The Tragic Flaw (13 page)

“Well, maybe I'll see you around,” Antonio tells the beautiful Ruth, who shines her bright smile at him.

And he would see her around. They would meet every once in a while over the next few months, going on long walks and talking for hours, most of which was done in complete and total secret. Years later, after Antonio was married to his white and publicly acceptable wife, Ruth would become pregnant with Lucia, without knowledge of Tony's nuptials.

By the time Cicero was conceived, she knew he was married, but her love for him was deeper then the Dead Sea. His union was a sham, as many are, but even still, Ruth came to respect it, and their relationship as lovers would fizzle away, against Tony's wishes.

Ruth stares at the small black-and white-photograph, wondering how her life could have been different if she never met the dashing Romello. Maybe her father would have let her stay, maybe she could have accepted one of the college scholarships she was offered.

Lucia's son falls from the staircase and smacks his head on the hardwood floor. His uncontrollable wailing brings an end to Ruth's brief and infrequent moment of self-pity, and she runs to his aid.

While driving north down The Paseo passing moss-covered fountains, Cicero calls Kam back.

“Hello?” Screaming and yelling is heard in the background, along with dogs barking. He's got seven hundred and fifty dollars on a tan three-year-old pit bull named Yola, known for locking on rear legs, then rolling like an Everglades alligator.

“Hey, you ready?” Cicero asks. Cold air enters unfettered from near the trunk, giving his neck goose bumps.

“Just about, my dog is up next, hold on.”

Kam removes the phone from his ear and in seconds Yola has shot for the left hind leg of a thinner, younger, dark-brown pit. This dog should have never been in the ring with the more experienced, more vicious Yola. Moments later the leg has been gnawed, masticated and removed like a scene from a South African shark attack.

“Damn!” Kam yells.

The bloody stump leaks from Yola's jaw as his victim yelps and twitches in utter anguish. Yola's owner steps over and tries to pry the drippy prize from the dog's mouth, and the canine growls in full resistance.

“Yea, C,” Kam says smiling, exposing his baguettes and platinum. “Meet me at the crilla.”

“Cool,” his friend responds before taking another sip of his cognac.

 

Running water tingles the sense of hearing upon entering the minimalist's home. Ten-foot ceilings allow ample space for the seven-foot rock waterfall fountain in the corner. The sound is refreshing.

Cream-painted hardwood floors span the loft from wall to wall, minus the tiny kitchen. In the center of the large room is a wood-framed futon juxtaposed to an exact clone. Between the two is a narrow hand-carved pine table with bear's paws for feet.

After Kam takes his sneakers off, Cicero removes his loafers at the door. He knows Kam's house rules.

“You want a drink?” Kam asks, before realizing he already had one, not to mention the bottle. “Oh, I don't even know why I asked.”

He'd searched high and low for the authentic Japanese tea set placed on the stone-based glass table behind the futon. For the set to be strictly for show, the search may have been too expansive.

Without a doubt, the focal point of the room is the twelve-foot long, five-foot high, hand-painted rendering of a seaside Samurai battle.

Ancient combat plays out on a picturesque beach. With swords drawn, opposing warriors on horseback converge in a fight to the death. White-caps pound the shore in the background in their own climactic war of nature versus nature. Trademark mustaches and highly animated eyes of the feudal aristocracy make profound statements in this epic saga to decide the fate of the Japanese Empire. The steeds too have a sense of purpose, and mortality, as they are also prepared to die.

For Kam, the depiction defined life on Earth, for it is a scene of conflict. There is no life without conflict, Kam often thought, for it was all he knew. And that's all he ever saw or read, so to escape it, he chose not to own a television. His only source of entertainment or news comes from a bantam high-tech stereo, well hidden in a kitchen cabinet. Wireless speakers are buried in the walls, offering quality as well as discrete sounds.

Freshly squeezed juices and bottled water fill the Sub-Zero fridge. One cabinet overflows with multivitamins, milk thistle, ginseng, St. John's Wort, vitamin B complex, cod liver oil pills, beta-carotene tablets and orange-flavored vitamin C chewables. Even though Kam indulges in liquor and drugs, he does his best to offset the effects. Some shit he heard a rapper talking about.

The trickling sound of the elevated fountain is quite soothing. Kam's loft is one of the only places outside of his own home where Cicero truly enjoys being.

Flames cavort in a gas-controlled fireplace along the far wall. Regardless of the weather or the temperature, the brass-encompassed flames burn. It's a part of Kam's balanced approach to living; at least within his home's confines. Despite his barbarous shortcomings and outward flamboyance, Kameron's living quarters reflect the sensibility of Asian emperors. Some shit he saw in a movie.

Numerous palm trees sprawl out. Kam is careful to water them according to their need. This is the second batch. He killed the first few he had by overwatering them, so now he's more mindful.

“So where's your girl?” Kam asks.

“She just texted me. She's trying to find a parking spot.”

While Kansas City is known for its wide-open spaces, Kam's apartment sits in one of the most congested midtown neighborhoods, filled to the brim with transients, weirdos, prostitutes, hobos, and losers.

There's suddenly a succession of feathery rapid-fire knocks at the door.

“Come in!” Kam yells from across the room as he sits on the futon and opens a plastic bag of red-haired marijuana. His deep voice booms.

A petite caramel-skinned beauty enters, carrying two large black plastic trash bags.

“Kam, you need to check those homeless mothafuckas downstairs,” the cutie says while removing her altitude-boosting black boots. Her truck driver mouth contrasts with her actress face and her delicate green eyes. “One tried to grab my ass.” An eight-button sleek leather coat clings to her defined shoulders and hugs her spherical derrière.

Kam just laughs. The lemon-yellow velour sweatsuit he wears is plush and vibrant.

“You should have smacked him,” he tells her.

“No, I should have shot him,” she retorts, hair purposely untamed. “Hey, Cicero, how you doin'?”

“Fine. How are you?” he asks, seated in his gray suit at the other futon with his drink.

“Just tryin' to make a livin', you know?”

“I heard that.”

She steps into the center of the loft and looks around. The bags appear to be heavy, but with her many hours spent in the gym she has no problem lugging them about.

“So where you want it?” she asks Kam.

He looks up from the table. His fingers vigorously break down the sticky weed without looking at it.

“Right there is cool.”

“Okay,” she responds, then dumps the two big bags on the floor. Recently stolen designer shoes and hand-knitted sweaters spill out, all in various sizes and bearing authentic store price tags.

Cicero and Kam gaze at the seductive pile.

“Look, those Allen Edmonds were kinda hard to get, but I got a couple pairs,” the girl says. Her craft is age old, and she is a tenacious five-foot-three student of the art.

“You got any Thomas Pink shirts over there?” Kam asks. His blunt is rolled and he ignites it, taking a big puff. A small circular terra cotta ashtray captures the embers.

“Yea, there's a couple in here, and some short-sleeved Lacoste in solid colors,” she answers. Her voice is sweet and high pitched. She unbuttons her jacket and tosses it on the arm of the futon. A tiny T-shirt exposes her sexy flat midsection.

“What's up with that Patek Philippe?” Cicero weighs in as he searches through the textile mass.

“I'm working on it. Those watches are kinda hard to come by,” she says. Thick thighs bulge through her tight low-rise jeans, which allow a scarlet silk thong to see the world. “I'm working on this square cat at Pivoli's jewelry store, so it shouldn't be much longer. But I'll let you know when I get my hands on one.”

“That's cool, just let me know.”

Kam decides Lana has come across some good plunder, so he inquires about the entire lot.

“How much for all of it? I can give my little cousins the shit that don't fit.”

Lana thinks for a moment, then says, “Just give me two.”

He immediately reaches into his bulging pocket and pulls out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and counts out two-thousand dollars and hands it to her.

“Cool,” she says, while stuffing the wad in her red lace bra between her firm breasts. “Alright, then, you guys be good.” She turns to leave but then stops in her tracks.

“Oh yea, my great aunt died last week,” she tells her clients.

“Damn, Lana, I'm sorry to hear that,” Cicero says.

“Yea, I know you stayed with her. You need anything? You straight?” Kam asks.

“No, I'm cool, but fuck her. She was mean as hell,” Lana responds.

Kam and Cicero chuckle.

She continues, “Shit, I'm taking bids on her social security number right now. Bitch has flawless credit. You know it'll take the IRS like ten years to figure out she's dead and recycle it.”

“Yea, I know,” Kam says, then flashes his diamonds with a laugh. “You said she had good credit?”

Cicero looks interested. Cascading water flows in S patterns down the stony fountain.

“Man, she had a seven hundred-fifty beacon score,” Lana yells with the enthusiasm of a teenager.

“Damn,” Cicero and Kam respond in unison.

“Where's the bid right now?” Kam asks. Unpaid schools loans from years ago remain on his scarred credit report.

“Right now it's at like five thousand dollars,” she says.

“Is that it? Shit, I'll give you seven thousand dollars right now,” Kam tells her.

She thinks about it for a second, then chooses to decline his offer.

“Naw, I'm okay, I'm waiting to see how these bids pan out. I got some Mexicans on the West Side that might really come through with some real money. You know they need work visas and shit.”

“That's cool. If they don't come through, come holler at me,” Kam says.

“Alright. Alright, C, alright, Kam,” Lana says as she opens the door to leave.

“Okay, baby, be careful out there,” Cicero says.

She just giggles. “I thought you knew.” And she returns to the realm of undercover security guards, five-finger discounts, and attorney's fees.

Kam shovels the clothing and shoes back into the bags and places them near his informal closet; the untidiness is disturbing the tranquility of his loft.

Cicero pours himself another drink, and takes a moment to exhale.

“Man, did I tell you some assholes tried to blow me up,” Cicero calmly tells his friend.

“For real?” Kam asks as he tokes his blunt and begins to cough. “What was that shit about?”

“I don't know, but I think they wanted my twenties.”

“Damn. They tried to take your head off for your Barry Sanders?”

“Yea, I guess,” Cicero answers. “That's crazy, huh?”

Kam hits his weed again and holds it for ten seconds before exhaling. His lips are becoming blacker by the day.

“So I guess since I'm talking to you,” Kam says, “it's safe to say you introduced their insides to the outside world?”

Cicero nods in the affirmative.

“That's cool.” Kam begins coughing violently, on the verge of coughing up a lung. Snot trickles from his nose and he wipes it with his sleeve.

“Whoa, this is some good shit,” Kam exclaims. “You sure you don't want to hit this, dog?”

“Naw, I'm cool,” Cicero says as he takes a sip of his liquor. “But thanks for offering.”

“Hey, anytime,” Kam says politely. “So you know who they were?”

“Who?” asks Cicero. Just that quick other thoughts have clouded his mind.

Frustrated, Kam says, “Man, the mothafuckas that tried to give your head a permanent part.”

“Oh. I don't know. Some sick-ass white boys. Irish cats, I think.”

Kam looks as if he's thinking while he takes another drag from Mary Jane.

“Damn. Some white boys? Dude, the economy must truly be fucked up for some white boys to resort to jacking people.”

Cicero laughs.

“Tell me about it,” C answers.

“I mean, for real, that's generally not their style, you know?” Kam asserts as his high begins to kick in and the philosopher in him takes over. “You know, they might get down with some computer hacking, or maybe molesting some little kids, or somethin'. You know? Some sicko shit. Serial killing and shit. But jackin'? That's wild.”

“I know,” Cicero simply responds. But he knows people, regardless of race, are capable of anything, especially in hard times. Pressure either crushes, or creates diamonds. The assholes who tried to jack him allowed the pressure of greed to place them on an anvil. And Cicero gladly took on the role of the sledgehammer.

“Oh, and just so you know,” Cicero weighs in while pouring himself another drink, “the product isn't looking too good.”

Kam perks up.

“It's not a total wash. I don't think,” continues Cicero, “it's not going according to plan, though.”

“Fuck, are you serious?” Kam asks, fingernails clenching the smoldering roach. “Damn. So I guess we can expect drama from Jimmy?”

“Yea. Just anticipate it. You know? Stay on your toes.”

“Oh, that's always, homeboy. I thought you knew?”