Children of the Knight (48 page)

For his part, Esteban would not allow himself to be dragged on camera. No way, no how! He
loved
helping people—he’d never known how much he liked it until Arthur’s crusade, had never even considered how good something so simple could make him feel. But he didn’t like the media attention and, despite his handsome good looks and poster-boy physique, he steadfastly resisted being photographed or taped.

One time when he had a television camera shoved in his face while he and Reyna were fixing a broken window, Reyna goaded him into speaking because it was
Helen
, after all.

Slick as he might have been talking with the homies in the old days, and always smooth with the females, until Reyna, anyway, Esteban felt tongue-tied looking into that creepy camera eye that always seemed to be mad-dogging him. Still, he managed to give perhaps the most important message yet, and it came from the heart.

“I been banging all my life,” he told Helen in a deep, flat voice, “cuz there weren’t nuthin’ else in my ’hood ta do or be. Everybody had me pegged. He’s a gangster, he’s a criminal, he’s gonna do life or die in the streets. I heard that at home, in school, from the cops, and the dumbass judges when I’d go to juvy. But nobody ever give me another
choice
, not till Arthur. Now I got a choice, now suddenly I
am
somebody, somebody with a camera stuck in my face asking me questions. But you wanna know something, Lady Helen? I was somebody when I was a gangster too. Just nobody but Arthur could see that, or give me a chance to prove it.”

He turned back to the window, and Reyna just smiled and shrugged. Helen waved the cameraman off and stepped over to Esteban.

“Thank you,” she said honestly, “for saying that. People need to hear it.”

Now that the camera was gone, Esteban flashed that handsome smile that almost melted Reyna’s heart, and Helen returned it with sincerity. She knew she wasn’t supposed to get personally involved in any story—second rule of journalism, the first being you never editorialized in a news story. But these kids and this man leading them and what they stood for—well, she’d never seen anything like it. And it was… exciting!

Of course, videos of Arthur and his “Knights of Mercy” as they’d been dubbed by one news station, had become an Internet staple. Footage of the standoff and escape from Round Table Pizza, tagged “Battle for the Round Table,” had gone viral within hours. Inside of a day, virtually every kid at every school had that video on his or her phone. This prompted them to view Arthur and Lance’s initial interviews, which got many teenagers nodding their heads in approval.

Local news ratings jumped as Arthur and his kids swept through Los Angeles on their Cleanup Tour, and the story quickly went national. Via the Internet, the story jumped international boundaries, and within a week King Arthur was the talk of the entire world. His crusade was so new, so hip, so exciting, and so unprecedented that it trumped all other news.

Soon Mayor Villagrana wasn’t the only one concerned with his image. Even the president of the United States became somewhat alarmed. Arthur had become a national symbol for change, the kind of
real
change politicians of both parties resisted with a passion.

That made the man potentially dangerous.

And dangerous people had to be watched. Carefully.

I
N
THEIR
fourth week out, Arthur’s parade, followed by scores of television cameras, marched into the well-known Watts area of Los Angeles, an urban ghetto made infamous by the Watts Riots of 1965 and still marked by the landmark Watts Towers, an unusual series of interconnected structures, two of which reached ninety-nine feet in height, and which had taken thirty-three years to complete. Now, sadly, the area remained a national disgrace, a symbol of the urban blight and neglect allowed to fester by a bloated and disconnected government bureaucracy.

Reyna, the only one of Arthur’s kids with a legitimate driver’s license, drove an enormous moving van, donated to the cause in a big media event by a prominent moving company. In this truck Arthur and his knights could haul most of the materials they would likely need for a one-day operation. Of course, Esteban rode shotgun with Reyna, not, as he told her, because he thought she was hot, but only to make sure she didn’t “crash the truck or something.” She just smirked and tossed him that mocking laugh she’d perfected. He grinned and settled in for the ride.

Arthur was pleased that the two seemed inseparable these days. Of course, both being cool and hard, neither wanted to acknowledge how much each liked the other, but to everyone who saw them together, the attraction was obvious. Lance was happy for them. He just prayed they wouldn’t get into a huge fight and break up. He needed both of them.

As always, Lance marched at the head of the procession, excitedly waving the banner from side to side, Arthur following on Llamrei. An added element had become music, as those knights who could play glommed onto donated instruments so they would have musical accompaniment and therefore be a real parade. They usually played stuff they’d learned at school or at home, rousing marches that got the knights excited as they processed. Today they blasted the
Star Wars
theme from trumpets, drums, trombones, and flutes. The music brought residents streaming from apartments and storefronts to gather along the sidewalks and wave at the ebullient kids.

Grinning at these local residents who had pooled along the sidewalks and in the street, Lance suddenly looked ahead and sucked in a startled breath. He slowed and caught Arthur’s attention.

“Looks like trouble,” he said, a chill of fear creeping up his spine.

Arthur eyed the road ahead and then held up Excalibur, his signal for the company to halt. The music slowly died away as the massive moving van eased to a stop, and the vast parade of young knights ceased their forward movement. Reyna and Esteban squinted through the windshield of the truck, while those in back rubbernecked as best they could to see what was happening.

Ten black youths, most looking to be sixteen or older, led by Dwayne and Justin, blocked the street ahead of Lance, making entry into the area impossible. All wore baggy, sagging pants and wifebeaters or muscle shirts. All sported various tattoos and glowered menacingly.

Dwayne wielded a shotgun, while many of the youths brandished handguns, knives, or pipes. Arthur’s archers, always near the front of the procession, instantly slipped arrows into their bows, and the foot soldiers drew their swords. Lance shifted the banner to his left hand and unsheathed his sword. They would fight if need be, despite the fact that the enemy had guns.

Arthur sat calmly on Llamrei and gazed down at Dwayne and Justin. “Good morning, lads,” he offered calmly. “I didst tell thee, did I not, when first we met, that we should meet again?”

Dwayne spat angrily on the ground in front of Lance, who glowered back. “This be our turf, Jack, and we don’t want no honky king an’ his gang be comin’ in here.”

Arthur spoke calmly. “Thou hast more powerful weapons, Dwayne, and couldst no doubt harm or even kill one of my knights. But my archers would have you all down before a second shot be fired.”

Dwayne and Justin exchanged a nervous look. Justin eyed the archers, poised and ready. He knew Arthur spoke the truth. He also knew Dwayne was hopped up again and might do something stupid.

Arthur went on, “Ye art also woefully outnumbered, Dwayne. I wonder if thy fellows would rather die for a dirty, vermin-infested ’hood, or 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 and just survive. The buildings around them had been hopelessly tagged up—many by him, he knew.

Yeah, this place was a shithole
.

Plus, the TV cameras were rolling, which meant everything they now did would be recorded. And he stood there like a fool brandishing an illegal switchblade! They hadn’t thought this through, he finally realized, but then, Dwayne never did think anything through.
And I’m the dumbass who follows him.

“Don’t listen ta his shit, 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.

“Shit!” 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 here hellhole. 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. After a tense moment, Justin made his decision.

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

The other boys quickly threw down their guns and knives, and the older man winked up at Arthur. The king grinned at the man and 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. “You assholes! Justin, you piece a shit! Mr. R. gonna be pissed!”

Justin glanced up at Arthur, who nodded approvingly, and then turned a cold stare toward Dwayne. “Let ’im. I don’ think I need him no more.”

Dwayne stood, fuming. Hopping back and forth, twitching with need, he felt isolated and alone, more than ever.

The grandfatherly man limped forward and snatched up Dwayne’s shotgun before the kid could make a grab for it. “Get out, Dwayne, ’fore I blow yer shit-fer-brains all over the street. You ain’t welcome here no more!”

Dwayne began backing away from the crowd, away from Arthur, away from hope. “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 and out of their lives, 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.