The Tragic Flaw (21 page)

“Well, you two have fun,” she says as she stands to leave.

Kam looks at her from head to toe and smiles.

“Hey, Lana, guess what Cicero ordered.”

“I don't know. What, a burger?” she asks, adjusting the spaghetti straps on her tiny black dress.

Kam laughs, showing his diamond teeth.

“Hell, naw, this fag ordered a damn salad,” Kam says with a frown.

Lana glances at Cicero.

“You on a diet?” she questions. “You look like you're in shape.”

“Naw, I'm not on a diet,” Cicero reluctantly answers. “I'm just watching what I eat. Is that all right with you, Ms. Lana?”

“Hey, live ya life,” she says.

“Whatever,” Kam blurts. “I'm watchin' you, Big C.”

“Well, I'm out,” Lana tells them. “Ya'll be safe.”

And she strides toward the door, wild hair bouncing. And once again she attracts the eyes of both he and she, as young Ms. Lana exits the eatery.

Kam and Cicero receive their meals and begin to indulge.

“So, where you gonna go?” Kam asks, stuffing his mouth with fries. Later tonight he'll be brushing his teeth thoroughly with jewelry cleaner.

“Don't know yet,” Cicero answers, not giving Kam any details. He figures it's better that way. No loose ends.

Kam's eyes squint.

“I figure I'll just lay low,” he adds. “You know, just chill out. Spend a few days getting my shit together outta town. You should do the same.”

“Naw, fuck that,” Kam exclaims in his slow, deep voice. “I'm not into bouncing like that. I mean, I got money to get. I ain't worried about it.”

Cicero leaves it at that. They finish their meals and wait for the check. Cicero drops one-hundred dollars for the food and the tip and they depart, going separate ways.

C enters the parking garage, then hops in his Maybach. The supple dark-blue leather happily greets him.

“I love this car,” he says to himself, staring at the engagingly illuminated instrument panel.

The vehicle smoothly rolls out the garage and Cicero makes a left on West Forty-Seventh Street. The royal-blue sky is impeccable on this cloudless day. The temperature is perfect.

There's no music playing in the car, so Cicero is free to think, uninterrupted. He ponders Brad's intentions to basically fuck him and Kam. He thinks about how he and Brad were so close in college, and yet over time, have drifted apart. Struggling in college had brought them together, but once their struggles were over, Cicero thought, so were their commonalities.

Then his cell phone rings. His Maybach heads east, crossing Troost Avenue, KC's very own Mason-Dixon Line, as he answers the phone.

“Hey, what's up?”

“Not too much. I just haven't heard from you in a while,” Olivia says in her eternally saddened tone.

It's true. Cicero has had no need for her, so he could not care less.

“Yea, I've been hella busy,” he tells her. “How have you been?”

“Okay, I guess,” she says, sighing as she lies in her bed staring up at the ceiling. Several bottles of medication line her bureau. She's taken her cocktail for today, and is feeling dispirited as usual. Fortunately, the nausea hasn't kicked in yet, and her occasional bouts of diarrhea have subsided.

“Oh yea?” Cicero says, unconcerned. “So what's new with you?”

Olivia sits up in the bed and crosses her arms and legs at the ankles. The white T-shirt and red shorts she has on fits her in a comfortably sexy way.

“Cicero, what do you think about me?”

“What do you mean, O? You're my girl. My partner. You know?”

Olivia doesn't buy that answer.

“No, Cicero. That's not what I mean. Do you care about me?”

Cicero exhales deeply. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He's been able to avoid this discussion since day one. He mashes the pedal in his Maybach headed toward the hood.

“Olivia, it pleases me when you're happy, baby. And that's all I can say. I want you to be happy.”

Olivia pauses and her eyes go down. Her beautiful skin is freshly oiled and it shines as sunlight penetrates the blinds in her room. Her hair flows past her shoulders and down her back.

“You really don't care about me, do you, Cicero?” she asks.

Cicero is becoming fed up with this conversation. He has Brad to worry about, not to mention Jimmy and other shit. And he still needs to make travel arrangements. He simply has more important things to deal with.

“No. No, I don't give a fuck about you, Olivia. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Cicero flashes. “I mean, shit, I pay yo tainted ass to fuck mothafuckas I hate. Could I really give a fuck about you?”

Olivia is silent. A solitary tear descends from her right eye and lands on the corner of her mouth. She extends her tongue to taste it.

“Yea. I always knew that,” she says confidently. “I always knew that. But I'm glad that you said it. Thank you.”

Cicero looks at the phone, not believing his ears.

“You know, I thought you at least cared a little bit, but I guess not. You're an evil man, Cicero. But you'll get yours.”

“Whatever,” Cicero grumbles. “Are you done?”

“Yes. Good-bye.”

And she hangs up.

Cicero glances at his phone, then tosses it onto the passenger seat. It's easy for him to degrade and abuse Olivia and have no feelings of remorse.

“I don't have time for this shit,” he states in his deep voice. “Nasty-ass, stupid-ass bitch.”

Cicero reaches Prospect Avenue, then stops at a red light.

“Where the fuck am I going?” he questions out loud.

He makes a sharp left into a gas station, then parks.

“Damn, that car is sick,” a young cat with gold teeth yells. He and his boys jump into an eighty-six Monte Carlo SS and get low in a hurry, while Cicero places a fully loaded nine-millimeter on his lap. He knows how guys in this part of town get down, and he's ready for them.

Cicero glances down and checks his new Patek Philippe watch. It's 4:36 p.m.

“Fuck it.”

He grabs his cell phone and calls information.

“What city and state?”

“Kansas City, Missouri.”

“What listing?”

“American Airlines.”

Moments later, Cicero Day has a roundtrip ticket to the Golden State. His flight leaves at 8:00 p.m. tonight.

He puts the pedal to the floor and burns rubber back to the west.

Cicero grinds his teeth as murderous thoughts scale hurdles in his bald head.

“This punk-ass mothafucka,” he whispers to himself, thinking about Brad's treachery. His black Maybach glides like a daydream down the rugged pothole-laden street as scattered clouds begin to roll into the stratosphere above.

A certain Bradley Micheaux shall soon have an uninvited guest.

Stopping by his apartment, Cicero grabs a small black vial from a nightstand drawer and stuffs it in a tight black velvet bag. He then opens a safe under his bed and takes out ten-thousand dollars in cash. Rushing and nearly tripping over the black leather bench in front of his bed, Cicero also tosses a few sweaters, a suit, a couple pairs of slacks, some alligator boots and a pair of Italian loafers into a black suitcase before trotting down to the parking garage and hopping back in his sedan.

“Yea, Brad, I got somethin' for ya,” Cicero says to himself as he starts his car. Then once again he's in the wind, cutting corners, on a mission.

Cicero navigates toward The Paseo, then heads north, crossing the Missouri River, toward the International Airport and the unsuspecting Bradley Micheaux's North Kansas City home.

 

Cotton, silk, and wool blends twist and bend, misaligned and uneven. Cuffs touch collars. Zippers invite sleeves. Buttons long to be fastened. Boxer shorts crumple under the weight of dress loafers. Wrinkles feel at home on expensive trousers as toiletries are dumped on them, joiningthe fray.

A certain Cajun also has travel plans in mind, so he secretively throws his clothes and personals into a large dark-brown carpetbag. A similar bag rests next to it on the king-sized bed, stuffed to the brim with chrome-like discs containing little blue tablets, and the chemicals needed to replicate them. Documents with notes and formulas also lie in the bag, along with a hundred thousand in cash.

Brad, shirtless and wearing only faded blue jeans, leisurely ambles about his small, modernly designed bedroom grabbing essentials. He's unshaven, a bit scruffy looking, and his hair is unkempt.

Alternative rock vividly escapes a tiny high-tech silver stereo on a faux wooden shelf. The two-story home is neatly decorated with all modern furniture in pale sandalwood shades and grays and silvers.

His decision to skip town with his newly invented drug in hand while owing the mob money has stressed Bradley out, but as troubling as it has been, it is nonetheless the path he has chosen.

All the walls in his bedroom are a ghostly white, absent of color, with the exception of a wide abstract painting to the left of the doorway. Blobs of crimson and pumpkin quarrel as a long slanting streak of indigo fights for attention in its downward descent from left to right. For Bradley, the painting resembled progress, and man's ongoing struggle with himself, ignoring the possibilities of that progress.

Bradley zips the bag with his clothes in it and an artificial sense of relief overcomes him as he lies on the snow-white down comforter to rest his mind. He stares up at the blank ceiling and its recessed lighting with his hands behind his head. His bare feet caress the hardwood floor.

“This time next week, I'll be knee-deep in something Brazilian,” Bradley says slyly to himself with a smile. “And that's real.”

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Brad's heart jumps into his throat and he quickly sits up in the bed.

“Who the fuck is that?” he says out loud, perplexed and fearful. He walks over to a nine-drawer sandalwood dresser and pulls out a pistol.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

“Yea, I don't do unannounced guests,” Bradley mumbles as he steps through his living room en route to the front door.

He steps to the left of the front door to look out the window and avoid any slugs or buckshots that may come right through the door.

Brad places his index and middle finger on one of the cream mini blinds and pulls it down, causing it to V. That's when he eyes Cicero's Maybach parked straight ahead in the street, black and glossy.

Brad then looks a bit to his right, and sees Cicero's broad shoulders standing at his front door.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

“Damn. What the fuck is C doin' here?” Brad whispers to himself.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Unsure of what to do, Brad decides to stash his gun under a gray sofa cushion and returns to stand before the door.

“Yea! Who is it,” he yells in a sleepy-sounding voice.

“It's me, man. Open up.”

The latch turns and the doorknob does the same as the white wooden door swings inward and opens.

“Damn, man, what were you doin' in there? Jackin' off?” Cicero jokes with a wide smile on his face. A light breeze ruffles his expensive lime-green sweater.

In his hands is a plastic bag with two Styrofoam containers inside.

“I got lunch, dude. Let's chit-chat,” Cicero tells him. Cicero's still not completely sure of Brad's plans, but he needs to find out, if he can, before leaving town.

Confused and anxious by Cicero's unannounced stop and cheerful demeanor, Bradley has no choice but to accept his offer and entertain him. As soon as Cicero leaves, he'll be on his way to a sunny beach to be besieged by the infamous Brazilian bikini wax.

“Yea, come on in, man,” Brad says to his friend, and Cicero enters. As he comes in, Cicero quickly peers right into Bradley's bedroom and sees the two packed bags. Brad forgot to close his bedroom door, and that was all the confirmation Cicero needed.

Brad closes the door and glances over at the sofa cushion, which is now bulging and looking out of place.

Cicero walks in and heads straight for the island in the kitchen. The white tile blocks are clean and uncluttered.

“Man, you're gonna like this. It's from that one little Italian spot in Gladstone.”