Children of the Knight (49 page)

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

“You really in with us, Justin,” Lance asked with conviction, “or you just bullshittin’? Cuz if you are, I’m gonna kick yer 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 bullshit, man! I’s gettin’ in too deep wit’ R. anyways. And besides….” He trailed off, glanced at his feet, almost too embarrassed to admit it.

“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. “Shit, man, I ain’t never been part a no winning team before.”

He broke eye contact with Lance to gaze up at Arthur, a sense of almost childlike wonder overtaking him. “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.

Arthur held his breath.

Lance 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 hands 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 resumed its playing, and the parade continued amid cheers from the locals.

Justin thought maybe the banner might be getting too heavy for Lance, so he reached out a helping hand. “Can I—” he started, but an intimidating glare from Lance made him pull his hand right back. He dropped a few steps behind and realized it might be best not to push his luck. Watching from his horse, Arthur smiled in amusement. The media, catching every dramatic moment on tape, was ecstatic.

W
ITH
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.

“I couldn’t do nuthin’, man,” he whined as he stood before the man’s 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!”

Ramirez sat at his desk, checking his fingernails. As always, Mr. Lee stood off to one side, behind the whimpering black 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,” Ramirez continued, finally looking into the boy’s wide, fearful eyes. “As for you, Dwayne, you seem to have outlived your usefulness.”

Mr. Lee 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. Lee’s two-thousand-dollar shoes. Lee casually replaced the gun inside his coat and turned to Ramirez.

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

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

“He could cost us millions,” Lee cautioned.

Ramirez thought about it. “Yes, but never forget my influence in this city, Mr. Lee. 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. Lee, who remained impassive, as always. Long as his China business didn’t lose money, Ramirez could do whatever he wanted.

O
VER
the ensuing weeks of summer, Arthur’s Cleanup Tour spread out 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 voraciously ate it up. Donations to Arthur’s cause continued to flood in, now 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 had still set up a bank account for all the donated money—fame and celebrity often trumped little 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.