Children of the Knight (8 page)

T
HE
following night, Arthur and Lance rode Llamrei many miles through twisting and turning storm drains to the very end of the line in Long Beach. The river itself, when there was actually water churning through it, emptied into the Pacific Ocean at the Port of Long Beach, but the storm drain exited on San Francisco Avenue at the Long Beach Tree Department.

As always, the hour was late when they arrived, and stillness reigned. On exiting the storm drain, they found themselves in what looked to be an abandoned parking lot. They had to break the padlock on the storm drain gate, but that was, by this time, a simple task with the basic crowbar Lance had found in a dumpster.

Working their way toward the waterfront with only the clop, clop sound of Llamrei’s hooves as accompaniment, Arthur and Lance glanced around at the water and the ships and the factory smoke stacks spewing pollution and the ghetto surrounding them. The houses and apartment buildings looked battered and dilapidated, with dead or overgrown lawns and trash littering the streets.

“I never been here before,” Lance whispered. “Man, this looks worse than Lennox by a mile.”

Arthur nodded, sadness welling up within him at the poverty. How could there be so much obvious grandeur in this country and yet this pervasive poverty? As High King his responsibility was to care for his people, to maintain such order that prosperity could be had by all. Did not this government feel a similar responsibility?

From what he understood of the American Constitution, which he’d studied upon awakening from his deep slumber, the government’s primary duty, besides protection of the people, was to provide any and all opportunities for commerce and prosperity. What had happened in the intervening years to change that ever-so-excellent ideal?

Suddenly Lance tapped Arthur on the shoulder and pointed to a vacant lot just up the block. Arthur stopped Llamrei in the shadows so they could watch without being spotted. Up ahead two thuggish-looking teen boys dressed in baggy jeans and brown hoodies harassed and mocked a very small boy who appeared to Lance to be about five or six years old. The little boy’s unkempt blond hair was dirty, as were his face and clothes, and Lance surmised at once the child was likely homeless. Memories of his own abandonment welled into anger at the boy’s predicament.

The teens had a tattered and worn old coat they kept waving in front of the little boy as though they were matadors and he the bull. The small, skinny boy, clad only in shorts and an old tank top, chased after the mocking youths, who merely danced away and waved the coat up out of reach. Each time the boy lunged for it, one teen would snatch it back and toss it to the other.

The taller of the two sneered. “You don’ need this, little white boy. It’s too big for ya anyway.” Then he laughed, finding his own joke terribly funny.

The shorter, stockier teen taunted the boy, as well. “’Sides, now ya can show off all them muscles.”

Both teens laughed uproariously, high-fiving each other, dancing around the little boy, and tossing the coat back and forth until the child began to cry.

“Give it back, give it back!” the little one snuffled. “It’s all I got.”

The tall boy merely snorted like a pig. “Aaaah, too bad. It’s mine, now, ya little shit.”

Fury boiled up within Lance. He’d seen enough. Before Arthur could stop him, he leapt from the horse’s back, right onto his skateboard in one fluid motion, surged forward into the empty lot, and plowed into the taller teen.

Completely blindsided, the teen could barely grunt out “Son of a—” before he flew hard a few feet and crumpled to the ground in a tangled heap. Whizzing past, Lance snatched the coat from the boy’s startled grasp. The stockier of the two, caught off guard by Lance’s sudden arrival, made a lunge for the newcomer. Lance whirled around on his board and leapt off it, simultaneously whipping out a small, short-handled dirk he’d borrowed from Arthur.

“Ya wanna take on somebody yer own size, huh, shitheads?” Lance practically screamed. His venomous fury startled even Arthur, who watched the scene appraisingly from the street. “Well, here I am, come an’ git me!”

The two teens eyed the waving knife blade uncertainly, exchanging a look between them as the tall one regained his feet, rubbing his arm and shoulder. They held back, obviously reluctant to take on someone with a weapon.

Lance sensed their hesitation and lunged dramatically with the blade, causing both teens to turn and bolt out of sight down the dark, empty street. Satisfied, he returned the blade to the small scabbard around his waist and held out the coat to the little boy. The boy gingerly took the coat, his tear-stained face shining with gratitude and a bit of fear.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice shaky.

Arthur approached on Llamrei, and the boy gasped aloud in surprise. Lance laughed, his fury dissipated.

“It’s okay, kid. He’s King Arthur. He take care of you.” Lance’s reassuring smile seemed to relax the boy. Arthur again noted the calming effect Lance had on younger children.

“What beeth thy name, lad?” asked Arthur.

“Uh, Chris, sir,” the boy stammered, staring in awe at the magnificent white horse and the man atop her.

“Have no fear, Chris,” Arthur assured him. “Thou art amongst friends.”

Lance nodded reassuringly at the little boy. Suddenly, without warning, Chris grabbed Lance in a tight hug. Lance froze, his stomach dropping, his heart in his throat. Arthur eyed the boys carefully to see what would transpire.

“Thank you so much! You saved my life.” Chris bubbled gratefully into Lance’s leather jerkin. “What’s yer name?”

Lance gradually relaxed his stiff posture, forced air back into his lungs, fought the wild beating of his heart, and hesitantly returned the hug. “I’m, uh, I’m Lance.”

Chris continued clutching tightly as though afraid to let go, afraid that if he did, his hero would disappear. “Thanks, Lance.”

Arthur looked down at the two boys, and Lance gazed up at him. Arthur noted the beads of nervous sweat hugging Lance’s brow, sweat he surmised came more from the small boy touching him than from the encounter with the two teens. He smiled supportively.

“That be a brave and noble act on thy part, young Lance. It doth give me pride to see thee choose to do what be right, rather than what be easy.”

Lance blushed again and glanced down at Chris so he wouldn’t have to see that look of approval in Arthur’s eyes. “I jus’ don’ like see’n little kids git punked. It ain’t right, ya know?”

“I know indeed,” Arthur replied knowingly, once more secure in the knowledge that Lance was truly the chosen one of his vision. “Come, lads, up on Llamrei, and let us fly this place.”

Lance happily separated himself from Chris, who only let go with reluctance. “You ever been on a horse?” he asked the boy with a tight smile.

The small boy shook his head.

“Well you will now,” Lance replied, gripping the smaller child and hoisting him up to Arthur, who snagged the thin arm tightly and swung Chris around behind him in the saddle. Then he looked approvingly at Lance, who bent to retrieve his board.

“Thy strength has considerably increased, Lance, hast thou not noticed?”

Lance flushed again, realizing that Arthur was right. Hefting Chris had been pretty easy, much easier than it would’ve been a couple of weeks back. Arthur’s training was paying off.

“Yeah.” He grinned up at Arthur. “Yeah, I have.”

Smiling, Arthur reached out a hand, and Lance clasped it firmly, flipping himself up and behind Chris onto the saddle. Nervously, Chris turned his head toward Lance. “Don’t let me fall, Lance!”

Lance flashed his most reassuring grin. “Don’t worry, little man, you’ll be fine.” With some reluctance, he slowly and gingerly slipped his arms around Chris to lightly hold the boy in place, but Chris gripped his hands tightly and pulled them all the way around him, forcing them to press against each other snugly. Lance tensed up a moment at the closeness but slowly relaxed as Arthur spurred his horse forward, and the three of them melted into the shadows.

C
ENTRAL
Juvenile Hall, also known as Eastlake, the largest juvenile facility in the United States, occupied a sprawling expanse of land east of downtown Los Angeles and very near to County USC Medical Center. At one time, as Esteban well knew, this facility housed those juveniles considered the most violent and dangerous, but that task had now fallen to Barry J. Nidorf Juvenile Hall in Sylmar. At that facility, there was a barbed-wire-surrounded enclosure known as The Compound, which housed those children, some as young as fourteen, whose cases had been direct-filed by the district attorney to be adjudicated in adult court.

The state of California had decided some years back that children as young as fourteen could think like adults when caught up within some potential criminal act, but could not think enough like adults to be able to vote or sit on the juries that were called upon to hear their cases.

As he sat in the very familiar dayroom in Unit K/L, Esteban again considered the idiocy of these kinds of laws. One of his homies, a small kid called Shadow, had been sentenced to two hundred fifty-five years plus eight months for killing the guy who murdered his brother. Shit, what adult wouldn’t go off on the guy who murdered a family member? Most would, he knew, despite all their dumbass speeches about “taking the law into your own hands!” Especially if, like with Shadow, the kid brother had died right there in his arms! Who wouldn’t “overreact” as the judge called it, especially considering Shadow was only
fifteen
at the time?
Oh yeah
. Esteban chuckled inwardly.
I forgot, he was an “adult” at that moment!

He, himself, had never killed anyone, but he’d sure as hell tried more than once. He knew he’d go down for life in prison if he got nailed for those “attempts,” but on these streets, it was kill or be killed. What the asshole DAs and judges didn’t want to admit was the war mentality of gang life, how it was no different than any dumbass war this country got itself into. Who the hell would fight a war and not try to win any way they could? These guys didn’t give a shit about reality. They’d love to put him in prison for life and feel they’d gotten a “dangerous predator” off the streets.

But he knew, and they knew, that the real power guys were still out there. Much as his pride hated the notion, Esteban knew well enough he was just small fry, easily replaceable, very expendable. That’s why all the children in prison these days didn’t put a dent in the “gang problem.” They just became the hardened thugs everybody already thought they were. Man, he was getting tired of all this shit.

However, what he’d told Ryan he knew to be untrue. Sure, the cops’d love to get every gangster battling his enemies so’s to wipe each other out, and then all the authorities would have to do would be to clean up the mess. But that wasn’t what was happening. No, something else was going on with this tagger. It wasn’t the cops. And it wasn’t Jaime’s ’hood, neither. He shook his head in amazement. He and Jaime had been best buds when they were kids, until the other boy had moved to an enemy neighborhood. Now all they could do was try and kill one another. Crazy ass shit, he knew, but that was life on these streets.