The Tragic Flaw (20 page)

“Man, I was the one supposed to be fighting tonight,” Fry jokes.

Once outside, Cicero sees his friend Cecil from college in his spotless Lincoln Town Car.

“Get in, dude!” Cecil yells from the driver's seat. Fry opens the back door and Cicero hops in as tires screech and the two are in the wind like tumbleweeds.

Back inside the club, one of John's lady friends grabs a towel and holds it to the back of his head.

“Somebody call an ambulance!” she screams. The bathroom resembles a brutal murder scene, which it could have been.

Lucia, seeing John is still alive, coolly makes her way to the back of the club and slips out a back door. She runs down an alley to her car, and calls Cicero on his cell phone.

“Yea.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm cool.”

“Where you headed?”

“I don't know.”

“Okay, well, what should I do?”

Cicero thinks for a minute.

“Just go home. I don't think he'll be bothering you anymore.”

“Okay. Call me when you get somewhere.”

“All right.”

“Bye, baby brother.”

“Okay, bye.”

And he hangs up.

“Man, I was just about to park,” Cecil yells to the backseat. “There was tight bitches in there.”

Cicero laughs. “My bad.”

“It's all good, fuck it,” Cecil states. “I guess I just have to fuck my baby's mother again.”

The two laugh as they run red lights on their way back to the hood. Cicero, full of adrenaline and liquor, glances down and realizes he only has on one shoe.

“Fuck. Ain't that a bitch.”

“What?”

“Man, I lost my shoe in the club.”

Cecil laughs.

“Fuck it. At least you ain't a blood donor right now like ya boy.”

“Yea, you got that right.”

At that moment Cicero's text message communicator vibrates on his hip. Somehow it wasn't destroyed in the altercation, so he opens the silver box and checks the message. It's from Olivia.

“HEY, WUT'S GOIN ON??? I HEARD BOUT WUT HPND. U OK??”

News travels fast and Cicero smiles. He loves how the people he shits on care so much about him.

“I'm okay. Will hit u back later. Stay safe,” he replies to her.

“U 2. Lata,” she texts him.

Cecil's Lincoln cuts corners and Cicero closes his communicator as his thoughts turn to Brad, hoping he's on top of their drug venture. They pass by a rundown factory and Cicero asks Cecil to pull around back. The car enters the pitch-black alleyway and Cicero eyes a forest-green dumpster.

“Yea, pull up to that dumpster.” He then jumps out the car into the frigid air and removes his shoe, socks, pants, suit jacket, and shirt, and throws it all in.

He comes back to the car with his cell phone and text messenger in hand wearing only boxers and a wife beater.

“Okay, let's go,” Cicero says.

Cecil just shakes his head and chuckles as his car's rims rotate expeditiously, leaving black burnt rubber on the asphalt.

“Hey, man, you can take me in the morning to pick up my car?” Cicero asks, feeling funny in his underwear.

“Yea, I got you.”

“Cool. After that I'll take you to Niece's for breakfast. Get you some pancakes. Cool?”

Cecil laughs.

“Cool.”

 

Later that night, after Charlie's has emptied out and Cicero is safely tucked in his bed, flight ensues through billowy evening clouds. It is intense and invigorating. The aviator joyously soars above the treeline without the aid of propellers or jet fuel.

His hands reach toward the icy rings of Saturn, as well as her moons Mimas and Dione. He sails through the indigo firmament. He is the envy of falcons.

This man in flight is Cicero, and he flies under the light of a full moon in a late-night dream. His black cotton T-shirt and white boxers blow in the breeze of atmospheric travel.

This dream is not new; he's had it many times. But his liftoff soon takes a harrowing turn when he hears howling close behind him. To his chagrin, three wolves are also in flight, and they pursue him with salivating mouths.

“Shit,” Cicero says.

He dives at the speed of sound toward the Earth, yet the fanged marauders continue to gain on his position. Cicero's heart begins to race while he glides under power lines in this mountainous rural area.

The red sands of the desert are strangely foreboding as the wolves get within mere feet of Cicero's flesh. They eagerly wish to sample it.

Stars blink in the distance. He slides between cardinal red barns and silvery silos, but he can't shake the hairy dark-gray carnivores. In desperation, he decides to stand and fight, so he lands on the rooftop of an abandoned farmhouse. Acres of dead corn stalks wilt on the land.

He stands unscathed on the roof as he turns to face the predators, but they are gone. The night is silent and empty. Cicero glances to his left, then back to his right, when he notices food has appeared on a candlelit table for two.

He steps closer to the rooftop dinette as two opposing meals rest on gold leaf plates. Cicero inspects the fare. On the plate closest to him is a ripe Bartlett pear. But on the other saucer is a medium-rare filet mignon, plump and juicy.

Never one to pass up fine provisions, not even in a dream, Cicero moves to the other side of the table, where he takes a knife and fork in hand. He slices the succulent cutlet and proceeds to partake, but just before his tongue can taste the meat, he sees it has become infested with squirming maggots.

Startled, he drops the fork and knife and the wolves suddenly reappear, surrounding him. They stare at him with piercing yellow eyes.

Cicero tries to flee with outstretched arms, but his power of flight has vanished.
Canis lupis
drool as they advance on him and sink their teeth into Cicero's muscular legs and back. He screams, and there is a shrill ringing in his ears. The carnivores gorge themselves on his body as blood spews.

The ringing in his ears intensifies and he screams again upon waking up, alone in his bedroom, drenched in sweat. The ringing telephone is loud and lucid.

A bare-chested Cicero sits up in his bed.

“Fuck,” he murmurs in a low voice.

Sweat rolls off his torso onto the black silk sheets. Yet another nightmare has disturbed his slumber, and the phone at his bedside continues to ring. Cicero gazes up at the large wall-mounted clock. It's 4:00 a.m.

Cicero reaches over and grabs the phone.

“Hello.”

“You know a Bradley Micheaux?”

“Who is this?”

“He's gonna skip town with your money.” Then the caller hangs up.

Cicero, left holding a dead phone, is without a clue as to who was on the other end. He returns the sleek black cordless phone back to its base and reclines in his king-sized bed.

He lies down and shuts his eyes. Cicero ponders the meaning of his dream, and the subsequent phone call. As he begins to doze off, he hopes peaceful sleep will come. He hopes…peaceful sleep…will eventually come.

T
he solstice bids farewell and the equinox comes to pass. Life explodes with vibrancy, then diminishes as the Earth tilts on its axis.

Bradley Micheaux has been cranking out product by the boatload all summer long. It's gaining an intensely loyal fan base on the underground rave scene. Money is rolling in, but dissension is afoot. As the season of winter comes forth, so does discontent. A few months after that anonymous late-night phone call, a newly resolved Cicero has fresh insight.

“That's real, man. The truth always comes to light,” Cicero tells Kam as they sit in a noisy restaurant. “Yea, man, turns out punk-ass Brad is planning to get low with the dope,” Cicero continues. “Like, fuck us.”

“Man, how you know?”

“Remember that white bitch I was fuckin' wit?”

“Yea, the little thick one.”

“Yea, she knows his boys Collin and J.L., and they been runnin' they mouths and shit.”

“You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me, dog?” Kam says in his deep voice. “C, don't fuckin' play, man.”

Cicero just stares at him. His expensive lime-green Australian-made sweater hangs a bit loose on him. Nonetheless, it coordinates perfectly with his lime-green ostrich boots.

“So this mothafucka is just gonna bounce?” Kam rhetorically inquires, wearing a sky-blue sweatsuit. “Okay, I'm going to twist his roof off. Fuck that. We still got about eight-hundred-thousand dollars to pay Jimmy back.”

Kam hides his eyes behind light-blue rimless Gucci sunglasses, and he is so gung-ho it causes Cicero to chuckle.

“Hold on, man.”

“Naw, dude, fuck that.”

Vibrations on Cicero's hip make him pause and he checks his text message communicator. The message reads: “Where's da restaurant?”

He quickly types in: “On the corner. Forty-Seventh.”

He places the device back on his hip and looks back up at Kam.

“No, seriously, I got more bad news.”

“Dude, don't spoil my appetite,” Kam says, but Cicero goes on as the lunchtime crowd picks up and the volume in the quirky restaurant increases.

“You remember when we met Jimmy at his spot?”

“Yea,” Kam replies, his teeth glitter and sparkle.

“Well, you remember that cat that was with Jimmy and ya boy, Petey Pete?”

Kam holds back a laugh, at the same time bracing for the worst.

“Fuck. Yea, I remember him.”

“Well, he was a fed.”

“Fuck,” Kam grumbles. A group of older businessmen in suits glance over at him, offended by his midday language, but Kameron ignores them.

“Yea, I know. My plug over at the FBI just told me that shit today. You know ole girl with the short hair that used to hang with my sister?”

“Yea, I remember her, but fuck that. That doesn't help us now,” Kam says sarcastically. His white-and-sky-blue sneakers begin to tap the hardwood floor in a now irritated state.

“I feel you,” Cicero tells him. “So check it out,” he says, leaning slightly toward Kam and lowering his voice. “I'm gonna bounce for about a week or two to lay low and figure out my next move.”

Kam is without words as he fiddles with his place setting and spoon.

“Man, I suggest you do the same,” adds Cicero, leaning back and raising his voice back to normal. “That's real talk.”

“Shit. You think Jimmy knows dude is a fed?”

“Man, I don't know. I'm not about to call him and tell him,” Cicero grins. “Fuck that. Our phones probably got more bugs than the projects.”

Kam just frowns and shakes his head.

“Man, I ain't goin' nowhere, cuz,” Kam asserts. “Shit, where would I go?”

Cicero just stares at him as he places his hand in his slacks' pocket and impatiently jiggles his car keys.

“Man, I'm out here funkin' with dagos, and duckin' and dodgin' the feds? Fuck that,” Kam continues. “Man, I'm down to grind for mine! These mothafuckas act like we don't lay bodies out. Like we ain't 'bout that drama. Man, I've been known to dish out toe tags. It's whatever!”

Kam angrily throws his hands up, ready to accept all comers. His chest heaves as adrenaline begins to flow in his arteries.

At that moment, a perky young waitress walks up. Kam and Cicero immediately notice the top button on her white blouse is open, exposing ample cleavage. They both get in quick glances before she can get a word out. The move relieves some tension at their table.

“Can I take your order?” she asks in a sweet tone.

Kam, now calm, picks up the menu and looks at it for the first time.

“Yea, let me have the smothered grilled chicken sandwich with everything on it,” Kam requests.

“Mushrooms, onions, and cheddar cheese?” asks the waitress.

“Yea. That's everything, ain't it?” Kam bitingly responds.

“Yes. I was just checking, a lot of people don't like the mushrooms,” she answers. “You want fries with that?”

“Yea.”

“And what can I get you to drink?”

“Let me get the house stout.”

“Okay, great,” the waitress says, penciling shorthand onto a tattered notepad. “And for you?” she asks, looking at Cicero and smiling.

“Yea, I'll have the Caesar salad.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes.”

“And to drink?”

“Water.”

“Okay. I'll bring your drinks right out,” the waitress says before walking off to the bar.

Kam looks pissed.

“A Caesar salad? You fag,” he tells Cicero.

“Man, I need to eat healthier,” Cicero explains. “Don't you know obesity is an epidemic?”

Unimpressed, Kam continues to press the issue.

“Water? Fuck, man, at least get a beer,” Kam pokes.

“Man, fuck you,” Cicero says leaning back, getting upset. “Don't worry about what I order, asshole. How 'bout that?”

“Fuck you!” Kam fires back, yelling and leaning forward.

Then they both stare at each other with intense eyes, both appearing seriously agitated. Several customers gaze at them as they lock eyes. The stress of their lifestyle has caught up to them, and Cicero's fingers begin to tap the white tablecloth while Kam's left foot speeds its non-stop tapping.

Then suddenly, Cicero smiles. Not that he's weaker, but he's more cognizant. He knows if they get into a fight on the Plaza, the police will be there in a flash, and will quickly take them to jail and begin looking up records and other things that don't need to be looked into.

“Dude, you need to calm the fuck down,” he tells Kam. “For real.”

Kam's face lightens. While they've never had a fight, this isn't the first stand-off they've had. And Cicero always seems to have the cooler head to end it, so Kam relents.

“Yea, you right,” Kam says, relaxing and calming his busy foot. “Man, I've just been real fuckin' edgy lately.”

“Getting shot tends to do that,” Cicero weighs in. Foot traffic in oxfords and low pumps skirts past them in a rush, but they sit patiently in the restaurant with a functioning model train making rounds along the ceiling. They don't have jobs, so they sit.

“I know, man. And this new shit doesn't help,” Kam insists.

Other oddities hang from the ceiling, such as brassieres and football jerseys, and French advertisements from the thirties and forties. Dames in yellow ankle-length dresses and pearls cling to bubbling beverages as they prance. Their smiles, dipped in bright red lipstick, are wide and stretching.

The waitress then returns with their drinks as firm legs sexily enter the restaurant's foyer, extending from underneath a snug black miniskirt.

Lana walks in with a bag of hot goods, and her striking looks attract stares from men and women. Her plump ass pokes out of her skintight black dress like a giant bee sting.

Cicero sits facing the door as always, something his father taught him, and he stares at her.

“Damn,” he mumbles.

Kam turns his head in interest and his face wrenches.

“Shit,” Kam mutters. Princess cuts on his sport watch reflect light from the restaurant's halogen bulbs.

Lana strides in and all eyes are on her and her skin tone, which is the equivalent of a steaming café latte. The conservatively dressed businesswomen are put to shame by her young fine body and garish confidence. Her auburn hair is untamed and wild. She is a caramel delicacy.

“I got that watch you wanted,” she says as she smoothly slides into the cushy booth next to Kam, forcing him to slide over.

Lana has delivered on everything Cicero and Kam have asked for, and today she brings the crème de la crème: a Patek Philippe timepiece encrusted in nearly two hundred diamonds.

“Why you lookin' like a supermodel?” Kam asks Lana, flashing his oral baguettes.

Lana has an incredulous look on her clear skin. Her green eyes are stunning.

“Are you kidding me? This is the Plaza,” she responds. “You have to look like you have money or they will follow your ass all around the store.”

A five-carat tennis bracelet shimmers on her tiny wrist.

Cicero laughs.

“Hell, you give them a reason to follow you around,” he says.

They all chuckle.

“I know,” the five-foot-three Lana replies, grinning, realizing the hypocrisy of her complaint. Her teeth are spectacularly white and straight.

She then reaches into her forest-green shopping bag and pulls out a maroon cube. She opens the box and all the light in the room is immediately drawn to the amazing platinum wristwatch. It causes Cicero to squint. The time tracker is completely smothered in diamonds and sapphires from end to end.

“Damn,” Kameron says in a drawn-out low voice. “That's a nice-ass watch.”

Lana holds it close to the table so not to attract too much attention. Cicero just stares at it with a sly grin.

“Look at the price tag,” Lana instructs.

Kam reaches into the box and flips the small white tag over and sees two hundred thousand and some change. But he remains calm.

“Yea, that's definitely a nice-ass watch,” he repeats in the understatement of the day. “I can only imagine what you did to get that joint.”

Lana glances at him and smirks.

“Whatever,” she says playfully.

Twenty-eight baguette diamonds hold down the face, along with eight sapphires the shape of spheres and three shaped like rectangles. The bracelet is set with one hundred and sixty-seven diamonds running the entire length.

Cicero ogles the perfection of the timepiece; its craftsmanship. He's awestruck. Another ninety diamonds somehow found room around the bezel. It's breathtaking.

“Yea, ole boy at the store said it's resistant to humidity, dust, and up to one hundred meters of water,” Lana explains. “Something like that.”

Cicero notices how the bezel is neither square nor circular. Rather, it resembles a ship's porthole.

“I can give you fifty later today, then fifty next week,” Cicero says. “Cool?”

“That's cool,” Lana says as she hands it to him under the table. Cicero tosses the watch back in the box and places the box in the forest-green bag.

“Damn, man, is time that important to you?” Kam asks with a chuckle.

Cicero thinks about his question for a moment, then answers, “Yea. Yea, I guess it is. You only here once, Kam. And after this, there's nothin' else, so every minute counts.”

Kam shrugs off Cicero's comment and sneaks a peek at Lana's cleavage. Feeling Kam's eyes on her, Lana turns away from him in the booth.

“So did you guys order?” asks Lana.

“Yep,” replies Kam. “Why? You gonna have a meal with ya boy?”

Lana looks at Kam and frowns.

“Naw, I got some shit to do,” she states.

Cicero laughs.

“You mean you got some shit to steal,” he says to her, mockingly.

Lana's full lips curl and she looks slightly offended.

“No. Actually I'm meeting my cousin,” she states.

Their hurried waitress seems frazzled in the lunchtime rush as she stops near the corner of their table.

“Sorry, guys. Your meals are coming right up,” she tells them. “Ma'am, can I get you something?”

“No, thank you,” Lana says. “I'm not staying.”

“Okay, your food will be right up,” echoes the waitress, then she scurries off in comfortable rubber-soled shoes and black loose-fitting pants.

“Damn, I need to call my mom,” Cicero says out of nowhere.