KING MAKER, by MAURICE BROADDUS
Volume I of The Knights of Breton Court

Prelude: The Fall of Luther
 
Indianapolis, Indiana. Back in the Day.

The streets have their own legends, their own magic, and for a brief moment, Luther White was the heir apparent to both.

“Listen here, keep that motor running.” Staid snorts of smoke poured from Luther’s nose and mouth like a dragon’s exhalations as he puffed on a cigarette. Cutting his eyes at CashMoney’s rayon shirt as if he were ashamed to know him, Luther slid along the gray vinyl car seat with the coolness of shadow. His twin Caliburns glinted in the moonlight as he tucked them into his waistband.

Everyone knew there was a street tax to be paid if they wished to operate in Luther’s neighborhood. If rent wasn’t paid, he came a-calling with his Caliburns. Costing a fortune, the 9mm Springfield Armory custom-ported stack autos – with the frames, slides, and some other parts plated in 24K gold, with gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips – were his trademark. He rarely had to do more than brandish them for his point to be made. Tonight a stronger counter argument was called for.

CashMoney drummed his fingers along the steering wheel of his Chevy Nova. He wore what barbershops called the Perfecto cut, his hair like sculpted topiary with its precise parts and molded crown. His drawn face held an air of sadness, his brim pulled low on his head to shade his dull brown eyes. The car’s cassette player was broken so he rolled the dial on the dash, getting mostly static. As if there were any other choice for music other than WTLC, unless you wanted some