King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 (19 page)

  "I need a real man. One who knows how to handle a woman who's been bad. One who can put me in my place, not let me walk all over him like I'm better than him. Who do I think I am? I'm no better than any other of these… well, you know. You deserve better.

  "So, you want to ride my black ass? Take me down a few notches?"

  Lee's heart thudded so hard it pained his chest. His saliva turned thick, he suddenly found it difficult to swallow. His palms slickened as they rested on the steering wheel. He leaned over, opened the passenger side door, and she climbed in.

 
 

Baylon tugged at his crotch, adjusting the fit of his pants, primping in the mirror. Long sleeves made him invisible. In long sleeves he was straight, a nine to five working man who no one would give a second glance to. Hair cut low, but without flash, no gold, no grill, no tattoos, he could walk into any church or office or restaurant or store and be treated as Joe A. MiddleClassCitizen.

  For this meeting, he went with short sleeves. The short sleeves showed he'd been working out, made him appear harder. He scratched the head of his pit bull. Even his dog was more affectation than necessity. His troops needed to see him as the shot caller, second only to Dred in word and deed. As it stood, they begrudgingly followed orders and too often challenged his authority by asking to hear them from Dred himself. It boiled down to how he carried himself. Maybe he would never escape Griff's long shadow.

  "Yeah, you still the fairest one of them all, nigga." Griff sidled next to him, examining his reflection up and down in the mirror. "But you'll never be me."

  "I know." Baylon spritzed on some cologne.

  "You don't have the heart."

  "I know."

  "Your men sense it."

  "Then I'll have to make them… respect the office."

 

  
A group of young boys gathered only a halfblock away. Fixed with industrial intent, they tore strips of newspaper into dollar sized scraps. They took their assembled "bills" and fashioned wads for themselves. They'd pull it out of their pocket and peel off a couple bills to one another. One took his stack and threw it into the air to the chants of "
Make it rain
".

  
And King's heart seethed.

  
Before he was aware of himself, he strode toward the men.

 

• • •

 

  
Junie loved that boy after his fashion, conjuring vague plans for Parker's future, but also hated him. Hated him for making him see himself. As he was, not who he dreamt he was.

  
"You bout done over there?"

  
"I don't give a fuck. You feel me? I don't give," Parker retorted in close to an insulting tone. "A. Fuck." Tall, but skinny. Heartless, he had done had all the life damn near ground out of him. His smile, even his laugh, was joyless. He could shoot or otherwise inflict all manner of cruelty without a moment's hesitation. He was perfect. The secret to enforcement wasn't a matter of the most intimidating body, but the precision of the coldest heart.

  
Parker carried around his share of pain, let it accrue in his belly until it knotted the muscles in his shoulders. Pain he was all too happy to dish out. Not one for confession, he was one of those mute motherfuckers, just as soon turn to an icy glare and stone lips rather than admit to anything personal or true. Stoic silence was his definition of holding his head up. Of being a man. He'd never admit to anything like abuse. Bitches were abused. Yet when he was eleven, a friend of his mother's came to stay at their house. It was how family did, drop in and board with their people for a minute as they pass through. Every night the woman secretly summoned Parker to her room. Three raps against the wall separating Parker's room from his sister's. Each night. As his sister slept in the next bed, the woman had him go down on her. His first sexual experience outside of nutting off to his father's stash of
Player
magazines. She had no special love for or attachment to him. During the days, she dismissed him, choosing to talk only to adults. Beyond the initial conversation where she told him how special he was, asked him if he thought she was pretty, and asked him if he wanted to prove how much he liked her, they never even shared a knowing wink. The age difference didn't matter. Nor the fact that she didn't let him get off. He was a means to an end. An instrument of her gratification. She taught him everything he needed to know about sex. And put to death the idea of love.

  
He never told his friends. The bragging of his tryst with an older woman, no matter how he cast it, rang hollow to his ear. All it brought up was the feeling of powerlessness. Of weakness, of being a bitch. He buried it alongside the other memories, like the leather strap of his father when he was due to be punished.

  
"I just don't give a fuck." The words had become his personal mantra. Half prayer, half braggadocio, he announced his climax not caring that Junie was in the room. Junie tossed him an admiring smile and knew they would fist bump later recalling the events. The moneyhungry ho who still chickenheaded in his lap swallowed his seed without complaint. She was face less, a walking fix waiting to score, a convenient orifice to empty into. Something akin to pride stirred within Junie as he dismissed the girl with the turn of his back and the hitching of his pants.

  
"We got to wrap this up and turn the count over to the Durham Brothers."

  
"Them some uglyass Samoans."

  
"You need to learn when to back down and when to step it up," Junie said in a low, warning tone. Parker was an eager student, one who looked up to Junie, and admiration was a powerful intoxicant.

  
They trod downstairs where the Durhams discussed a matter with Baylon. Junie and Parker waited to the side, not interrupting. Baylon waved them in. Junie wasn't too fond of the Durham Brothers, but respected their rep. Michaela with her purple hair and matching shirt over a pair of blue jeans towered over Baylon. Her brother, Marshall, sported a set of chops which looked like he glued two hedgehogs to either side of his face. Ridiculous appearance aside, their penchant for the most brutal of violence to the human body was well documented. Rumor whispered that they occasionally ate their kill. From Michaela's recent weight gain, he assumed Baylon had them out on assignment.

  
"What's with the hair?" Junie tried to forage for any humanity in her eyes to reassure him, but found no trace. Her jowly face, the extra waddle about her throat, the girth of her belly failed to make her any less a killer.

  
"Needed a change in my look," Michaela said.

  
"I don't think a haircut's gonna do it. Plus, purple–"

  
"Draws too much attention?"

  
"I think you've got that covered too."

  
Baylon made some mild clucking noises. Junie was never fond of him. He had a way about him, let folks know he didn't think much of them. Condescending, like they didn't know nearly as much as he did. His ass never held a gun. His ass never did any jail. His ass never did anything beside talk. He acted awfully superior for someone who was simply Dred's errand boy.

  
"Damn girl, you packed on a few pounds," Parker said with the brazen fearlessness of youth. Or psychosis.

  
"It's not polite to talk about a girl's weight." She flashed him an eye warn.

  
"Since when you so sensitive?"

  
"I'm a flower. I'm a delicate flower who's gained five dress sizes in the last year and is pretty pissed about it."

  
"Need to work off a few calories?" Parker tossed her the tapeddown grocery bag full of cash.

  
Full of hate and wariness, Marshall leaned near Junie's ear. His fetid breath reeked of decayed carcasses. He smacked in his ear with a wet gurgle. "We get called in for special jobs. The man says come up, we come up. The man says make this delivery for me, package gets delivered. The man says handle this here problem, the problem gets handled. Do we have a problem here?"

  
"We don't have shit," Baylon said, feeling suddenly pressed in. "You got a delivery to make. I got an errand to run."

  
"You hooking up with Griff?"

  
"Not that you need to know, but yeah. You two hold down the fort. Don't need any unnecessary drama tonight."

  
That was the night everything went to shit.

 

  
The first door on the left, a soft light revealed the outline of a door. He pushed it open. A young woman rifled through some cabinets. Under a furred jacket she wore a black Korn Tshirt and had five friendship bracelets on each hand. An acne scar dotted the middle of her forehead giving her a vaguely Indian appearance. Blue jeans – bellbottoms in his day, flare cut these days – with ragged edges barely cov ered her ragged Chuck Taylors.

  
"Who are you?" he asked.

  
"Who are you?" she retorted, unstartled and with out making eye contact.

  
"Michelle."

  
Davis. Michelle Davis. Baylon expected a prosti tute, maybe a burnout crack whore, someone who had run game one time too often or stolen money and had to pay the final piper. Not some fresh faced girl no older than his niece. She reached into her rich, furred coat and fondled the hilt of her knife.

  
"We match." Baylon pulled up his shirt and re vealed his knife.

  
"Where'd you get that?"

  
"My father gave it to me."

  
"I never knew my father," Michelle said.

  
"Not all of us are so lucky," Baylon said. "A pretty girl you. It isn't right for you to have such… teeth."

  
"I ain't got no choice out here. A girl's got to be able to take care of herself. I'll carry it until I find someone good enough to take it from me."

  
"Someone good enough to make you feel safe?"

  
"Something like that. You know King?"

  
Baylon bristled at the name. "We go back a ways."

  
"What's he like?"

  
"He a'ight."

  
"Seriously."

  
"He's good people. Means well. Big heart," Baylon admitted. "But, damn, he has this way about him. Where you always feeling judged. Like no matter what you're doing, he expects more. Better."

  
"That sounds like a good thing. Someone who believes in you and pushes you."

  
"Unless you're being pushed off the edge."

  
"No one doubts your heart. No one other than you."

  
Her ambercolored eyes pierced him as if reading his soul. No attitude. No stiffness. No fear. She bared her teeth to let him know she could handle herself but let the conversation play out. Baylon found himself intrigued by her. On the flip side, one quality Baylon didn't lack was the fact that he was headstrong. And he had just decided that Michelle was either "unable to be found" or otherwise not going to be killed. At least until he learned what her offense might be. Once he got an idea in his head, he ran it into the ground without looking or thinking. As if he couldn't change course even if it meant his destruction.

  
"Damn, man, what's taking you so long?" Half out of breath, Griff poked his head into the room and spoke with a hurried whisper. "Oh, I see. This a private party?"