King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 by Maurice Broaddus

for the payoff. It was barely perceptible, but the slight movement of his small Adam's apple came: the swallow 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