King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1

by Maurice Broaddus

  "They all live, remember that. You better tuck that away if you're gonna step with me."

  "Baylon said no beefing, just be a presence."

  "Then we'll be a strapped presence. I'm like a Boy Scout up in here. Always prepared. If shit jumps off, I want to be able to hold more than my dick, you feel me?"

  Cognizant of ever-present eyes, Parker kept the gun below the window line and slipped it into the large pocket of his oversized jeans. The pair exited the car escorted by a cloud of smoke. Parker's stride changed immediately. More than just the newfound weight in his pocket altered his gait. No, his entire bearing was different, like he'd gone from boy to man for real. He imagined himself as taller, harder, like one of those dieseled brothers in lock-up. His eyes narrowed as if daring any passing motherfucker to fuck with him. Yeah, the gun juiced him like he'd been popping Viagra all evening, and when he glanced over at Junie, he realized he'd found the secret to Junie's reckless, Chief Swinging Dick stride.

  Decorative red posts lined the curb in front of the entrance to the Breton Court rowhouses, now seats for Green's men. Green stood, a proud tree shading his men under the umbrella of his presence.

  A Mexican family had purchased the gas station/convenience store as well as the restaurant beside it. The convenience store doubled as a fast food kiosk and, knowing their demographic, served Hispanic and Jamaican dishes. Marbles, two stores down in the mini-strip of shops, catered to folks' soul food needs. Strolling down the sidewalk fresh from a run to the convenience store for some burritos and Jamaican patties, King's steps hitched as he came upon the panorama. His street-smart eyes analyzed and broke down the scene.

  The name of the older of the two who crossed the street from the school's park eluded him. They walked toward the Breton Court condos from the east side keeping pace with King's approach from the west. No one needed reminding who was at the center. Green had been around as long as anyone could remember and stayed in because he had three things working in his favor: he was smart, he wasn't greedy, and he wasn't ambitious. Green always seemed to be someone's lieutenant, the shadow advisor/enforcer to whoever wore the crown. Yet he had little interest in the throne itself. Despite the warmth of late summer, Green kept a regal demeanor. A chinchilla fur coat rested atop his suit, gold like leaves in fall, which matched his pair of Robert Waynes. The duo passed Green's crew without comment, slow-stepping in front of them, chests puffed out in a preening dare to action. Like a fine conductor, Green's sole reaction was to hold out the palm of his hand; his well-trained orchestra didn't so much as flinch.

  Suddenly, the name of the older one came to King: Juneteenth Walker. They'd come up together, though Junie ended up doing a nickel in juvey rather than complete high school. Whether he realized it or not, Junie had the fallen crest of a man who'd been broken by time lost, reminding King of the man who was too old to be in the club: he had the right dress, talked the right talk, but had the air of being rather… pathetic. He stopped directly in King's path.

  "You on my corner," Junie said to King, but for Green's benefit. King remained close-mouthed as if too good to speak to them. "I'm talking to you, motherfucker."

  "Excuse me?" King neither broke his mild stare nor stepped away.

  "You heard me, motherfucker. Do you know who I am?"

  "I know who you are, Junie."

  Junie's heart swelled despite the use of the nickname, part with pride as he believed his name had began ringing out on the streets and part jacked up on adrenaline and weed. He spared a glance at Parker to see if he'd heard the same thing. Parker's hand itched, wanting an excuse to pull his newfound manhood. King displayed no emotion other than his eyes saying that he could care less what they thought of him. He was mindful of the territory boundaries. Gray zones were the most dangerous. To the west, Dred. To the east, Night.

  "I heard there was a misunderstanding over real estate over here," Parker said in a poor man's stagewhisper.

  "You heard wrong," Junie said. "We expanded into unclaimed territory. Think of it as a market correction."

  "Excuse me." King pushed the cold, coiling temper of his down to a deep place. Well, a deeper place. Unlike them, he had real responsibilities and folks who depended on him and didn't have the time or patience for machismo posturing so he moved to step around them. Green glared with baleful and empty orbs.

  "Punk-ass bitch," Parker said to King's passing side. "That's what I thought."

  "We'll finish this later," Junie echoed.

  "I highly doubt it," King said.

  Life came down to crossroad moments. Staring at Junie, waiting, eyes heavy with contempt, King had no interest in this little street performance, no matter whose benefit it was for; however, he wasn't going to be pushed around in his home court. He neither sought the street nor any of the foolish sense of self it engendered. But he could and would handle his business.

  "What'd you say?" Junie asked.

  "If I have something to discuss," the cold thing slithered up King's gut, through his throat, and found a home in his mouth before he could control it again, "I doubt I'll take it up with some scrub nigga. Your boy here talks too much shit. Ain't got no call to be talking to me like that, but now you done had your say, you want to be a man, you free to step to me any time." His back stiff with resolve, King waited for Junie to make the next move though he hoped for a quiet resolution. He just wanted to put his head up for the evening. The younger one had the natural youthful swagger brought by easy access to guns and leading to reckless courage, but Junie was a punk and would always be a punk.

  "You going to be seeing me later on." Though his voice was unconvincing, Junie brushed his hand against his shirt and revealed the outline of his piece.

  "We got a problem?" Green asked as if bored with the entire affair. His voice grumbled like branches snapping in a storm.

  Junie stepped forward, Parker stayed back and to his left. Green's men withdrew a few paces, backing up Green. Junie thought about stepping to Green, but a voice in his soul cried out knowing better. Junie waited a moment too long. Fear lit his eyes as he searched for the right mix of bravado and wit. "Nah. I think we understand each other."

  The French described the feeling he would experience for the next few days as l'esprit d'escalier: all the shit you thought of to say on your way down the stairs after your butt had been clowned in front of your boy. Junie couldn't meet Parker's eyes.

  "Too many eyes on us now anyway." Parker revealed the gun butt above his waistband. "You didn't see nothing."

  "You don't want me to see shit, don't do shit where I can see it," King said, the cold thing slowly wrestled under control before it pushed its luck in the calming situation.

  "Come on, man. I think our message has been sent." Junie hoped sheer attitude would be enough to stanch the wound of bleeding pride.

  Parker turned on his heel, glanced back and then spat at his feet. He'd have pulled his piece and dusted that fool in front of Green to show him they were men to be taken seriously, but he backed his man's play. They might think they punked him, but they'd soon know what it meant to cross Baylon's men.

  The chorus of barks from the Rottweilers stirred with his passing, Baylon walked his prize bitch, an American Pit Bull Terrier. She never barked, the "surgery" saw to that. From a distance, she was a beautiful dog, but upon closer inspection, she was a stalking hematoma of a brute. A network of still-healing scars latticed her head and legs, with recently cleaned-out puncture wounds, she was a picture of barely suppressed rage spoiling for an excuse to explode.

  From his back patio, it was only a matter of getting to the end of the row of apartments – shielded from the prying eyes of the street by a row of perpendicular facing apartments – to confront the figure waiting for him. His lawyer wanted to look down his long nose at Baylon, but couldn't. In fact, he could barely meet his eye. Baylon studied him with his harsh squint, waiting for the payoff. It was barely perceptible, but the slight movement of his small Adam's apple came: the swallo
w of fear. He knew he had him.

  "Things are looking good, Baylon," he said, with his high-pitched, tense voice.

  "That a fact." Baylon approached with his flexing gait. Not quite the full pimping stroll, but enough to convey the fluid movement of his prison-built bulk. "Hearing's coming up."

  "It was only a juvey charge."

  "I'm not trying to see the inside of any jail."

  "I wouldn't worry about it. The DA's entire case hinged on one witness."

  "My nosey-ass neighbor."

  "Exactly. Word around the court steps says that your neighbor's up and vanished on them."

  "Word?" Baylon asked, nonplussed, eyes halfclosed in on-setting ennui.

  "Yeah, I figure that they'll be dropping formal charges shortly." The lawyer skittishly glanced about. "You got anything for me by way of payment?"

  "Yeah, I got you." Baylon reached his hand out to shake. The lawyer took his hand, palming his future fix, then backed away quickly from the bared teeth of the dog. Baylon smirked. "Do you know how you turn a perfectly tame pet into a ruthless fighter?"

  "Not really."

  "You chain it up, beat it, starve it, tease it, then beat it some more. That's the way life is. The sooner it knows it, the sooner it's ready to handle it. Then it's ready for the fight every time out."

  "Um, OK, then I guess I'll see you at the next date." His lawyer swallowed again.

  "Whatever, man." Baylon turned on his heel in a casual dismissal of the man. He had some fools to sit down with. A row of Rottweilers' snouts protruded from under his patio. They seemed every bit the innocent dogs seeking a petting hand. He'd seen those same snouts rip apart cats thrown their way. He walked past them, short, heavy chains attached to thick collars held them at bay. He usually kept them hungry, lean for the fight, but he spoiled them the other day. Other neighbors may have seen the feeding; hell, he wanted them to see. Even if no one did, he'd spread the rumors himself, building his rep, instilling fear, and quieting any other would-be heroes or nosey-ass neighbors.

  "That's a good bitch," he said to her.

  But she said nothing.

  The houses were piled on one another, barely a few feet between them, with their fenced-in small yards. Every now and then, one of the houses had a boy sitting absently, bouncing a basketball between his legs. Two cars couldn't pass one another on the cramped streets if anyone was parked on either side. Junie kept his head low, his eyes darting from side to side, studying the mess of kids hanging out on corners. The low bass from a passing car roused his attention, so he scuttled down the sidewalk then crossed the street abruptly. If he were worried about being followed, he needn't have been. Everyone knew where he was heading. Junie knocked on the door of the two-storey home.

  "It's me."

  Parker opened the door. Excruciating silences and averted eyes shadowed their interactions – Junie hadn't spoken to him since the incident with King James White.

  Baylon stood down the hall in the living room and glared at them with drooping, yet condescending eyes. Abandoned by family – they gave up on him long ago – his people had been scattered by the game. His friends were either dead or in jail. His life was transitory, with him moving often. Cash up front, no name on anything; as far as the system was concerned, he swam underground. Junie reached out for a hand clasp, but Baylon glanced down at the expectant hand as if it were leprous, then found a seat in the living room. All of the furniture had been pushed back against the walls for maximum room to navigate. Junie and Parker turned at the clack-clackclack of paws on hardwood floors. Baylon's dog trotted past the open doorway. Junie couldn't help but think of a shark swimming in its tank.

  "What's the matter? You afraid of a little bitch?" Baylon asked.

  "Dogs make me nervous is all," Parker said.

  "Look here, Sideshow Bob." Baylon focused on Parker's Mohawk, so ragged it looked like a small village of crows nested in it. He snapped once and then pointed to the ground next to him. The dog came and laid down where he aimed his fingers. "You just have to know how to handle bitches."

  "What's her name?"

  "What the fuck I'm going to name a bitch for?" Baylon demanded. "Now, someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?"

  "I'm a-tell it to you straight." Junie tapped his fist into his open palm. The loudest one in the room, by Baylon's reckoning, was usually the weakest one. Junie was too quick to step to a man and jump into foolishness, which usually led to a bigger mess and a greater headache. He was out of his depth and long overdue to be demoted. "Me and Parker went down to represent, just like the man said to."

  Parker nodded. Young and inexperienced, but he had potential. He was smart, anyone could see it in his eyes. If he put that mind of his in some books, he could be an engineer or a scientist of some sort. Not into a lot of the flashy bling nonsense, not overly ambitious, he took the long view on situations. Rarely speaking unless he had something to say, he also had a streak of crazy to him. It danced in his eyes, ready to step up, when needed, as needed.

  "So you went down to the school to scope out what's what…"

  "And it was just like you thought. Night's boys be out there grinding. Green his self out there overseeing."

  "Green? No shit?" No charge ever stuck on Night because Green took them when the police thought they had a case to make. Green's was the same old story: soldiers fell on their swords and the king survived. After his bit, and because he stood tall, Night promoted him to his number two man. Promote wasn't the right word. If the rumors were true, Baylon didn't understand Green at all. Green could step out on his own any time, but he preferred to defer to someone else when he could. It was like he was beyond ambition and was in the game strictly for the love.

  "True, true. Now, we's about to step to them when your boy comes up the street," Junie continued.

  "Who?"

  "King."

  At the mention of the name, Baylon's face tightened. A more perceptive eye might have noticed the slight hitch to his breath as if suddenly troubled by an old, dull pain he thought he'd learned to live with. "Go on."

  "I'm not saying King stepped into it, but he got caught up in some back and forth."

  "Even though you were there to deal with Night's boys." Baylon knew Junie thought all of his fast talking would save him. He wanted to tell Junie to save the bullshit, but he opted to indulge the little performance.

  "I done said Green was there."

  "So you…?" Baylon's voice trailed.

  "Sent a message to them through King."

  "And this… message… how do you think it was received?"

  "I would have to say… mixed," Junie said.

  "A mixed message?" Baylon lowered his head and rubbed his eyes as if that would stop the migraine that threatened to crush his skull in a vise. Speaking of skulls, he wanted to crack Junie's open if only to see what passed for brains in him.

  "I'm just saying, it wasn't as clear as I would have liked."

  "Are you trying to be cute with me, motherfucker, or just trying to piss me off?" Baylon got up and paced. Junie opened his mouth, but Baylon's curt gaze shut him up. "So what I'm thinking is that since our message may have gotten muddled in the delivery, we need to send a stronger message."

  "Parker and I are already on it."

  "You two sit still. I'm gonna need to think on this for a minute, see what's what with Dred, and get back with you."

  "Maybe if I was to explain it to Dred…"

  "You don't get to speak to the man." Baylon knew his control on the men was constantly being tested. Despite their failings, they had the nerve to question whether he could still run things. The shit stopped with him and it was only a matter of time before someone took him for weak and made their move. Or Dred would. So Baylon damn sure couldn't leave his fate in the less-than-capable hands of the Junies and Parkers of the world. Experience beat youth every time, and right now, their crew was way too youthful.

  "I think what Junie's getting at is that we want a
chance to handle this ourselves," Parker spoke up. "Without bothering Dred. Show him, and you, that we can handle our own end. Like men do."

  "Like men do, huh? Is that it now?" Baylon itched for a drink, nothing alcoholic or anything like that. Just something to steady him. He imagined something civilizing, like a hot cup of tea. Something a gentleman would drink. He stood, his prize bitch cocking her head in trailing attention, anticipating his command. "Everyone had their say? Now let me tell you men something. Business is good. We have a quality product and a quality pipeline. We will always have competitors, but we don't need to escalate things to knucklehead level without cause. The right statement, the proper show of force should be… elegant. You two aren't suited for elegant, but that's all right though. You don't send a bull into a grocery store for eggs. But I tell you what, I'm gonna let you prove me wrong. Within reason, step up and move up. If not, I'll bring in someone, or someones, who can."