“What about all the grownups who abuse us kids, Arthur?” Lavern asked. “I know kids beaten by their folks, well, like me, and nuthin’ happens to the parent. But the kid beats on another kid smaller ’n ’im, and he goes to juvy.”
“Or prison,” Duc, the Korean gang member called out. All eyes turned to him. “One a my homies tried to kill his mamma’s boyfriend cuz the guy used to beat the sh—crap outta him and her. Nuthin’ happened to that guy, but my homie’s down for twenty-five to life. He’s only fourteen, man.” Duc shook his head with anger, and further livid murmurings rippled through the chamber.
Arthur cleared his throat, and silence fell once more. The king eyed Lance beside him. The boy had been attentively following the conversation, his own bitter life experiences rising in his throat like bile. “And what, Lance, doth thou think might improve the lot of children in this city?”
Lance considered a moment, and then the idea struck like lightning, something he’d considered from time to time, but had never articulated. “Methinks kids should be able to vote,” he announced, almost like a candidate running for election.
A ripple of excitement ran throughout the group.
“Yeah, right!” Tai, the Samoan boy, spat out. “Like that’ll happen.”
“And yet,” Arthur went on, “Lance maketh an excellent point. According to the laws of adults, art not children considered to be as adults when they do something wrong, but not when they do something right?”
Now Esteban piped up again, almost excitedly. He’d thought about this one before, especially after Shadow went down. “Yeah, guys, he’s right. We ain’t adults today to vote for these ass—these idiots, but tomorrow we’re adults for being in a gang or gettin’ caught up in a crime. It’s bullshit!” He turned to Arthur. “Sorry, Arthur, but there ain’t no other word for it.”
“But there is,” Arthur assured him. “The correct word is stupid.” That got a laugh from the assemblage. “If a child of fourteen beeth an adult for criminal purposes, should not the same fourteen year old beeth an adult for the purposes of voting? Doth that not seem fair, lads and ladies?”
There was a huge cheer from the crowd, and Lance grinned at Arthur, who acknowledged him with a nod.
“Esteban, Tai, Darnell, Jaime, Duc, and any others of ye who belongeth to these gangs,” Arthur went on. “What beeth the benefits?”
The shot callers exchanged looks. Most shrugged, and Darnell just pointed to Esteban. “You tell ’im, cuzz. You the smart guy here.”
Esteban looked at Arthur. “We run our own, don’t gotta listen to the stupid adults,” he began. “We got power in the streets—people’s scared a us. We got respect!” The others nodded. “But ya know, Arthur, the homies be like a family, like what you got going here. Mosta us, well, there ain’t much at home, ya know? My moms, she tries, but she works two jobs and don’t have no time for me. She’s got my baby sister to mind.”
“Doth there be no father in thy home?” Arthur asked, suspecting the answer.
“Hell, no!” Esteban spat. “If I ever find that muther—my jefe, I’ll kill ’im!”
Esteban’s virulent response troubled Arthur, but he let it pass for now. “And what of thy baby sister’s father?” he went on, knowing he was now likely treading very dangerous waters. But he had a point to make.
Esteban shrugged. “Oh, he was just some guy my moms hooked up with. He didn’t stick around.”
“And doth this hooking up be good behavior to teach children, or poor?” Arthur said, uncertain of Esteban’s reaction, and preparing himself for the likely explosion of fury to come.
Esteban glowered a moment and almost cussed, but his legendary calm quickly asserted itself. Shit, he thought. This was his moms they was talkin’ about! But the guy was right, wasn’t he?
“It’s poor,” he reluctantly admitted, and no one challenged his assessment. Most had had similar experiences with their own mom or dad, or even themselves. They’d never thought of it as being bad—hooking up was just something people did for fun, without thinking. They’d never considered the possible consequences before.
“So whadda we do about all this shit?” Esteban spoke again, forcing himself to stay calm. “There ain’t nuthin’ gonna change it.”
Heads nodded all around him. Even Reyna nodded her agreement.
Arthur stood and gestured for Lance to stand beside him. “We shalt change it. All of us gathered here today. But we shalt not begin with thine elected officials, nor thy corrupted school system, nor thy so-called peace officers. Nay, my lads and ladies, we shalt begin where any revolution must needs begin—with the people.”
Excited murmuring wafted through the group, but no one even thought to argue. That’s why they were here, after all. They wanted something different. They needed something better. And they still hoped Arthur might be that something.
Chapter 6
WITHIN the Hollenbeck Division Gang Task Force Unit, the officers on duty were bored. Most sat at their desks surfing the net, looking for deals on electronics, or scrolling vacation spots on travel sites. There had been no gang activity of any notable sort since before the weekend—just the standard drug dealing, but no shootings or turf battles of any note, and that “tag” hadn’t appeared anywhere else within the city. Such a development was not only surprising, but in its own way, disturbing. This kind of quiet was abnormal, like the eye of a hurricane, and officers worried about just how big that hurricane might turn out to be and when it would strike.
Ryan sat at his computer gnawing on a pencil, scrolling through site after site, devouring everything he could unearth on King Arthur, both the mythical and the historic. Gibson sat at his own desk, his computer open to similar sites, but at the moment, he was frantically texting on his phone. Frustrated, he slapped the phone down with a disgusted sigh.
“Teenagers,” he grunted. Several detectives around the squad room turned his way with a sympathetic nod.
Ryan glanced up from his research and took a swig of coffee that tasted three days old. “Justin still hasn’t texted you back?”
Gibson shook his head. “I don’t know, Ry. When his mother can’t handle ’im she sends ’im to me, and all we do is argue. Hell, the kid’s hardly home, and she don’t know where he goes, and he never answers my texts.”
“Can’t help you there, partner,” Ryan offered, popping some gum into his mouth. He needed to break this pencil-chewing habit somehow, and he figured if gum worked for cigarette smokers, it might work for pencil chewers too.
Gibson nodded. “Yeah, you and the ex were smarter than me and mine.”
“Does he keep in contact with Sandra when he’s out?” Ryan asked, more to help his partner than out of any real interest. Kids were nothing but potential criminals in his book. Shouldn’t be seen nor heard till they turned twenty-one.
Gibson shook his head, taking a swig of his Diet Coke. He tried to eat pretty healthy, but this job made that almost impossible. He did swear off coffee three years back, but now had the Diet Coke addiction. It never ended.
“Isn’t he eighteen soon?” Ryan offered hopefully.
“Nope,” Gibson replied. “Two more years.”
“Too bad.”
Gibson sighed. “You know what bugs me the most?” Ryan looked up and pretended he was interested. “He’s embarrassed that I’m a cop. Says his friends give him crap about it.”
Ryan frowned and shrugged. Was that a good response? “Makes you wonder who his friends are, huh.”
Now Gibson frowned too. “Yeah, it does. He never brings ’em round. I don’t know, Ry. You bust your butt for these kids, and they don’t appreciate it. Hell, I’m out there cleaning up this city so his kids’ll have a better life, and he doesn’t even care.”
Ryan eyed his troubled partner a moment. “You know I know nothing about raising kids, but maybe yours doesn’t want you to spend so much time saving the city and save some of that time for him.”
Gibson jerked his head up from
his Diet Coke to glare at Ryan, his temper threatening to flare. But he fought it down and swigged his soda.
“Go home, Gib,” Ryan offered. “There’s nuthin’ goin’ on here. Maybe Justin’s there, and you guys could go get a pizza or something.”
Gibson set down his empty soda can and reached for the photo on his desk. He gazed at the handsome young face of his son and realized how little he knew of the boy’s daily life. He set the photo down and rose from his chair, snatching his jacket off the back of it. “I am gonna head home, Ry. Call if anything pops.”
“Will do,” Ryan agreed, and Gibson was out the door in a flash.
Kids, Ryan thought. Thank God I don’t got ’em!
THE nondescript warehouse appeared to be a bland and ordinary four-story building. That’s just how Mr. Ramirez and Mr. Lee wanted it to appear. Just one of dozens of similar buildings in Los Angeles that wouldn’t attract any particular notice from police or the populace at large.
Of course, “Ramirez” and “Lee” were not their real names, and to all the boys who ran their drugs on the street they were known simply as Mr. R. and Mr. L. Both men in the world at large were prominent, very successful, and very powerful businessmen.
Ramirez, third generation Mexican, made a fortune in real estate and land holdings. He had Mayor Villagrana in his pocket, and thus the mayor’s full cooperation. His overly generous monetary support of Villagrana’s campaign got Ramirez whatever he wanted when it came to skipping environmental standards or bypassing zoning laws. He owned the mayor. America was the best country in the world, he often mused—here money could buy you anything and anyone.
Mr. Lee, from Hong Kong, had been working with Ramirez for several years. Wildly successful in neo-capitalist China, he had gone into the drug business with Ramirez because it was astoundingly lucrative with very little overhead. As an importer of fine china and works of art, it was easy to smuggle the drugs past customs. A few well-placed bribes always did the trick. Ramirez had reasoned, rightly so, that all the incompetence from the Mexican drug cartels these days made them too risky a proposition for importing drugs.
But the US government hardly looked at China regarding drug trafficking, and, even when they did, the smuggling was surprisingly easy, and the overly bloated bureaucracy merely stumbled over itself with ineptitude. LA was such an addicted city that both men made a fortune under the table almost equal to what they made over it, without the annoying matter of taxes or tariffs to pay.
Of course, nowadays, many people ran little drug rings out of their own homes, so whenever possible, the partners subsidized these neighborhood operations, took the lion’s share of profits, and no one was the wiser because no one knew their true identities. Meth was very popular, and of course, cocaine and marijuana never lost their appeal. Ramirez, in particular, had been thrilled to see heroin make a strong comeback. A strongly addictive drug, it promised years of money rolling in from whoever used it, until the inevitable overdose, of course.
A sad, but necessary part of the business.
Sergeant Gibson’s son, Justin, stood before Mr. Ramirez, who was strikingly handsome in middle age with slicked back hair, finely chiseled cheekbones, and an extensive collection of gold jewelry. He particularly fancied a large, ornate, twenty-four carat gold ring on the index finger of his right hand.
As was his custom, standing beside Ramirez—he never sat in the presence of flunkies or dope peddlers—was Mr. Lee—small and sinewy, wearing exotic wire-rimmed glasses and dressed impeccably in an Italian business suit.
Alongside Justin was Dwayne, who’d bailed on Arthur’s offer to join his crusade, and who, despite Ramirez’s orders, had failed to kill Lance the night Arthur first appeared. That punk-ass little skater boy had refused Ramirez’s offer of employment. And nobody refused Ramirez.
The man had been very unhappy at first, and Dwayne had genuinely feared for his own life. But when both men heard about this mysterious figure in knightly armor, they’d become intrigued. At long last, something new under the sun, as the saying went. From that night onward, they’d been fascinated by the news reports of Arthur’s street fight with the LAPD and had instructed Dwayne, Justin, and all their runners to find out what they could about this man: where he hid out, what his plans were, what impact he might be having, negative or positive, on their street business.
“Anything new, boys?” Ramirez asked in that silky-smooth voice of his.
Dwayne shook his head, but Justin said, “My dad and his partner are trying to nail the guy, but can’t find his ass anywhere.”
“Darnell been goin’ and meetin’ the dude somewhere,” Dwayne offered, twitching and fidgeting, “with a bunch a his homies, but he won’t tell me nuthin’.”
“You should have accepted the man’s invitation in Griffith Park, Dwayne,” Mr. Lee stated in a cold, dispassionate voice, also glaring at Justin, causing the boy to squirm.
“Your second mistake in a matter of weeks, Dwayne,” Ramirez reminded him sternly. “Do not make a third.”
Lee snapped his fingers, and several young Asian men hurried forward with bags of white powder, which Dwayne and Justin quickly stuffed into their rather large backpacks. To make himself appear harmless, and to offset his boxer-like build, which intimidated many children, Justin always sported a child’s backpack with cartoon characters all over it, which amused Ramirez no end.
“Now, boys,” Ramirez concluded when they slung the packs over their shoulders, “I want more information on this so-called King Arthur, and I want it soon. He’s already stolen some of my gang members, and I can’t have that, can I?”
Both boys shook their heads uncertainly.
Ramirez flashed his perfect teeth. “Do not disappoint me.”
The boys nodded nervously, quite the opposite of the bravado they’d shown against a skinny fourteen-year-old boy all those weeks ago.
“You may go,” Lee commanded, and the boys needed no further urging. They turned and walked as fast as was prudent out of the office, practically ran down four flights of stairs, and bolted out the back exit into a small, unseen alley.
DAY by day, Arthur instructed his knights-to-be, and day by day they grew stronger in weaponry and in chivalric knowledge. Even the gang members had thus far adhered to Arthur’s rule of no street rivalries entering this safe haven. They’d also shown vast growth, both in civil behaviors, and more importantly, in their strong desire for a better path in life. True, their learned tendencies toward arrogance and domination over the weak were traits that might never fully disappear, but in their willingness to accept a new way of thinking, the boys were becoming more adept at controlling those tendencies. And that was all Arthur could ask of anyone.
“One day soon,” he told the assemblage, “those who wisheth and who be worthy shalt be knighted by me into this new Round Table. Yes, we do not have a physical table, but the symbol of that round table be crucial to our success. None of us canst strive for greatness above and beyond any other. The needs of the entire company doth be of greater import, remember. The code of chivalry, to which every knight must swear fealty, doth require us keep faith in God and each other, to fight for all, not merely a few, to avoid unfairness at all costs, and to always speaketh the truth.”
He paused and gazed over the vast throng. “Can ye all gathered here accept this code and strive to the best of your ability to live it?”
There was silence from the assembled kids as they digested Arthur’s words. The code was extreme for most of them. Especially for Esteban and the other gang members who’d spent their young lives ignoring rules and laws, lying, partying, slanging, running their own program.
Noting their hesitation, Lance leapt to his feet and cried out, “I can, sire!”
Within the crowd, Mark jumped up as well, grinning at Lance before gazing at Arthur. “And I, sire!”
Next stood Jack, glancing a moment at Mark, whose gaze was locked on Arthur, before turning to face the king. “And I.”
Reyna stepped forward in the rear, holding her bow above her head in salute. “And I, Arthur.”
She inspired Esteban, who threw her a smile before he, too, rose to his feet and stepped forward. Hell, why not? “And I.”
Within moments, the entire chamber had risen to its collective feet, shouting in unison, “And I, sire!”
Arthur turned to Lance with a smile and a nod, which Lance returned with a slight bow. Soon, Arthur knew, very soon his army would be ready, and then his crusade could truly begin.
JENNY was attempting, and failing, to teach Romeo and Juliet to her ninth graders. She hated the slavish way the school and the district forced teachers to adhere exactly to the state-mandated curriculum. As if those paper pushers in Sacramento had any idea what her students needed to learn to be successful in life.
All it would take was for this and other districts to just tell the state, and the feds, to go take a hike. If every district in the state did that, what could Sacramento do, give everybody detention? They couldn’t cut off funding because that would be a public relations nightmare. Sadly, nobody in this state had the balls to fight back. Including her, unfortunately.
At present, a boy named Tony and a girl named Maria struggled to read aloud some passages from the Shakespeare play and were mangling the dialogue worse than any actor on those cheesy science fiction movies she often watched to kill time.
The other students paid little or no attention. Their minds were either wandering, they were doodling, playing with their cell phones, or otherwise tuning out the horrific acting of their fellow students. Quite frankly, Jenny didn’t blame them.
Tony read, “I take thee at thy word: call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d; henceforth I never will be Romeo.”
Children of the Knight Page 17