The Tragic Flaw (4 page)

“Let me get dressed!” Cicero says excitedly, running off toward his room.

“And don't forget your hat and gloves,” his mother weighs in as only a mother can.

Flinging open his closet door, the skinny youngster fingers through his jackets and coats trying to find one that matches his father's the closest. In the process he passes by the trusty BB guns he uses to keep the neighborhood cats, dogs, and blue jays in check.

“No, no, no,” he says frustrated.

Then, suddenly, bingo.

“Yes,” he says, “this will work.”

It's black. It's long. It will do.

In the living room, his mother turns to Antonio. Her mind-set is written on her face.

“I'll have him back in a few hours,” Antonio says. “Don't worry about it. Just goin' to run some errands; get some lunch.”

But she has to worry. She needs to worry. Good mothers worry. Especially mothers of little boys with cutthroat fathers. Shyster fathers. Gangster fathers.

“I'm ready,” a grinning Cicero says after running into the living room. He fixes his hat upon his head and securely pulls on his gloves, then he pauses. This is the only time he can remember seeing his parents this close together.

“Good, let's go,” Antonio says as he opens the door and steps out. “See ya later, Ruth.” And just like that Cicero's moment is over. He follows his father out.

“Bye, Mom,” he yells as he slams the door shut.

Ruth stands there, staring at the closed door. She says a prayer for her son, that he will return to her safely, and that he will not follow in his father's footsteps.

The inside of his long, navy-blue Cadillac Fleetwood was always warm and welcoming. The swanky black leather interior always seemed to swallow the skinny and awkward Cicero, with the ever-present aroma of cigar smoke and cigarettes lingering.

He looks at his father from the passenger side, and notices how they have the same keen nose. The same sleepy, light-brown eyes.

Antonio noticed the same thing the day his first and only son was born. From that day on he wanted to be a father and a role model to him, but his marriage to a deeply vested Sicilian family prevented that from ever happening. His wife and two daughters needed to see him daily, his father-in-law would have it no other way. Instead, he did what he could. Dropping off cash, birthday gifts, Christmas presents. Calling now and then to say hi, or stopping by and taking his illegitimate son and daughter out for ice cream, or dinner.

Nevertheless, the absentee father knew the Romello name would die with him, and there was nothing he could do about it except ensure that the Romello fire burned inside his affair-born son. His African-American son.

 

But this day was to be different.

Ole Blue Eyes croons from a cassette in the tape deck. Cicero looks over at his dad and thinks about how his mom would have played the Staple Singers or the O'Jays. He also thinks about how his mom and dad differ so much. But he knows they both love him dearly.

To and fro windshield wipers fight off big snowflakes, preventing them from sticking. The sedan's large Vogue tires slosh through the dirty urban snowfall.

His dad sings to the music.

“I did it myyy waaay!” he belts off tune, looking over at his son, smiling.

Cicero giggles and his father laughs. His laugh is distinctive, and re-markably jolly, and Cicero couldn't help but think that his dad was cool.

Heading north through the city, from Seventy-Third Street to streets with sequentially lesser numerals, the pair pass liquor stores, homeless men and women bundled up in want of shelter, and money-hungry hustlers looking to dump their product or score some more.

They cruise north on Troost Avenue from where the poor black people live, across the railroad tracks, to where the poor white people live. Mostly old Irish families reside here, along with a few Germans, and more recently some Vietnamese and Laotian families.

Antonio makes a left on Fifth Street, near an old textiles factory, and drives five blocks to the corner where St. Vincent's stands.

The cavernous stone church is festooned on all sides by impeccable stained glass windows. Historical works of art from an era long past allow daylight to pass through vibrant indigoes and vivid scarlets. Snow lightly powders the front stairs as the elder monsignor and his hunched back assiduously sweeps it away.

An enormous mosaic of St. Vincent de Paul, patron saint of the needy, hovers above three tremendous archways and guards the sanctuary's vast vestibule. On either side of him are depictions of St. Francis Borgia and Leonard of Port Maurice, who is portrayed in a striking manner as the restorer of discipline to the holy orders in Corsica in 1744.

The cathedral and its blessed transoms mark not only a place of worship, but they also denote the edge of
Piccolo Italia
—Little Italy.

Antonio's Caddy hugs the road as it makes a gliding right turn. Cicero immediately knows where he is. Red, white, and green flags hang on the lampposts, outside of homes, and near the park and the baseball field. He had always wanted to play catch there with his dad. But he never did.

They pull in front of a deli and stop where a butcher prepares the day's much sought after
prosciutto
and
abruzzese
. Across the street is a ramshackle pool hall, also claimed as Italiano by a fluttering tri-colored crest. Riffraff, descended from Sicily, Venice, Naples, and other glorious city-states, have staggered in and out of this dive for decades.

“Wait here,” Antonio says to his son as he braces for the bitter climate, opens the car door and steps out, slamming it behind him. The wintry air quickly slips in behind him, causing Cicero to tense up and his left eye to water.

Antonio traverses the thick slush near the car, then easily crosses the cleared street and enters the pool hall. Though it's early in the day, Antonio still has business to tend to.

Cicero notices how the street is without snow. It's clean and freshly salted, completely unlike his mother's block, which would often bear snow until it melted on its own accord.

Not naïve to his father's line of work, Cicero daydreams that his well-respected father is shaking down some loan shark, or making some delinquent asshole pay up.

Suddenly, the pool hall's thin wooden door bursts open as his father, followed by two associates, drags a man out by his collar kicking and screaming. The child need not fantasize any longer.

Cicero hastily jumps into the driver's seat to get a better view. His excitement, coupled with the twenty-one-degree temperature, causes the window to instantly fog up. His gloved hand wipes it, and as plain as day, his father begins to stomp this man on the sidewalk. Repeatedly kicking him in the back, head, and face. Back, head, face, and leg. Back, head, face, and arm.

He's in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Blood spurts from his mouth. His overcoat is sullied by the snow and muck. He mumbles fragmented sentences in a futile plea for his safety. The child struggles inside the luxury sedan to decipher what's said.

“I'll pay, Tony, I swear it,” the victim screams, throwing up his left arm to protect his face.

Antonio thrusts his wingtip into the man's spine, causing him to wail. The flailing of his arms and legs creates a distressed fallen angel in the snow.

The other two men, both larger and bulkier than Antonio, look on, standing on either side of the pathetic sack of shit in the snow. The goateed pair sport dark leather jackets and slicked-back, jet-black hair. They are portly and unsympathetic. The shorter and younger of the two puffs a cigarette. He stands to the left of the prey, on whom he uncaringly flicks his ashes.

The two henchmen are present to make sure their mark doesn't escape, doesn't pull a gun or a knife, or Heaven forbid, put a whipping on the invincible Antonio.

With a forceful pounce, Antonio's heel crushes the man's jaw. The snow becomes a thick soupy, wine-red.

His victim whimpers.

“I'll have the money!” he mumbles painfully as he attempts to cover the back of his busted head with both arms. A gaping hole allows his red sauce to escape.

Antonio, now winded by his exercise and the cold air, stops his onslaught.

Breathing heavily, he warns the tardy loser, “That's right. I know you will, Gino. I know you will.”

Again, Cicero wipes the fog from the window. His eyes bulge in amazement. Falling flakes partially obscure his view, as if trying to shield him from the world of his father.

“If you don't have the money, we're going to give you some concrete knickers and toss your pathetic ass in the Missouri River, you fuck,” yells Antonio as he wipes spit from his mouth and clean-shaven jaw line. He's amped beyond belief, his heart racing. “You got that?”

He kicks him in the face one last time for good measure. The ever-weakening man squeals like an injured puppy. Five dislodged teeth, mostly incisors, bedeck the blood-spattered sidewalk.

“Hey, I'll see you guys tonight,” Antonio says calmly to his two burly watchmen as he turns to walk away. They remain silent and nod.

Gino, severely battered and hemorrhaging, is subsequently hauled down a nearby alley by the stout henchmen.

The enclosed adolescent again wipes his frosty breath from the window, and he notices his father sauntering back toward his Brougham with a vigorous swagger.

He quickly jumps back to the passenger's seat. The weather, along with what he has just witnessed, causes the thin child to shiver.

Antonio opens the heavy door and sits down. He produces a stained handkerchief from an inside pocket and thoroughly wipes his soiled shoes with it.

Cicero observes his father via peripheral vision. Antonio's wide back and shoulders inflate and swell with each heavy breath he takes as he hurriedly wipes away his stains and his sins.

“Cicero,” Antonio says as he swivels to the right, placing both feet in the car. Out of fear and out of curiosity, the young boy's eyes quickly dart to his father. He blushes from the chill.

“Son, you have one life to live,” his father says as he slams the driver's side door shut and then stares into his son's eyes. “
Uno
. And so help you God, if you come across a piece of shit that wants to complicate it, you do whatever you have to do to make sure things don't stay complicated.”

He pulls the car keys from his overcoat and inserts one into the ignition and starts it. The engine block revs.

“Whatever you have to do,” he stresses. “You understand?” His accent is thicker now, similar to how it sounded when he was a younger, more devoted madman.

Cicero nods yes without blinking.

“You
understand?
” his father asks again.

His son nods once more, faster, more emphatically.

“Good,” his father says, as he cracks a smile. Cicero's innocence delights his soul. “Always remember, you want to be the one dishin' out the kicks, not receivin' 'em. Alright?”

The child again nods.

“Good. Now, let's get outta here.”

Frosty breath fills the car. Fumes spew from the Cadillac's exhaust pipe as the father and son duo is thrust forward by the three hundred horses under the hood.

As Cicero would later learn in Psychoanalytic Theory two hundred twelve, this day would foster the development of his warped superego, and his Freudian-described identification. In essence: Oh, how he longed to be Antonio.

S
moke from a defiled cigar beclouds the front cabin of a new sports coupe. The signature aroma is that of potent, blue-green marijuana, which has replaced the tobacco once stuffed inside. The smoking passenger coughs.

“You wanna hit this?” he asks the driver. The passenger's mouth is inhabited wall-to-wall by platinum and diamonds. With every word he displays a brilliant eighty-thousand dollar smile.

“No, thanks,” Cicero responds. He's coasting steady and sure. Cognac is the only drug he needs. He looks toward his passenger, who playfully tokes his blunt and attempts to blow smoky circles. He fails miserably.

“Man, that shit smells strong. Smells kinda good, though,” Cicero states, cracking a smile. He knows such a statement will please his comrade. “Think you smoke enough of it?” Cicero jokingly asks while keeping his eyes on the road.

“Nope,” Kam slowly responds as he takes a long deep pull. His voice is Barry White deep. He coughs ferociously, pounding his chest and producing phlegm. His nose begins to run. “Not nearly enough.” His speech is early-morning slow. He coughs some more.

The silver German-built luxury car with its independent front and rear suspension slithers and snakes in and out of the slow-poke traffic. Its twenty-inch chrome rims chop the air like shiny Ginsu blades as they pass the city's disproportionately high number of Sunday drivers. Bass-filled hip-hop blazes through the premium sound system and the fifteen-inch subwoofers in the trunk.

“So where we headed?” Kam asks, as he thumps his ashes out of a tiny crack in the window. Several ambers miss their exit and fly into the backseat.

“To see Brad,” Cicero says frustratingly. It's only the third time he's told his drug-impaired passenger their destination.

“Oh yea,” recalls Kam as he takes another puff, inhaling for five seconds and holding for ten. The tetrahydrocannabinol is doing a number on his memory. His bulbous cheeks resemble those of a Canadian chipmunk in autumn.

As they drive, the homes begin to get bigger. There's noticeably less loitering and fewer panhandlers. Streets are wider. There's less litter and cars are newer.

“Man, that still trips me out. A white boy going to a black college. That's tight.”

Without warning, an elderly man in an American-made station wagon swerves in front of Cicero, nearly clipping the front end of his one hundred twenty-five thousand-dollar automobile/ chick magnet. Cicero blows his horn and contemplates letting a slug fly in a midday road rage dispute. The perpetrator, with his thick glasses, is unfazed and he continues his route. Kam is so high his face just remains blank as he begins to dig in his nose.

“What did you get your degree in, again?” Kam asks his friend, who's becoming a bit irritated. He checks his finger. Nothing. On to the other nostril.

“Psych—” Cicero starts to say but is cut off.

“Psychology, that's right,” Kam utters. His two long Pocahontas-like braids are well oiled and gleam in the sunlight of the partly cloudy day. His goatee beard is well trimmed. “Man, when you going to use that shit?” Kam asks Cicero, referring to his college education. Kam's nose exploration continues.

Unperturbed, Cicero makes a smooth left turn on Metcalf Avenue, his vehicle's independent suspension riding like a dream. His response to Kam's inquiry: “I'm an overman, baby. I use it every day.”

Kam begins to snicker and cough at the same time, producing thick phlegm. His window drops and projectile mucous takes flight.

“I heard that,” Kam says with a smile as he tosses the remainder of his blunt out the window. His gemstone-rich mouth shimmers.

The two make yet another right and drive several more blocks. Cicero then suddenly stops in front of a coffee shop that's part of a worldwide chain. They passed seven others on the way to this one. Even though at rest, Cicero's twenty-inch rims continue to spin, similar to four chrome ceiling fans.

“Hey, wait here for a minute,” Cicero tells Kam, who has finally stopped digging in his nose. He nods slightly in response.

Cicero, dressed casually in loose-fitting blue jeans, a bright yellow Australian-made sweater, and the same color alligator boots, leaves the car running, steps out, and closes the car door behind him. Cars and trucks zip by on the busy thoroughfare. He looks all around, checks his gold-trimmed, black-face timepiece, then carefully steps onto the sidewalk and into the coffee shop. In his hand is a Saks Fifth Avenue bag containing a pillow-sized package wrapped in a brown paper sack and fastened with clear tape. Less than one week after T.J.'s murder, the ever-hustling Cicero is back on the grind.

Seated comfortably on the supple gray leather upholstery, Kam grabs his two-way from his jeans' pocket, pops it open, and begins entering letters at a slug's pace. He has an austere look on his face.

After about three minutes of struggling, Kam proofreads his message, which he has chosen to type in all caps. “
I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW MY DICK IS BURNING, YOU STUPID-ASS BIIIIIIITCH
!!!!!!!” Satisfied that his point will get across, he contently hits send.

With the lunch-hour rush having passed, traffic has subsided, which is why the movement of a wide-bodied vehicle on the opposite side of the road catches Kam's attention. It's the color of rust, but without the oxidation. It's polished, new, buffed and waxed, miraculous rust. Exorbitant rust.

The modern hand-crafted English sedan comes to a silky stop adjacent to Kam's position. His view of the opulence is superb.

“Damn, that's clean,” mutters Kam who, even though he's stoned, still recognizes a piece of modern art when he sees it. His disposition and head-to-toe black ensemble makes him look like funeral material. “That's what I'm talking about.”

This mode of transport is a rare and refined gem in a sea of lusterless rhinestones, so Kam ogles it in awe. Its three hundred thousand-dollar price tag puts it far out of reach of the common laborer. Out of the imperial stagecoach steps a well-dressed, middle-aged man. His professionally styled salt-and-pepper hair budges not in the light breeze. His tailored pinstriped Armani suit fits without a flaw.

He carries with him a shiny black briefcase as he crosses the street and glides into the coffee shop.

A few moments later, the Armani-clad driver emerges with a latte in one hand and a very familiar Saks bag in the other. Grand Prix-ready, the twin-turbocharged rust-colored sedan purrs, and in a matter of seconds disappears over the suburban horizon.

Just as Kam is getting over his vehicular crush and subsequent breakup, Cicero steps out of the coffee shop with an espresso and a shiny black briefcase.

He hops back in the car and tosses the briefcase onto Kam's lap and instructs him to “count this.”

He mashes the gas pedal as Kam grabs the briefcase without hesitation, slides the two brass latches simultaneously, and begins to count the neatly wrapped bundles of cash.

After about two minutes, Kam looks to Cicero and says, “Fifty G's.”

Wednesdays are lucrative: it's the only day that Cicero moves product. And he is expressionless. The money is right and that's all that matters. Had Kam said forty, or even forty nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine, there would have been a problem. But Cicero has never had a problem like that. There's a drought on product in Kansas City, hence the thirty-five thousand-dollar profit margin. Besides, it wasn't even pure.

Suddenly, Mozart's “Concerto number five in A Major” begins to play. The violin solo is lucid and invigorating. It's a programmed personalized ring on Cicero's phone. Kam looks surprised. Cicero's other personalized tones are generally hip-hop, maybe jazz.

“It's Brad,” he says to Kam, sensing his interest.

“Hello, Bradley,” Cicero says with a grin, in his most professional voice. It sounds natural and unrehearsed. As he focuses on the road, his grin diminishes, and his language changes. “
Blanco
. Gundle is sick. Johnson had a good game, even though Sanders retired.” His smile returns and he begins to laugh, exposing his pearly whites.

“I heard that. That Orca is sick! You know we do it,” Cicero says to his colleague. Kam just sits in the passenger seat interpreting. He knows every word of this made-up patois.

“Keep it, Febreeze,” Cicero adds before hanging up. He closes his phone shut and looks over at Kam. “Yeah, I thought you knew I was a fucking Windtalker,” quips Cicero. They both laugh.

Within a few minutes and after several turns, the pair reach a secluded business compound deep in the heart of suburbia confined by a tall black iron barrier and full, lush pine trees. Cicero's ultra-sexy coupe pulls to a main gate next to an intercom and digital monitor.

“Yes, how may I assist you?” a woman's voice asks.

After turning down his thumping stereo, Cicero answers, “Good afternoon, I'm here to see Bradley Micheaux.”

“Yes, Mr. Day, he's expecting you,” the woman says as the gate silently splits down the middle and opens inward. The two enter the sprawling 175-acre campus and are engulfed in its man-made forest and emerald milieu. Its recently paved black tar drive still smells fresh. Magnolias, chrysanthemums, and azaleas line an assortment of diverging walkways and bike trails. Hand-carved wooden benches have been positioned in front of ponds for trouble-free feeding of the company's house-bred geese and mallards. Shadows pass over the company's enormous sculpture-like logo as the sun is blocked out and dark clouds begin to roll in.

“What the fuck does Brad do again?” asks Kam, who is clearly amazed by the affluence of his surroundings.

“He designs organic-based computer systems, or something like that,” Cicero answers. He's been here enough times to be unimpressed.

“Damn,” Kam says in response. They've been driving for several minutes and still have yet to reach the main building.

“Yea, he was a double major,” Cicero continues. “Chemistry and computer information systems. All A's too.”

He pauses.

“And he's from the South, a real country boy.”

Kam grins and his carats shine.

“So don't believe that bullshit about people from the South being stupid. It's just that his dad used to beat his mom's ass, you know? He went through shit just like us.”

“I feel you,” Kam says in agreement, as he once again begins digging in his nose. This time he's successful in his exploration. He slides his window down and tries to discard his finding.

“Yea, when I was in school I had a roommate from Houston who came from a similar background, and he was real smart too,” says Kam. “Yea, he was fluent in English and Spanish.”

“Oh, for real?”

“Yea, he was Mexican though,” Kam utters.

Cicero doesn't respond. Kam continues to flick his slimy trophy from his finger, but it fails to depart.

They finally reach the main building and enter a circular drive that leads them to dual towering steel doors accented by fine cherrywood. The edifice is made entirely of glass, with steel columns and accents for style. The new-age architecture is aesthetically pleasing, and its one hundred or so solar panels make it energy efficient and environmentally friendly.

After securing the fifty grand in the trunk, the two reach the massive double doors, which softly swing open. Cicero dumps his untasted coffee in a garbage receptacle. They're soon greeted by a grinning young man of Asian descent wearing small round glasses and a button-down plaid shirt.

He extends his arm and firmly shakes Cicero's hand.

“Hello, Cicero.”

“Hey, how have you been, Omar?”

“Fine. Fine,” the smiling Omar says in a strong Calcuttian accent. “Thank you for those tickets to the game. My girlfriend and I had a wonderful time.”

“No problem, Omar,” Cicero responds. “Anytime.” He turns to Kam and adds, “Omar, this is my good friend Kameron, we went to junior high and high school together.” Kameron, who is yet to rid himself of his gelled nose content, shakes Omar's hand firmly and with gusto.

“Hey, what's up, Omar? Nice to meet you.”

“Same here, Kameron,” Omar responds, realizing something is out of kilter with this handshake. He smiles, then winces.

“Brad is right this way,” says the tainted Omar. “After you.”

They enter the complex's expansive lobby where priceless statuettes abound, and pass a beautiful former model who after a rocky transition is now an okay receptionist. She smiles, as do they.

Omar, feeling something is amiss, looks at his hand and nearly barfs at the sight of another man's booger. He hastily pulls a facial tissue from the receptionist's desk and thoroughly wipes his hand.

The three men venture forward down a short flight of stairs from the mezzanine overlooking open office space chock full of computer terminals, thirty-something I.T. grads, and oddball knick-knacks and video games the employees have brought from home.

Impersonal silvers and grays cover the walls and high vaulted ceilings, but are offset by warm palm trees growing in company-mandated Feng Shui locations throughout the multiplex.