Children of the Knight

by Michael J. Bowler

  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.

  IN 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 hi
s 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.

  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.

  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.

  “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.

  OVER 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.

  MAYOR VILLAGRANA’S generously appointed office was, at the moment, a bit crowded. In attendance for this latest King Arthur meeting were the mayor, of course, City Council President Bernie Sanders, several council members, Police Chief Murphy, Sergeants Ryan and Gibson. They had been debating how best to deflate the positive pu
blicity being generated by Arthur and his efforts.

  “How the hell should I know what to do?” the mayor responded, annoyed with the direction this discussion had taken. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “It is most unprecedented, even by Populist movement standards,” Council President Sanders replied.

  Villagrana’s most mysterious supporter and campaign contributor had called again today, demanding to know what was going to be done to this upstart, as Arthur had been called. What would the mayor do about it? This man, whose real name Villagrana didn’t even know, expected action, but what could he do without pissing off the voters?

  “Why is one man so popular?” he threw out, not expecting an answer.

  But Ryan had one. “Maybe cuz he’s doing everything the people elected you to do.”

  Villagrana cast Ryan a look that would’ve cracked a camera lens. “Out of line, Sergeant Ryan. You were brought in here because you’ve had the most contact with this joker, not to be a smart ass!”

  Gibson flashed his partner a “what the hell’re you doing” look, and then said, “This whole crusade of his is nothing but a time bomb waiting to explode in his face. With that many kids, and especially that many gangbangers, something will go wrong. We just have to wait for it.”

  Ryan shook his head vigorously. “Sergeant Gibson is wrong. The only way it’s gonna explode is if we fumble the ball.”

  Council President Sanders asked, “What do you mean, Sergeant?”

  Ryan had thought about this, quite a lot actually, since that encounter at the pizza place. You could learn a lot from a man by the way he does or doesn’t look you straight in the eye, and Ryan felt he had a better understanding of Arthur from their brief time together.