King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1

by Maurice Broaddus

  The weather ought to have been drizzling, overcast at the very least, but the noonday sun dazzled overhead. Lackluster warmth did little for King's mood. He towered over the small plaque. MICHELLE DAVIS. 1984–2004. Another person he had failed. His life had become a litany of failures, of lives derailed, ruined, or tragically truncated by his involvement in them. The swelling sentiment pained him more when it was family. He couldn't even afford to bury her. Outreach Inc. put up the money to cover her burial.

  Burial.

  His cousin laid under six feet of dirt, a secret kept from the rest of the world for eternity. A secret that didn't have the chance to blossom, to chart her own way, to fulfill her potential. King ached at the hole in his heart whenever he thought about her. He ran the heel of his hand across his brow, then held his hand like a visor. Lott walked up to him. Fleeting eye contact, afraid of what he might see there. A gain, a sorrow, which matched his own. Combined it might create a well of anguish so profound they might not escape. Or worse, they might break down and cry. And neither would admit or want that.

  "How'd you know I was out here?" King asked.

  "I didn't. Come to see her on my own." Lott adjusted his FedEx uniform. The heat of it didn't bother him. He rather enjoyed the comfort of its cloying presence. The thin skim of sweat, as if girded for battle.

  "I don't know what made me think of her today."

  "Me either. Something in the air."

  "Like we share a special bond."

  "We're brothers. Brothers born of tragedy and pain."

  "What?"

  "I don't know. Something Merle once said about us… before going off about cycles and cursers. You know how he gets." If he held still enough, Lott could still smell her. Could feel her run her fingers through his hair. She liked long hair, so he rarely cut it. "Seen too many funerals."

  "I know she meant a lot to you."

  "I don't like to think back on it," Lott said.

  "It was a bad time. A hard time."

  Obscured by clouds, the full moon created a silvery cast to the sky. Wind skirted the rooftop, thickening the deep chill of the night. The layer of rocks on the ware house rooftop made it difficult for Wayne and King to keep their footing. Tarlike ichor trailed along it. It was why it was so important that they wore old sneakers: they never knew what muck they might step into. Small alcoves which formerly held airconditioning units, a mix of brick and wood, spaced in a series, the ridged spine of the building. Tarps or blankets were draped across the individual bays, a tent door opening.

  Wayne toted the massive backpack filled with bot tles of water, an assortment of snacks and materials about contacting Outreach Inc. King trotted noisily be side him, a long flashlight in each hand. With no additional volunteers that week, and Wayne not wanting to miss a week, he asked King to join him. He was proud of the work he did. Having started several programs within Outreach Inc., from their inschool assistance program to the tutoring session and bible study programs on site, Wayne had poured himself into the ministry. A quiet joy hidden by his gruff exterior, he didn't take for granted the rare opportunity he had, matching his passion to his profession. Wayne's realization that working with hardtoreach knuckleheads was his gift was another revelation. Took one to reach one, he guessed.

  Two nights a week, staffers from Outreach Inc. trekked across the city, checking spots known as stops for homeless teenagers. Bus stops. Bridges. Parks. Downtown rooftops. The places varied and morphed. King knew what "street night" entailed. Wayne had discovered him on one such street jaunt. Set him on a course to better himself and realize his potential. Where King went once he got his feet set was up to him, but the possibilities were endless if he could imagine them for himself. That was the rap Wayne gave him, despite there not being that great a gap in their age difference. But it stuck with him.

  King glared out the window, angry at the passing scenery, lost in grim thought. He heard rumors about his cousin being out on the streets. Alone. Scared. Abandoned. She might have taken off on her own, Lord knew her mother was no prize, but family should have been there for her. Should have chased after her and taken her in. But family failed her the same way it had failed him and he was determined not to let history repeat itself.

  "Outreach Inc.," Wayne called out. A few groans rang out from a couple cubicles, pissed at their disturbed rest. King flashed the beams in the direction of every sound. "Anyone need water or food?"

  A few hands poked out from behind the blankets and tarps. A linebackersized altar boy passing out communion of water and peanut butter crackers, Wayne made his way along the path. King couldn't help but be impressed with Wayne's easy manner. Not just how comfortable he was, but how gentle. To be around him like this, there was a spirit of nurturing about him, passing through him, that the kids responded to. Wayne spoke of Outreach's services and they listened. He spoke about school options, and they listened. He offered to pray with them and they bowed their heads.

  When the two of them reached the last of the out croppings, Wayne repeated his announcement. A female voice stirred.

  "Michelle?" King dared ask.

  The rustling within the chamber paused. The blue tarp parted tentatively, a shadow stirred among the deeper shadows. King sensed they were being studied.

  "Who that is?"

  "King. Your cousin."

  "King?"

  A baby girl, maybe all of fourteen, stepped from the hovel. Despite all of the hardness she wore like dented armor, the upturn of her head and beaming face betrayed the kernel of innocence she clung to. Her eyes sparkled with something… undefeated. Her smooth round face wasn't haggard, wasn't worn to premature age. Her figure wasn't gaunt nor her manner reduced to hunger. She still carried her notebook filled with incomplete letters to various boys in her class and odd poems she'd started but never finished.

  She was safe.

  "Leave her alone."

  A man rushed from behind the compartment and tackled King. The flashlights clattered on the ground next to him. The man snuck him a few times in the kidney as King regained his breath. Though bigger than his assailant, the man obviously knew how to fight. King shifted his weight and put his knee into the man's side throwing him off of him. King tried to remain reasonable, putting his hands up to show that he didn't want any trouble. Scrambling to his feet quickly, the man warily circled King, shifting his weight from foot to foot, leaving King unable to read his next move. Looking to land a right hand, his awkward stance attempted to work his way inside. A heavy shot from King left him a bit wobbly. King hoped it would be enough to make him rethink his attack.

  They squared off again, arms up, ready for the other to make the initial feint. The man ducked past King's blows. An errant elbow pushed King's head back, which left an opening for a flurry of wild punches. Then that cold thing in him erupted. The needless fight was starting to piss King off more than anything else. Snarling as he charged, he lashed out.

  Heads popped out. "He don't give a fuck." "Knock that nigga in the head, fool!"

  The little man wrapped King up about his legs and shoulders, leaving him with only one free hand to whale with. The man's shoulder took the brunt of the damage as he gained the footing to tumble King over. He prepared to begin kicking him when Michelle screamed.

  "Lott! Stop it. He's my cousin. King. He's not here to hurt me."

  Still locked in a frenzied bloodlust, he seemed to not hear her.

  "King! This ain't how we do things out here." Wayne raised his voice and hardened it. That seemed to snap the two of them out of their fugue.

  "Aw man." "That was garbage." Rejoinders from the crowd dissipated, their evening's entertainment coming to a disappointing end. They returned to their spaces.

  "What's this all about?" Wayne asked.

  "It's just… word on the street was that someone was looking to hurt Michelle." Lott directed his comments to Wayne, but kept a wary eye on King.

  "The Pall?" Wayne asked.

  "No. None of the usual pi
mp suspects. A dealer is all I know. I still don't know what she did…"

  "I told you, I didn't do nothing," Michelle protested.

  "But someone's pissed enough at her to put a bounty on her."

  "Not if I have anything to say about it." King puffed his chest and put an arm around Michelle. Futile declarations, macho preening in front of Lott and Michelle as much as anything else. The words rang with iron and determination. Both King and Lott stood ready to die in her cause for all the good it did her.

  King had been the first to find her. Slumped down, legs akimbo, her jeans thick with blood drained out of her. Flecks of blood speckled her cheek. Her melancholy face turned with a faraway gaze, her eyes glazed. He cradled her in his arms until they were numb and he long past feeling or caring.

  A trace scent of a familiar cologne clung to the air.

  King remembered the words he said to Lott when he found his voice again. "Every man wants to be larger than himself. He can only be if he is part of something bigger than himself."

  Guilt had a way of gnawing at Baylon during his quiet moments. He had hurt a lot of people in the past. Not that he intentionally set out to hurt them, but just in the course of him doing his thing. Concerned only about what he wanted and felt with little regard for the feelings of others and the consequences of what he considered to be "my business". How his sometimes stupid and selfish acts altered the courses of people's, too often his friends' lives. Relationships irreparably damaged often without the luxury of making things up to folks. Fixing matters wasn't always an option: what was done was done. Sometimes you just had to carry the weight of your bad decisions and selfishness and hopefully let them shape you into a better person. Though he hoped that some of the people he had hurt in the past might have the chance to see the person he had become.

  Though the memories had a way of becoming a part of him.

  Griff sat next to him on the couch, though he didn't react. He merely angled his body more toward Dred, hoping his body language didn't betray his burgeoning fear. Not of Griff, because the dead only knew things, but more of him losing his mind.

  "You still with me, Bay?" Dred asked. "Look like you faded on me there."

  "Stress," he said, as if that covered the answer to any question Dred might have asked.

  "You need to find a way to relax. I think I can help you out there." Dred positioned his chair directly across from him. Growing more solemn, as if overtook by a darker aspect, he began speaking. "Let me tell you a story told by the old people. Among his tribe there once lived a young man, prosperous in all he did. His fields flourished enough to feed his village. His cattle numbered enough for the wealth of ten tribes. All the people knew his name. The only thing missing from his life was a good woman, someone to share his life with and give him a family. Good women, though a rare treasure, presented themselves regularly enough for a man with his wealth. He had the daughters of prominent men and nearby tribal chiefs offered up to him frequently. But none caught his heart.

  "One day, a young woman caught his eye. Of course she sprang up from where he least suspected he would find a woman: from his own village. She had grown up alongside him yet never before had he noticed her. In both beauty and intellect, she pleased him and with that, they were married. His greatest fear in allowing himself to fully love another was that she would be taken from him. And in all too soon a course, their time together was cut short as she grew sick and death claimed her.

  "The young man became obsessed with her. He went to her house, but she was not there. He slept in their bed, but it ached with her empty space. He walked the banks of the river where she fetched water and washed their clothes, but the routine of their life together left a sour taste in his mouth.

  "His family spoke to him, begged him to find a new wife, but he was not to be consoled. Love, he believed, could only be caught once. To ask for it a second time was to be greedy. Nor did he wish to let go of the love he had. Sitting in his house refusing to come out, his heart was no longer among the living. His friends had another woman brought to his house. They pleaded with him to take her, to end his solitary and dreary existence. 'The past is done away with and you can't return to it. Let the dead stay with the dead and the living with the living. Love remains in the heart.'

  "There was truth in their words, the young man recognized, but the time to let go, to give up, had not yet arrived. He examined his fields and cattle and declared them worthless and left his world behind. He walked until he could walk no further, finding himself in a strange land among a strange people. There he built for himself a house. But still he was not ready to return to living.

  "After another sleepless night, he decided better to go to the Land of the Dead. Again he marched, this time until he reached a place of total darkness. The shadow chilled him to his very core. He forgot what the heat of the sun as he strode his fields felt like on his back. But he kept walking. Passing through it, he came to a river and stopped. No birds sang out. No voices of man whispered among the trees. No animal disturbed the grass. A crone of a woman sat on the bank, a straw hat low on her face.

  "'Why are you here?'

  "'I've come to see my wife. Life has nothing left to offer me without her.'

  "'You are not a soul. A living man cannot cross.'

  "'Then I will wait until I die.'

  "'Death won't come for you. You are cursed. All love that enters your life will die. However, because of your suffering, I will allow you to cross for a moment.'

  "The crone pointed to the water and it became shallow. The young man crossed without turning around. Whispers came to him like a gentle breeze, the spirit of her an unseen dancer. The brush of lips against his neck. The embrace of the wind. In his heart, he held a song, the song of her, and then fell into a deep sleep. When he woke, he was among his people once more. He reclaimed his cattle and his fields. He began to work because work was all he knew. And then he called upon his friends for he found a life again. That was the way the old people told the story."

  "I don't get what you're saying."

  "Life is hard, but this is all there is. Bitches die and sometimes you need your boys to see you through. Now you get your head straightened out, your mind back in the game, and then go back to work."

  Wheeling himself backward, not breaking his eyeline with Baylon, Dred stopped at his side door. He knocked three times and crossed his arms, waiting with a self-satisfied grin. A woman opened the door and posed in the entrance way, wrapped inside a long trenchcoat. From the judicious way she held the coat, she obviously wore nothing underneath it.

  "She's straight-up jump-off, ready whenever you call and has no problem with whatever freaky shit you can imagine. Ain't that right, baby?" Dred ran his hand down her leg.

  "You should know."

  Dred left the two of them alone in his office for some privacy. Baylon shoved everything from the desk. She spread herself on it obligingly. Determined to lose himself in her, he dropped his pants and climbed on top of her.

  And thought of Michelle.

  Baylon had no desire to be an everyday brother. He was tired of living in other people's shadows. His paper wasn't as long as he'd like, definitely not enough to be his own man or have his name ring out. Which meant he never had the effect on women that a King, a Griff, or a Dred might've had. Griff was his boy, one of the few who remained by his side and he knew how Griff did: his deep penetrating stare as if you were the only object in his universe and he saw through you; the hard jaw set and resolute, ready for anything to jump off; his head tilted to the side, only slightly, endearing himself enough to make you lower your guard, followed by a quick wink to let you know he had you. It worked every time, girls and dudes alike. Which was why Baylon was convinced to bring him in. It was Griff's turn to step up since he was so convinced that he was ready.

  "You vouch for him?" Dred was new on the scene. No one knew much about him. He had a way of being in the right place at the right time and assembled an efficient crew whi
ch allowed him to remain in the shadows. All anyone needed to know was that he had the right connect. His stuff was always on point. His cheap prices allowed him to carve out a huge swath of territory quickly, and no one questioned his main two enforcers, Night and Green.

  "He's my boy." After the incident with Michelle, Griff was the only one who came around Baylon and he never forgot that. Not that his other friends set out to shun him; they just suddenly came up busy and involved in their own lives. Some afraid of what folks might say about them should they roll through. Griff didn't give a fuck about what anyone thought.

  "He don't look like he played no football." Night was a hood rat through and through. He grew up in the Phoenix Apartments, from back when it was called the Meadows. It was all he knew. As soon as he got a little money, he moved his mom out to Allisonville, but he stayed at the Phoenix as if some invisible cord tethered him. Word on the vine told of Green practically raising the ambitious young thug before passing the crown onto him. Though no one understood why Green didn't simply rule himself.