Children of the Knight - Michael J. Bowler (best books to read non fiction .txt) 📗

pump him for information about that Arthur guy to keep Mr. R. off his back.

That crazy old Mexican scared the crap out of 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 R. was dangerous. He’d as soon kill a kid as hire one.

So avoiding dad and not pissing off R. seemed to be his only activities these days. He didn’t even have time for a girlfriend anymore, and that really sucked. He hadn’t gotten any action in months. 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.

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 ’cause R. had some other job for 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 R. to ever get out.

Not ’less I 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 was a regular customer. He grinned and waved for the others to follow. As they stepped closer to Justin, the teen let the coat drift open. Numerous pockets had been sewn into the lining, bulging with bags of dope. He was ready.

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 in Boyle Heights was 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.

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 made weapons training difficult, and she didn’t 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 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.

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

For some reason, the compliment had pleased Jaime immensely, maybe because his imprisoned father was such a loser, or maybe ’cause 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 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 corner, out of sight.

Jaime cautiously lifted his head and checked Sonia for injury.

She shook her head. “I’m okay.”

And then Jaime’s mother let out an ear-piercing screech of anguish and Jaime’s blood ran cold. Leaping to his feet, he turned and raced past the porch to the clothesline, and stopped dead, his heart suddenly 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 punched in 911.

As Arthur continued to teach his vast assemblage the necessary qualities for knighthood, Lance felt various sets of eyes on him, as though his earlier speech had somehow 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 apply to them. Esteban finally caught his eye and gave him that little chin raise, 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 studying him, and this time the gaze didn’t waver. Lance smiled as he would toward a friend.

Jack stared a moment longer, and then he looked away.

Lance shuddered and returned his attention to Arthur.

The king concluded his lesson with the following words, “Thine identities be not determined by skin color, but by thy choices and accomplishments. Pride comes 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 your wish to be Knights of the Round Table. If such be true, you must take Lance’s stirring words to heart—you must put aside all the bigotries and feuds and what you call the payback mentality. We cannot build the future by avenging the past. The past must remain where it is.”

Silence had fallen on the massive crowd as everyone mulled over these simple words that sounded easy, but were so difficult to act upon in real life. As though fate had chosen the worst possible moment—or perhaps the best, it was hard to know with fate—to intervene, Jaime pedaled into the assemblage on his old rusty bike, out of breath from his hard ride, but frantic and furious. He spotted Esteban up near the front, dropped his bike, and pushed his way through the throng.

“Este!” he called out.

All heads turned or craned for a better view as Esteban leapt to his feet, Darnell right beside him. Reyna strained from the back to get a better view now that so many guys were standing.

“Over here, dog, what’s up?” .

Jaime pushed through, his face flush with anger and bitterness. Some of his homies crowded forward to get closer to him.

“My lil’ sister been shot!” he spat, glaring at Darnell, who instantly bristled.

“What you lookin’ at me fer?” Darnell asked defensively, tensing for a fight.

“Who was it?” Esteban asked quietly.

“Dwayne!”

Esteban turned to Darnell with a hard look.

“Hey, man, he ain’t my homie!” Darnell insisted, feeling his own homeboys gearing up behind him.

Esteban sighed. “Come on, vatos, we got work ta do.” Then to Darnell, “You comin’ too?”

Lance had learned all their histories by now, and he knew Darnell and his homies had never sided with a Mexican gang against another black gang, so he was floored when Darnell nodded and turned to signal his homeboys.

As more boys rose to approach Esteban, Arthur stood commandingly and shouted, “Hold thy positions, lads! This goes against everything I have taught thee. It goes against the very precepts of knighthood and chivalry.”

Everyone settled into an uneasy, shuffling silence as Esteban halted and turned back to face Arthur. “With respect, Arthur, this be personal. They got his little sister, homies, an’ she be jus’ four years old!”

“Thou cannot build the future by avenging the past.”

“Them’s good words, Arthur, but they don’t change nuthin’. She could die, and we gotta get them that done it.” Fists clenched tightly, the boy’s hard, handsome face gazed at Arthur with fierce anger and determination.

Arthur looked directly into Esteban’s eyes. “No. All you must do is take me to the child.”

“Huh?”

Arthur’s gaze never wavered. “Take me to her, whilst we still have time.”

Esteban looked ready to lead the others away. But he hesitated. His narrowed eyes squinted at Arthur, his face tight with indecision. He glanced at Jaime and Darnell. They stood frozen, too, suddenly unsure what to do.

Esteban uncoiled his fists and locked eyes with Arthur. “Okay.”

In back, Reyna sighed with relief, and Lance let out the breath he’d been holding. Disbursing the kids back to their homes and assigning some older “sleepers” to watch over the youngsters, Arthur took Esteban, Darnell, and Jaime, along with Lance, Mark, and Jack, and they set off at once for the hospital Jaime told them housed his sister.

As Esteban passed Reyna in the dispersing crowd, he glanced her way. “You coming with us?”

Reyna looked appalled. “I don’t do county hospitals.”

Esteban stared at her a moment in disbelief before stalking away in fury. Lance eyed Reyna with disappointment as he hurried after the others.

County USC was located off Marengo Street, not far from Central Juvenile Hall. Much of the facility had been renovated over the past few years, and its seedy, psycho house look had been replaced with a bright, almost inviting façade. However, it was often the stuff of nightmares: endless hours waiting in the emergency room; suffering through days or weeks to see your doctor; heavy armed security and metal detectors everywhere you walked, even at the elevators; endless paperwork and red tape. On the plus side, County USC did boast one of the best trauma centers in the country, and its doctors had become experts on treating bullet wounds.

As a kid with no family, Lance had practically grown up in this hospital, and he hated every inch