Authors: Che Parker
“But I told you that for a reason.”
“Oh, yea?”
“Yea. I need you to do something for me.”
“Shit. Just say the word, cuz.”
Cicero stands from the futon and ambles over to the kitchen, and returns with a pen and a sheet of paper.
“When you get a chance, go to this address for me, and holler at Bradley.” Cicero checks his platinum watch. “He likes playing golf there, usually on Mondays, I think. And check it out, I'm going out of town for a while, hittin' a few spots, so maybe in, like, a few weeks, go holler at him. Cool?”
“Alright. So what's the plan? I mean, what do you want to happen?”
“Just put something in his ear. You feel me?”
“I got you.”
Cicero hands him the slip of paper as the fountain's cool waters rush down the sloped rocks.
“Now, Kameron, you know Bradley is my friend. Right?”
“Man, I got you. Not a problem.”
Cicero knows sometimes people need that extra push. While he doesn't necessarily want Brad harmed, he does want to kick-start his engine. And Kameron can be one hell of a motivational speaker.
Cicero checks his timepiece again.
“Well, I got to get out of here. I'm fuckin' starvin'. Might get some Gates.”
“Yea, I got some shit to do, too,” Kam replies, and they both stand, feeling woozy. “And C, why don't you go ahead and take my truck, man. Your shit is fucked up. Your Escalade still getting worked on?”
“Yea. Fuckin' Mexicans fucked up my electrical system.”
“For real? Fuck that. But yea, I'll have my guy come pick your shit up and take it to the crusher.”
“Yea, okay,” Cicero answers. “You still got that plug at State Farm?”
Kam smiles and nods yes.
“Cool. I'm going to write off some extra shit, like that original Matisse I bought in Paris for my mom's birthday.”
And they both laugh.
“You know I had one in my backseat,” Cicero says with a grin.
“Hey, I'm not mad at you. That's what you're supposed to do,” Kam says. “But why you bullshittin'? You know my boy Jacque works at that art gallery on Southwest Trafficway. He could probably hook you up.”
“Oh for real? Cool. I'ma go holler at him.”
They start to walk out when Cicero's thoughts jump to a completely unrelated topic.
“A, so have you thought about going back to school?”
Caught off guard, Kam asks, “Where the fuck did that come from?”
“Man, I was just wondering.”
Kam pauses and looks at his friend.
“Actually, I thought about it. But you know how it is. Gettin' this paper now,” he says as he grips the blunt, now mere millimeters in length. He goes to take a hit and the cinders burn his lips. “Ouch. Shit.”
Cicero starts to laugh.
“No, for real. You should think about that.”
“Yea, I know. That's what my Mexican weed man keeps telling me,” Kam says. Then in a Mexican accent, he adds, “He says, âBro, you should go to school, cuz. These streets are evil, cuz.'”
They both start laughing.
“Well, your weed man might be right.”
“Yea, I know. But fuck him. I'm about to start getting all my shit in Canada. The price is right, and it's fire. Like that K-Town.”
“That reminds me, I need to call my Mexican snowman,” Cicero says.
“Yep, you don't wanna get caught with no product, missin' paper,” Kam explains.
“I know.”
And they depart from the serenity of feng shui. Waters run and flames burn despite their absence.
R
opes of burgundy pepperoni, oregano, and marjoram-spiced sausage hang from steel racks attached to the ceiling. Chattering and ringing bells from archaic cash registers happen to drown out the conversation of two important men who are discussing weighty and clandestine matters.
“How the Royals gonna do this year?” a tall man asks his fat boss.
“First of all, they need some real pitchers, that's the first fuckin' thing,” Jimmy says. His voice is rough. “A closer. Somebody who can get some saves under his belt.”
He points to a wheel of aged ivory-yellow Parmesan and the clerk quickly cuts off about a pound and weighs it: It's one-point-one pounds.
“Yea, but they don't have any power hitters either,” the tall man says.
“Well, yea, but that comes second. You don't give up ten hits a game and expect to win.”
They walk along the long glass case inspecting the day's meats and cheeses.
“Well, to be honest, Jimmy, the franchise has gone downhill ever since the eight-six season, after they got Bo Jackson.”
“Yea, honey, what else can I get you?” a young butcher asks an elderly Italian donna, who requests an extra slice of shaved ham to get her purchase right at one and a half pounds.
“What?! Are you fucking kidding me?” Jimmy is irate and his hand motions suggest that as they jut back and forth. “Bo Jackson's one of the greatest athletes to ever live.”
Herbs and cheeses emit nostalgic fragrances from behind the spotless glass case.
“Yea, butâ” The tall man doesn't quite agree.
“No, fuck that,” Jimmy says, cutting him off. “This town should be happy he ever played here.”
The deli is busy as usual. Baby boomers, with their liver spots and wrinkled faces, bark out orders to the half-dozen hurried bakers and butchers.
“This guy played two major league sports and went to the all-star games for both,” Jimmy continues.
The tall man nods in agreement, so Jimmy calms.
“But that was years ago, they need to worry about today. Fucking Martinez and Lopez aren't going to get the fucking job done. I'll tell ya that,” he concludes.
“Let me get half a pound of the kosher corned beef,” an elderly Jewish man asks, his hands quivering with old age.
“I'll tell ya what, they need another George Brett,” the tall man weighs in, causing Jimmy's eyebrows to raise.
“Look, don't get me wrong, Brett was a consistent player, but fuck him. The guy's a fucking asshole,” Jimmy exclaims. He stops strolling along the glass case and looks the tall man in the eyes. “Me and Jimmy Jr. waited after a Twins game once. And this fucking asshole comes out and doesn't sign my kid's autograph book.”
The tall man looks shocked.
“Really?” His voice is deep and steady.
“Yea. He's a prick. I seriously thought about having him kneecapped, but it was late September and the Royals were just a game and a half back.”
The tall man nods again.
“You know what I mean?” Jimmy emphasizes. “What are ya gonna do?” He throws his hands up in disgust, as they begin walking again.
“So what are you going to do about that little situation?” the tall man asks. His eyes are dark and menacing.
“You mean the one involving Cicero?” Jimmy's voice is booming, but no one is listening. They're too busy trying to order the last of the pumpernickel and humus.
“Yea. That needs to be rectified, don't you think?”
Word gets out fast in K.C. Leaks abound. The grapevine is intense. Good gossip is power; underworld gossip is omnipotent. Without Cicero's knowledge, his connects know there's a problem with the product, which means a potential problem with the return on their investment.
“Yea, that's good. And let me get two pounds of fresh mozzarella,” Jimmy tells the clerk. “First, two things,” he says to his associate as he wheezes. “One, Cicero is a man of his word and a man of loyalty. I used to run numbers with his father, for God's sake. And we did a lot more than that, believe me.”
The tall man listens closely. His face is without expression as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket.
“So if there is a problem, I know I'm going to get my money back, with interest,” Jimmy continues. Even though he owns numerous businesses, he wants his money. All his money, even money that isn't his.
Foot traffic at the deli increases. The front door swings open every few seconds, inviting chilly winds and WWII veterans and widows inside.
“And two,” he adds, “they might be expecting us to act. I would think that if I were them.” His camel hair coat hovers just above the white tile floor. “Hey, this time, just two pounds of that sausage,” Jimmy tells the butcher. “I'm trying to watch my cholesterol.”
The butcher nods and grabs about a foot of links and weighs them before wrapping the meat in wax paper and plastic.
Jimmy turns back to his associate. At that moment, his cell phone rings from his coat's inside pocket. He checks the caller ID.
“Well, well. Speak of the devil,” Jimmy says before answering the phone. “Hello, young man. How's business?”
“It's slow goin',” Cicero communicates over the phone.
“That's not good to hear,” Jimmy says. “I expect better from you.”
Cicero pauses.
“I know. I'll take care of it,” Cicero tells him.
“Good. See that you do.” And Jimmy closes the flip phone, ending their discussion.
Then he looks up at the tall man.
“Look, we'll give them some time, a couple months. See if they get their act together. I don't want to act impulsively. You know I never have. Learned that from my father.”
He willfully stares into the tall man's dark eyes.
“Nothing happens unless I say so. You understand?”
The tall man cherishes his role of enforcer. Cicero could identify him as having antisocial personality disorder, making him cruel and violent, without the baggage of guilt or remorse. But today, he's caged.
“Understood,” he assures his obese boss.
He then glides out of the deli, past old men and women, with restrained intentions in his heart.
“Okay, Johnny, what do I owe you?” Jimmy asks the butcher while fingering through a five-inch stack of twenties and fifties.
S
unday afternoon, mammoth forty-eight-inch tires harass the pavement as Cicero cruises north down Wornall Road in Kam's shiny black flatbed truck. The new four-door model's interior is luxuriously fitted with all the bells and whistles including a navigation system, a DVD player, and five flat-screen televisions.
Cicero takes a sip of cognac and looks around the cabin. His own SUV is still in the shop. Cicero and his like aren't going to drive their vehicles unless everything is perfect. Even after driving Kam's truck for a week, he still hasn't gotten used to it.
“Damn. Kam, do you have enough shit in here?” he thinks out loud. Children of nothing often overdo it when they're finally able to. Subtlety is not in their repertoire.
Plush trees obscure homes of five-thousand square feet and up. Cicero passes estate sales and mini-vans en route to a meeting with Olivia in one of Kansas City's most affluent areas. It is an area of inheritances and judo-trained butlers, where power of attorney is the ultimate power.
Scattered clouds slowly pass overhead as thoughts race through Cicero's mind. Hip-hop knocks through Kam's tremendous twenty-speaker sound system.
As Cicero contemplates why people do stupid shit, a soccer mom darts in front of him, nearly causing him to rear-end her Swiss-made station wagon. She's late for her daughter's recital, and the au pair is off today so no one was there to remind her. Cicero slams the brake.
“Stupid-ass bitch,” he mumbles to himself. His words defy his usually laid-back persona.
Geese fly above in a checkmark formation, headed for their winter sabbaticals.
Cicero passes a woman in her mid-thirties jogging behind her red Irish setter. Five-thousand-dollar obedience school offsets the need for a leash. It better had.
He makes a left into the large crescent-moon gravel drive, eyeing families of four and couples out on first dates. His drink waxes to the left in the red plastic cup.
After parking he steps out of the truck and glances at those in the park. Frisbees whiz through the air while golden retrievers snag sticks and receive congratulations from their well-off owners. These seventy-four acres of trees and rolling hills have seen decades of visits from the upper echelon.
And there on a wood and black iron bench, those dark curly tresses flow with the occasional light gale. Her tan suede jacket stops just before her touchable hips begin to protrude through her snug low-rise blue jeans.
Cicero strolls toward her sipping his cognac, past an intimate red-wine and Gouda-cheese lesbian picnic and a huge French poodle taking a crap. His all-black Italian suit looks somewhat odd in a city park full of fleece and denim.
Olivia sees him and looks up. Her beauty is astounding, but she has become the epitome of sadness, and she exudes it.
Cicero takes a seat next to her, his ebony loafers narrowly missing some kid's chewed bubble gum.
“What's on your mind, O?” he asks before taking a swig of his cognac. She sent him an urgent text message, so he responds with promptness.
“I've been thinking. I, I can't do this anymore. I can't work for you anymore.”
Her eyes are in their perpetual state of red swollenness. Olivia has endured much in her young life.
Just two years ago, shortly after she found out her positive HIV status, both her parents died in a disastrous car accident. While pursuing some teenagers in a stolen car across the state line into Kansas, the KCPD slammed into her parents' Ford head-on. Her mother, riding in the passenger seat, wasn't wearing her seatbelt and was decapitated as she flew through the windshield. Her head was found some twenty yards away. The first emergency workers on the scene said she was smiling.
The force of the crash turned the steering wheel into a deadly scalpel and it peeled her father's face like a ripe banana, leaving the space a blank bloody mess resembling a real-life Picasso.
Cicero ponders her words. He looks out over the pond in front of them as two birds fight over a piece of bread.
“You know, Olivia, life is crazy. I've seen the worst of it from as far back as I can remember.” The smell of pine fills his nostrils. Olivia's eyes are down as she rubs her manicured nails together.
“And as far back as I can remember, I've kept everything inside. Mostly because real men don't discuss their pain, you know how it is. That's a sign of weakness.” He looks over at Olivia. “But I know that pain has festered there. It has grown into this cancer, this disease that lives in me. That's real.”
Olivia looks up at him.
“And you know what? I tried to pray about it,” Cicero says, then sips his drink. Olivia's eyes squint. She's never once heard Cicero say he prayed, or had any belief in a higher power.
“I used to,” he continues, talking with pronounced hand gestures. “It wasn't often, not often at all, for real. After my father was murdered, I just lost faith. I mean, I was an altar boy and everything, did you know that?”
Olivia shakes her head no.
“I was. Yep. I was, I guess, eight when my best friend Gary drowned right in front of me, and about a year later I saw my next-door neighbor murder his cousin, then blow his own brains out.” He laughs. “I've seen some fucked-up shit.”
Olivia looks a bit relieved, as if Cicero's misery has helped to alleviate her own. Symbolic notations on plaques along the southwestern edge of the park mark the Battle of Westport, where armies clashed and lives were lost.
“You know, I wish there was no such thing as murder, or crime or drugs. I really do. But one day when I was about sixteen, I found myself getting on my knees to say my prayers, and something just clicked inside.”
“And what was that?” Olivia asks.
“I just thought, âWhat the fuck am I doing?' This is the real world where real bullets fly and good people get turned into a buffet for fuckin' roaches and maggots. And I realized that I could step one foot outside my house and get plowed down at any moment. Just like that.”
“But it doesn't have to be that way.”
“Yea, but that shit happens every day, so why couldn't it happen to me? It's Murphy's law. I mean really, look at what happened to you.”
Olivia appears uncomfortable and she squirms.
“So fuck it. That's why I do what I do.”
The chilly winter prevents the four-thousand seedlings in the park's rose garden from breathing new life. Cicero and Olivia's conversation echoes off the circular stone-quarried courtyard, which has been host to hundreds of weddings and joyous celebrations over the years.
“You were innocent enough, not conniving or corrupt, you know,” Cicero comments, then takes a swig of his aged brown. “But look at your predicament. I feel sorry for you. I really do care about you, Olivia. You're like my little sister.”
He pauses. A new pair of New Balance sneakers pedals by on a mountain bike, followed by a smaller pair of New Balances on a smaller bike of the same color. The blond youngster giggles as he tries to keep pace with his father.
Cicero lets the twosome proceed past him and Olivia, then he continues.
“I'm sure the money I pay you has allowed you and your grandmother at least some peace of mind. I don't think you're worried about where your next meal is coming from, right?”
Olivia shakes her head no.
“It's wrong, Cicero. I was raised in the church, and so were you. We can't go on living like this. It ain't right.”
Olivia looks up and notices a large canary-yellow dragonfly-shaped kite soaring in the cool blue sky above. The kite's handler makes it dance and barrel roll first to the right, then counterclockwise. Twin red tails stream behind the artificial odonate.
She goes on.
“If you believe there's an afterlifeâ”
“I don't,” Cicero interjects. A light breeze flows through the budding trees.
“Well, I believe in heaven and hell,” Olivia tells him as she looks Cicero in the eyes. “And when I die, I want to go to heaven. Call me stupid or naïve, but I do.”
There's a long pause. She wipes her face in frustration. Cicero takes a sip from his red cup. An elderly man wearing a blue baseball cap strolls before them and tosses some breadcrumbs on the sidewalk. Since the late 1950s, his tattered vest has concealed tons of shredded Wonder bread.
Cicero stands and looks over at Olivia, who has buried her face in her hands.
“Well, I need you, and your grandmother needs you.”
She exhales as Cicero finishes off the rest of his cognac.
“And don't worry about it. If your Bible is right, then your God will forgive you.”
And he leaves, walking through the murder of birds that part and scatter as the old man tries to offer them more of his pocketed fare.
Olivia sits motionless, staring at the stationary water. A fountain bubbles inside a large veranda nearby.
She eyes the ducks in the pond, majestic above the water, and kicking like hell below. The New Balanced pair has cleared the circumference of the park, and Olivia decides it's time to go. She stands and then traverses a short narrow-planked bridge that arches over a runoff of the pond surrounded by lily pads and ferns.
She looks back over her shoulder at the family of ducks treading water, and she smiles.