justin cursed with annoyance.
Where r u?
it read. Usually he didn’t even respond, but this time he thumbed in
Busy
. Instantly a follow-up message popped up.
Come home I’ll take u 2 dinner.
Justin considered a moment whether or not to respond.

Maybe he’d take the old man up on the offer, maybe not. He wasn’t even gonna meet Dwayne tonight as usual cuz Ramirez had some other job fer him, something he wouldn’t tell Justin about. Which was fine with him. He knew Dwayne was bad news, crazy, and unpredictable, but he was in too deep with Ramirez to ever get out. Not ’less he died, he thought, something the Mexican could easily arrange.

Yeah, maybe he’d give in and meet dad. Might be news on that Arthur guy. All depended on business, he decided. Speaking of which, a group of the middle-schoolers were chattering and texting their way down the sidewalk. School’s out, he chuckled to himself. Time to get to work.

As the group approached, Justin whistled to get their attention. The kids stopped and turned. One of them, a chubby seventh grader named Darius, knew Justin and had often been a customer. He grinned and waved for the others to follow. As they stepped closer to Justin, the teen let the trench coat drift open. Numerous pockets had been sewn into the lining, bulging with bags of dope. He was ready.

T
HE
entire Boyle Heights district covered a large enough area to require two zip codes and two area codes, which is why it laid claim to different gangs within the same region. It was a quiet afternoon in Jaime’s run-down, Latino neighborhood. Of course, nothing here was suburb-like—the big bad city was only and always a few streets away. But this little enclave was somehow tucked back from the main drag, which at least allowed children to play in the streets most of the time without fear of being run over by speeding cars.

Jaime’s mother stood to the side of her small, one-story stucco house, hanging clothes out to dry on a makeshift clothesline strung from the window to a dead tree. Helping her was Jaime’s little sister, Anna, who was barely four years old. The little one handed mom the clothes from a basket, and mom hung them up.

With dad finally in prison for life, Jaime’s mother did her best to make a better existence for the boy and his sister. She knew she should’ve left their father years ago, long before he’d gotten Jaime into the gang lifestyle, but she’d been too weak, too afraid of being alone. Now the boy was in too deep to get out, or so she thought. Lately, however, he’d not been hanging out with the homies like he used to, and that pleased her. Still, she continually fretted about his safety and that of his little sister. She smiled as Anna tugged on her dress and handed her a shirt to hang.

Jaime sat languidly on the porch with his pregnant girlfriend, Sonia. Normally, he attended Arthur’s daily meetings, but Sonia had said she wanted to spend more time with him. “You’re, like, always gone and never answer my texts,” she’d told him the night before. She knew about Arthur and his crusade and approved of Jaime’s involvement. She’d even attended some of the meetings.

Her pregnancy did not recommend itself to weapons training, however, and she didn’t particularly like Reyna’s haughty strutting, so she usually stayed home and helped her mom or helped Jaime’s mom with Anna. To set her mind at ease that he wasn’t cheating on her, which he’d done on more than one occasion, Jaime had promised to spend all afternoon and evening with only her.

He’d been with Arthur for morning training and had explained to the man his predicament. True to his philosophy, Arthur had insisted that Jaime stay with Sonia, that he was acting as a responsible man for staying with his girl and vowing to be a father to his child.

“Ye doth possess a quick temper, Jaime, which ye must control,” Arthur had said, having seen that temper flare more than once during weapons practice. “But ye be a man of honor, and that is the far greater quality.”

For some reason, the compliment had pleased Jaime immensely, maybe because his own father was such a loser, or maybe cuz he’d really come to admire Arthur and what the man was trying to do.

In either case, he vowed to watch his temper and left for home, which was why he and Sonia were cuddling on the porch steps when a screech of tires ripped around the corner and a big, black Impala careened toward their house. A black arm gripping a handgun and part of a head appeared at the open backseat window, and the shooter began firing. Jaime just caught a glimpse of Dwayne’s twisted dark face before he jumped on Sonia and pushed her to the ground.

Bullets whizzed past, and several struck the wood of the porch, inches from Jaime’s head. Then with another screech of tires, the Impala sped past and vanished around the opposite corner, out of sight.

Jaime cautiously lifted his head and checked Sonia for injury. She shook her head. “I’m okay,” she whispered.

And then Jaime’s mother let out an ear-piercing screech of anguish and Jaime’s blood ran cold in his veins. Leaping to his feet, he turned and ran past the porch to the clothesline, and stopped dead in his tracks, his heart suddenly up in his throat.

“No!” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, and dropped to his mother’s side.

She was cradling little Anna to her bosom and rocking back and forth, keening with sorrow as blood streamed from the little girl’s chest. Jaime fumbled in his pocket for his phone and, fingers shaking, punched in 911.

T
HE
ovation had subsided, and Lance had reseated himself, and instruction had resumed. As Arthur continued to teach his vast assemblage the necessary qualities for knighthood, Lance had felt various sets of eyes on him, as though his speech had somehow altered or elevated him in their esteem. Mark, of course, kept eyeing him shyly and tried a few times to make him laugh by flipping his hair the way Lance had done that night they’d bared their souls to each other. Lance smiled, but forced himself not to laugh.

Esteban and Darnell and some of the other heavy-duty gangsters kept glancing his way, as though considering whether or not his words had merit and might even apply to them. Esteban finally caught his eye and gave him that little chin raise signal, which for guys was the equivalent of “you’re okay.” Lance felt special and important, something he’d never felt before Arthur came along.

And then there was Jack. The boy kept watching him, but would look down any time Lance caught him staring. Finally, the last time he had felt eyes on him and glanced up, he’d found Jack scrutinizing him, and this time the gaze didn’t waver. Lance smiled as he would toward a friend.

Jack stared a moment longer, his scrutiny boring into Lance, and then he looked away. Why did Jack keep staring at him? He shuddered and returned his attention toward Arthur.

The king concluded his lesson on racial identities and false pride with the following words, “Thine identities be not determined by thy skin color, but by thy choices and accomplishments. There canst be no true pride in one’s birthright, for it doth not be of one’s control. Pride cometh from what we do with our lives, from how we make the world better for our having been in it. All of thee have indicated ye wish to be Knights of the Round Table. If such be true, ye must take Lance’s stirring words to heart—thou must put aside all the bigotries and feuds and what thou doth call the payback mentality. We canst not build the future by avenging the past. The past must remain where it is.”