The Tragic Flaw (18 page)

“Holy shit! Were you in a sky diving accident?” Collin says before rolling about in the backseat, laughing his ass off.

Brad looks away and cracks a small smile. The battered J.L. is unamused.

Still laughing it up, Collin adds, “Dude, you look like a big bag of smashed scrotums!” He giggles extremely loud, nearly losing his breath.

“Are you done, fuck face?” Jack Lee asks. “I might not look like this if you would have been around to help. Fucking prick.”

“I'm sorry, dude. But I was conducting very important research,” Collin weighs in, making his voice sound like a collegiate professor's.

“Yea, so how did it go?” Bradley asks.

“Hell, just look at me. I feel greeeat,” Collin proclaims, swinging his right arm, sounding like that cartoon tiger. Serotonin swamps his brain.

“And it's not like X. It's a more focused high,” he adds before leaning forward between the front seats and whispering. “And I'm not hot or dehydrated at all. And I'm not grinding my teeth. That shit is annoying as shit.”

“Good,” Brad responds, nodding his head with an intense stare. “Good. Let's go.”

Rain pounds KC as the BMW's foreign tires cut corners and make headway back to Brad's lab. Driving like a man with much on his mind, Bradley has ignored an ailing J.L. in his passenger seat until a crocked Collin speaks up.

“Uh, J.L., do you want to go to a hospital or something? You look like pure D shit.”

“Man, yea, I can take you by Jackson County General,” Bradley offers.

J.L., holding a dirty towel to his bleeding forehead, raises an eyebrow and simply stares at Brad.

“Are you kidding me? I heard some doctor there cut this dude's nuts off, and he was only there for a flu shot.”

“Ouch,” Collin says, grabbing his crotch.

“Fuck that, just take me home,” concludes Jack Lee.

Brad agrees and the tires spin on the wet asphalt.

As the triad cruises in the rain through the urban landscape of neglected tenements and hourly motel rooms, Collin is on cloud nine.

“Man, I am so ripped. I'm fucking weightless,” Collin boasts of the drug stimulating his gray matter. His eyelids are heavy as he reclines in the backseat. “I'm so in touch with reality, I think I can literally taste life.”

“Oh yea?” J.L. asks. “What's it taste like?”

Collin thinks for second, smacking his lips together. “You ever been punched in the mouth? Well, it tastes like that mixture of blood and spit. J.L., that taste should be pretty fresh in your mouth.”

“Fuck you, ass wipe,” J.L. retorts.

“Yea. Kinda like that, and soy sauce,” adds Collin.

“You're an idiot,” J.L. states, nursing a laceration above his eye.

But Bradley is silent, absorbing Collin's every word, every gesture.

“Dude, you need to put this stuff on the market, like, today,” Collin asserts.

Brad laughs.

“You think so?” he asks, concentrating on the road.

“Hell, yea,” Collin replies. “I don't know what the fuck you're waiting for.”

Then a light bulb comes on.

“Man, you should just let me and J.L. push this shit for you. You don't need C and his boy.”

“Are you fucking crazy?” Brad calmly asks. “For one, C is my boy. For two, I'm not trying to get killed.”

“That's cool,” Collin says excitedly, really not feeling him. “Fuck it, bounce. Leave the city. We can handle shit here and you can get shit moving in another state. Fuck it, overseas! Dude, I got some friends in Germany, and a fuckin' cousin in Brazil.”

Brad's facial expression changes to one of contemplation. Damn, he never thought about that. Why not cut Cicero and Kam and Jimmy out of the loop? This drug would speak for itself. Word of mouth. He could be filthy rich without their help. What help would they really provide anyway?

Bavarian Motor Works passes a huge fountain of chiseled mariners riding horseback, facing all points of the compass. Tridents are at the ready, water spews from the mouths of their steeds, which are submerged in several feet of fluid being splashed by the night's raindrops.

“Man, I think Collin might be right,” Jack Lee weighs in. “I know C is your friend, but fuck that. This is business.”

Brad ponders the situation. He's already into Jimmy for two and a half million, and now he's borrowed another seven hundred and fifty thousand from Pendergast. Since Cicero would have to deal with Jimmy, Brad figures he can just pay Pendergast back and be out in time to catch
Carnival
in Rio.

“You guys are fucking retarded,” Bradley says in his Southern Louisiana accent. “Let's get some breakfast. Cool?”

“Yea, that's cool,” J.L. says.

“Word. I'm not even hungry, but I know that shit is going to taste good as hell,” Collin declares. “I want some Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, and a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with hot fudge.”

“Would you please shut the fuck up!” J.L. screams. “You're making my headache hurt.”

Black tires slosh over wet asphalt as roots of deception begin to grow and take hold in Bradley's mind.

 

Later that night, a twenty-one-year-old blonde and her twenty-year-old brunette friend would die in a head-on collision driving home from club Xcess. Going more than one hundred miles per hour in a Ford Mustang, the girls thought they were on a magic carpet ride. Strangely, even the dashboard crushing them felt good. The coeds were so badly mangled they would have to be identified by their dental records.

T
win crowned maidens of the same royal bloodline face opposite directions while one lies upon the other. Together, they present a formidable front. It is the month of Julius Caesar, and he who controls their destiny chooses to sever the maidens' alliance, to the bewilderment of those in his company.

“I know this mothafucka is not about to split two queens,” Cicero says from the end of the blackjack table. The décor of the casino is crude and tacky. The floor is smoky and filled with the usual degenerates and compulsive gamblers.

“The gentleman has twenty showing,” the dealer instructs. “Sir, are you sure you want to split a twenty?”

In 1994, Kansas City's mafia families finally got what they wanted: Casinos. Five of them. No longer would they have to deal with the bureaucracy that Vegas had become. That desert pain in the ass could become a long-lost memory.

Since the year riverboat gambling graced the shores of the Missouri River, the number of households filing for bankruptcy quadrupled in the tiny midwestern market. After losing their cars and houses and family heirlooms, many gamblers simply stopped going. As a result, the area couldn't support five casinos and years later, only four remain.

“Yea, I'm sure. Split 'em,” the gambler says, smoking on a square and sipping a rum and Coke.

Over fifty of Missouri's loosest slot machines line the vast and dense one-level playing area. Pink neon flamingoes jeeringly mock those seriously betting their lives away.

Cicero just shakes his head. He is a regular customer. He frequents all four of the boats, sometimes out of boredom, sometimes to win. Tonight he's in his usual spot at the Isle of Capri: the first seat on the dealer's left, where the initial cards of each hand will be dealt.

“I can't believe this shit,” Cicero says. His pin-striped navy-blue three-button suit is flawless. And he's not alone in his discontent. Cicero has a seventeen, and the dealer has five showing.

The first card to the queen splitter is a three, and he waves the dealer off.

“Oh, come on,” someone's grandmother whines. Her chain smoking has annoyed the hell out of Cicero all night. But she plays by the rules, and by sticking to the script, she's helped Cicero win two thousand dollars.

The dealer hits the other queen. It's a four.

“The gentleman has fourteen showing,” the dealer states. “Would the gentleman like another hit?”

The non-gambler once again waves the dealer off.

“This is some for real bullshit,” Cicero proclaims.

“Tell me about it,” the guy next to him jumps in.

“Yea, hit me,” the next man says. He's malnourished with a bushy, dirty mustache. The dealer issues him a nine, putting his total at twenty-six. Bust.

“Fuck me,” he yells out, disgusted. “That was my four.” Normally he wouldn't have taken a hit, but the genius before him broke every rule in the blackjack handbook. He had no choice.

The dealer continues dishing out cards to the packed table until he returns to himself. Bells ring and coins crash into metal trays. Cigarette butts litter the ornately patterned pink, purple, and sky-blue carpet. The island theme in Missouri is sickening.

“Dealer has fifteen,” the blackjack pro states for his customers. Then a three springs from the deck. “Dealer has eighteen.”

“Fuck,” says the man after the splitter of queens. “That was my fucking four. I would have had nineteen.” He stands and leaves the table, broke and sober.

The dealer collects Cicero's one-hundred dollar black chip as well as twenty fives and fifties down the table. He looks over at the table's asshole. The poor schmuck is so clueless he has no idea five other gamblers want to stick an ice pick in his chest.

The dealer once again hands each gambler a card, face up, with his first card face down. The second card comes around and at the end of the hand Cicero has several decisions to make.

A hand and wrist wearing a fake gold watch slides over the table.

“Insurance?” the dealer asks. There are no takers, so the hand slides again back the other way. “Insurance closed.”

Cards slide under a tiny mirror fixed only for the dealer's eye. He checks it quickly, then move the cards back into standard playing position. He has a seven showing.

In front of Cicero is a sixteen. For him this is a no-brainer.

“Hit me,” he confidently tells the dealer while sipping his cognac straight.

A five plops down perfectly next to his six.

“Twenty-one! Excellent hit, sir,” the dealer congratulates.

“Good hit, man,” the guy next to him reaffirms.

Roulette wheels spin and dealers in white shirts, black vests, and bow ties monitor their tables while black orbs above monitor the dealers. ATMs shuffle fresh cash to three-and four-time losers.

Tones suddenly emanate from Cicero's waistline and it catches the dealer's attention and he pauses the game.

“Sir, no phone calls at the table,” he states.

“Yea, I know, hold my place,” Cicero replies.

He stands and ambles away from the table and checks his phone's caller ID. The number looks familiar, but he can't recall whose it is.

“Hello,” he answers. A slot machine shows three flaming sevens and the ringing and yelling cause him to strain to listen for the caller's voice.

“Hey, what's up?” a sexy voice says.

“Who is this?”

“Oh, you get big time and you don't recognize your sister's voice.” Cicero feels relieved.

“Oh. Hey, what's goin' on?” he asks. He's more curious about her call than he is about what's going on in her life.

“Not too much. I'm going out to Charlie's for a drink,” his sister answers.

“Oh yea?” he inquires.

“I sure am, and I just wanted to know if you wanted to meet me for a drink,” Lucia says in a lovely voice. She then hears the ruckus of coins and eighties music from house speakers. “Where are you?”

“The boat. Where is Charlie's?”

“On Thirty-First and Main.”

“When you goin'?”

“I'm on my way now.”

Cicero checks his stainless steel timepiece. It's 10:48 p.m.

“Yea, okay. Let me cash out and I'll meet you up there.”

“Okay, cool,” Lucia says, sounding elated. “First round on you?”

Cicero laughs.

“Yea, okay.”

“Okay, baby brother, see you up there.”

“Alright, Lucia. See ya in a few.”

They hang up and Cicero returns to his table only to find the table's fuck-up has finally left, and everyone, including the dealer, is happily relieved.

Cicero slides the dealer a fifty-dollar chip, then requests a rain check for his winnings so he isn't forced to carry nineteen-hundred dollars in chips to the cash-out window. It's a safe move.

The dealer halts the game and motions to the pit boss, who approves the transaction. Cicero waits patiently, sipping the boat's cheap cognac while the small white slip of paper is inked.

“Double zero!” a nearby dealer shouts. That tiny ecru ball at the roulette wheel has skipped the red and black and has finally found the green and white ovals. It was long overdue.

But for the lucky bastard in the tight jeans with three five-dollar chips on the double zeros and two straddling the zeros, it was worth the wait. He was down a hundred but the seven-hundred dollar payout is enough for the old timer to cash out and buy a steak dinner at the local Waffle House.

Cicero ambles over to the window surrounded by brass bars and slides the gaming receipt to the cashier, who smells of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. With a worn face and worn fingers, she speedily leafs through cash and slides it to Cicero. He rolls the money into a wad and slaps a rubber band around it.

Stepping over empty plastic cups and tubs meant for slot machine coins, he glides over to the escalator as bright lights flash and blink. The feet of the retired and those of drifters smack the carpeted floor in search of that one slot machine that's ready to hit. Fake palm trees and pink-and-blue island scenes becloud the sanity of those in search of instant riches.

Even when they win, they eventually give it right back to the boat. That's what gamblers do. They never know when to quit.

Cicero makes it outside and hands the valet his parking stub. The pimple-faced kid sprints over to the parking garage and moments later his new black Maybach appears. The insurance scam paid off, evidenced by the four plasma screens in the sun visors and headrests.

For twenty-five thousand in cash, young Jacque came through with two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars in bogus receipts for marble sculptures and original French and Italian artwork Cicero never purchased.

He hops in and notices his change from the center console is missing. Not wanting to be petty, he chalks it up and drives off on twenty-inch gold wire rims. They too were thrown in as part of his trumped-up claim with State Farm.

The nighttime air is chilly, but the cloudless sky allows every star in the galaxy to be viewed with ease from the flat plains.

Cicero cruises south in his six-thousand-pound beast, past the city's still-developing downtown. Years of town hall meetings and urban planning have produced very little inside the downtown loop, and after five p.m. the area is virtually a ghost town. On top of that, underlying racism has thwarted efforts to establish a light rail system or subway: no one wants inner-city minorities having easy access to their suburban homes. The city's growth is at a standstill, which is why those eager to succeed either skip town all together or do as Cicero does, and hustle. Even if the town has little market value to legitimate corporations, it's a huge market for Coca and Mary Jane. Always has been, always will be. Cicero always knew: while some parts of the Fountain City are good for raising a family, other parts are good for raising a drug cartel.

He coasts fast and smooth as he drives south down Highway 71 in the owner-driver version Maybach fifty seven, sipping his glove compartment-stored cognac. His new chariot will surely ruffle the feathers of the city's envious motorists. On the dark empty highway, thoughts of his father drift in and out of his head.

Slow jams disseminate from the local radio station and filter through his high-tech stereo. Cicero wonders if his father had actually accomplished anything in life. He had made a name for himself on the streets, but would Antonio be content with that?

Cicero nears his exit from Highway 71 and makes a gliding slant to the right. He makes a smooth right turn at the light and notices a family of four stranded. Steam billows from the hood of their station wagon as the father of the family tries to flag Cicero down. His assistance is much needed.

Two small children sit huddled together in the backseat as Cicero ignores the father's plea for help and continues on to the nightclub to meet Lucia. He doesn't consider stopping for one second.

The neighborhood is brimming with the aroma of marinated pork ribs as he passes one of the city's oldest barbecue restaurant chains. He's been drinking all night, and the smell has him considering stopping and ordering a slab with fries and a strawberry pop.

Nonetheless, Cicero continues to head west riding steady and sure, surrounded by soft leather and beautiful wood grain. Twin turbochargers purr as he nears the club and begins searching for a parking spot.

“Why am I here?” Cicero says to himself out loud. This is not his type of scene, not his crowd.

He parks his Maybach a safe distance from the club and once at the door of the historic brick building pays the enormous amount of twenty dollars to get in.

“Is Marvin Gaye singing here tonight?” Cicero sarcastically asks the bouncer at the door.

“Nope. You got ID?” the bouncer asks after frisking Cicero. He presents his Missouri driver's license, then steps into the club. He's immediately struck by loud R&B tunes blasting from multiple speakers. The club is crowded with hard-working blue-collar guys, a few executives, and unemployed people who look like they just got off work, including Lucia.

Guys in suits sip on beers while others in expensive sweaters pop bottles of Moët at little tables with signs on them that say RESERVED.

The mood is festive. Lovely women with red skin tones in tight jeans and tight skirts giggle at silly jokes and make eye contact with potential suitors. Several stare at Cicero and smile, which he does in return to a couple who catch his eye.

A waving hand then appears from out of the throng near the bar.

“Cicero! Cicero! Over here, boy!” Lucia yells.

Cicero sees her and makes his way over to the bar where his sister is standing with a girlfriend of hers. Dance floor lights bounce off his bald head.

He cuts through a group of chubby women chatting, then suddenly feels extreme pressure on his right foot.

“Fuck!”

“Oh, my bad, player,” a drunk guy apologizes after stepping on Cicero's loafers. His Cartier sunglasses are on the verge of falling off his face as he stumbles toward the dance floor.