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

“That every kid needs individual attention and a helluva lot of it, or else they’ll go to the streets to get it. And that’s when we get involved, but then it’s too late.”

Gibson didn’t respond at first, digesting for a moment Ryan’s observation.“Hell, Ry, you’re the guy who wants to throw ’em in prison at age ten and toss the key.”

“As much as an old fool hates to admit it—” He sighed heavily. “—I think I was wrong.”

Now Gibson felt like he was the bad cop and Ryan the good. “This guy’s violating every law in the book. And he’s made us look like chumps. You sound like you admire him.”

Ryan looked his partner in the eye. “I do, Gib. And I’m almost beginning to believe what you said that day.”

Gibson looked confused. “What’d I say?”

“That he might really be King Arthur.”

He patted the startled Gibson on the shoulder and ambled off to the men’s room.

Mayor Villagrana’s generously appointed office was, at the moment, a bit crowded. In attendance for this latest King Arthur meeting were the mayor, City Council President Ronnie Sanders, several council members, Police Chief Murphy, Sergeants Ryan and Gibson. They had been debating how best to deflate the positive publicity 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 mysterious supporter and campaign contributor had called again today, demanding to know what was going to be done to this upstart, as he’d referred to Arthur. 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 spoke up. “Maybe because 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. Despite being removed from the case, 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. “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?”

“This guy’s making real changes for real people out there, and now they’re gonna demand that kind of action from us. We better be ready to deliver the same or more when the time comes, or else we’re the bad guys.”

Villagrana suddenly got a wily look in his eyes, and he snapped his fingers. “I know! We’ll get some of those kids of his to paint a mural for the city, right here on one of the downtown buildings. We’ll give ’em the paint, talk it up in the press, steal a little of his thunder. It’ll be our goodwill gesture.”

“Aren’t we just throwing him a bone?” asked Sanders, and the other council members nodded in agreement.

The mayor laughed that phony PR laugh he’d practiced ad nauseam so he could master it in front of a camera. “’Course we are, Ronnie. But I agree with Sergeant Gibson. This entire crusade is gonna collapse under its own weight, and then we’ll look that much better when we step in to clean up what’s left.”

Ryan flashed a disgusted look Gibson’s way as his partner received a slap on the back from the mayor. Gibson had a very smug look on his face.

The day following Ryan and Gibson’s meeting with the mayor and his cronies, the “Mural Project” press conference was set up without a hitch. Helen, who knew how to contact Arthur by cell, had relayed the mayor’s proposal to him and asked if he could attend with however many kids wanted to be part of the mural undertaking.

Arthur informed her that he would be in a place called Panorama City doing restoration with the main body of his knights, but he would send those kids who wished to take part in the project so they could begin.

With Lance nowhere about, Arthur asked Esteban and Reyna, Lavern, Luis, and Enrique what they thought of the mayor’s idea.

Reyna made a rude gesture and said, “That guy’s an ass—my bad, Arthur, he’s a jerk and a phony. I seen him on TV enough to tell. If he’s doing this, it’s ’cause he thinks it’ll make him look good.”

Arthur nodded. Much like the authority figures of his own day.

Enrique liked the idea of creating a gigantic mural “so the people wouldn’t forget what we done for them.” He also agreed with Reyna about the Mayor. “He don’t care about no one ’cept himself. But I think Sir Rique be right. How long you think it’ll be ’fore the people forget what we done and go back to their old, careless, selfish ways, huh? I seen it happen in my own ’hood lots a times.”

Luis and Lavern agreed. For a twelve-year-old, Lavern not only had prodigious drawing and painting and archery skills, but a very level head on his shoulders. “The mayor prob’ly be doin’ it to make hisself look good, but if it helps our crusade, shouldn’t we be doin’ it?”

Arthur smiled at the small boy with the Michelangelo hands. “Ye be wise beyond your years, Lavern. It be settled, then. You, Enrique, and Luis gather whomever you wish and meet with this mayor at the appointed time.”

Lavern grinned, and they set off to do the recruiting.

Arthur noted a pensive look on Esteban’s face. “What be troubling thee, Sir Esteban?”

Reyna leaned forward, her forehead crinkled.

Esteban shook his head, as though clearing cobwebs. “Not sure. A feeling that the mayor and his homeboys are up to something, like they want to bring us down.”

Arthur placed a hand on the boy’s brawny shoulder. “It be the nature of men like him—the do-nothings, to hate and despise men like us— the doers,” he explained. “It hath ever been so throughout human history. I have no doubt he seeks my destruction and the ruination of our crusade.”

That worried Esteban, and Reyna. “What will you do to stop him?” she asked, her brows furrowed with anxiety.

“As long as we please the people, we shall win,” Arthur replied.

Both teenagers nodded, but their fears clearly remained.

The front of City Hall at three o’clock that afternoon became the proverbial media circus. The mayor and city council had moved fast, Helen noted, eyeing the enormous scaffolding already rising along the City Hall side of the U.S. Courthouse building. The mayor obviously had some pull with the feds, because they’d agreed to erect a gigantic canvas eleven-stories high that would cover the Temple Street side of the courthouse. In that way, the completed mural could best be seen from City Hall across Temple Street and maximize the attention Mayor Villagrana could milk out of it for himself.

Helen knew the mayor was a narcissistic camera hog who did nothing if there wasn’t some personal gain in it for him. However, she honestly believed this mural would benefit Arthur’s cause and be a powerful reminder of what the man and his message had been. And what better place to erect it than the United States seat of justice within the city?

Enrique, Luis, and Lavern brought with them almost thirty of Arthur’s kids of various ethnicities and ages who already had mural experience from the neighborhood clean-ups. Most were boys, but several of Reyna’s girls chose to be part of the mural crew.

The mayor and the entire city council posed for the cameras in front of the scaffolding, flanking the kids and making an extra big show of profusely praising them. Lavern and Enrique exchanged a knowing smirk, as the mayor flashed his phony PR smile and personally handed each child a “brand-new paintbrush!” Then he turned to the cameras and grinned, revealing those expensive, capped teeth. “Aren’t they just the greatest kids you’ve ever seen?” he gushed.

Helen wanted to vomit.

The summer flew by and the Mural Project rapidly took on real form and substance. A massive, billowing sheet hid the work in progress from curious onlookers, all the better to make the grand unveiling another huge media event. Or so Villagrana hoped. Arthur and his knights had continued to parade throughout the city, cleaning, improving, removing all the urban blight the mayor had allowed to fester for six years.

If this thing didn’t crash and burn soon, his mysterious benefactor, Mr. R., would be forced to take action. He’d told the mayor he was monitoring the situation, but Villagrana still worried. Another public relations disaster like the pizza parlor could damage his reputation beyond repair. Not to mention cut off the money he’d been promised for his senate run in two years, leaving him just another washed-up public servant who wouldn’t have a clue how to get a job in the private sector.

As for Arthur, he’d become embroiled in managing all the daily affairs of money and donations and moving his vast company from place to place, supervising the repairs and painting, chatting more often than he liked to media personnel, and paying more attention to new recruits who chose to join as they wended their snaky way throughout the city.

Even into September, kids from all over Los Angeles eagerly folded into Arthur’s crusade, which seemed to them like one big, never-ending party. A few, after long hours of hard work, dropped out, realizing this party required too much personal effort. But most welcomed the sense of accomplishment and showed up each day, often ditching school, wherever the knights were to be found, and eagerly did their fair share of the work. Others joined the clean-ups after school let out each day.

So busy had Arthur become juggling all these disparate matters that he’d begun spending less and less time moving amongst his kids and chatting with them individually.

Lance struggled the most with Arthur’s newfound responsibilities. He was still in charge of swordsmanship training, and he always carried the banner into and out of each neighborhood. And Arthur put him in charge of major portions of each clean-up they undertook.

But when’s the last time he just sat and talked with me, like we used to?

Lance couldn’t remember. It might have been when they’d talked about Lancelot. Arthur would often pat him on the back and compliment him in passing, and there were times he felt sure the king wanted to say more, maybe something personal about just them, but then Arthur always froze up and fell silent. That confused Lance even more about where he stood with this man he idolized above all others. His friendship with Mark and Jack, and his big brother role to Chris, helped distract him, however slightly, from the king’s lack of personal attention.

And yet, despite the fact that Jack and Mark were awesome friends, deep down, Lance didn’t want to be like them, didn’t want to be… that way. It scared the hell out of him! His greatest fear, the one he’d harboured since fleeing from Richard’s abusive home always hovered at the edges of his soul. If he was like Mark and Jack, could