The Tragic Flaw (5 page)

Unconcerned technology whiz kids dressed in jeans or khakis, T-shirts, and sneakers carelessly loaf around, with the exception of one young man exerting more effort than all of his co-workers combined. Cicero, Kam, and Omar amble across the spongy cream-colored rubberized floor and greet the diligent, blond-haired Brad.

Hearing Kam's distinctive laughter, the clean-cut Louisiana boy saves the project he's working on to a mini diskette, and pivots from his ergonomically enhanced desk and smiles.

He stands and shakes Cicero's hand and then gives him a hug.

“How's it going, Bradley?” Cicero asks.

“Good, C. How's life treating you? Good, yeah?” Brad asks with a strong Cajun accent. His deep-blue eyes contrast stunningly with his bright-white button-down shirt.

“Hey, I can't complain,” Cicero answers.

“What's goin' on, Kameron?” Brad asks the thirty-one-year-old, who just finished laughing about what he gave Omar.

“Not too much, man,” Kameron responds. “Just holding on like a loose hubcap in the fast lane.”

“I hear ya, man,” Brad says. His rimless spectacles make him look studious, but his lean muscular frame keeps him from looking nerdy.

“You ready to get this late lunch?” Cicero asks as he checks the gold hands on his expensive watch. It's 1:30 p.m.

“Oh hell yeah, let's go, ya'll,” Brad answers as he grabs his key card and jacket. The three head back toward the lobby as Omar sits at one of the gray desks and begins typing.

“Alright then, Omar, stay easy,” Kam shouts.

“You guys have a good lunch,” Omar yells back. After they're out of hearing range he thinks about Kam's handshake and he mumbles to himself in a low breath, “Asshole.”

 

The aroma of fresh baked bread and the enticing perfume of chocolate pervade the quaint brasserie. Elegantly designed, Café Noir has been a favorite watering hole and eatery for the university-educated Brad and Cicero for quite some time. If it were up to Kameron, the group would have simply gone to one of Kansas City's many barbecue spots.

Lace curtains adorn the many windows, and a rare Pleyel grand piano crafted in mahogany and rosewood welcomes the patrons at the entrance and further establishes the Parisian atmosphere.

There are few diners, so the threesome is immediately seated at their candlelit table by the lovely hostess and they begin perusing the undemanding one-page paper menu. A Hector Berlioz aria hums in the background over the house sound system.

The
assiette de charcuterie
has received scintillating reviews, but the famished gentlemen wish to partake in more fulfilling fare so they skip the hors d'oeuvres.

“Yea, I keep hearing the beignets are really good here,” Brad says as he eyes the salade niçoise. Its fresh seared tuna, tomatoes, anchovies, and vinaigrette sound delectable, and he decides on that. Cicero chooses to go with the trout almandine sautéed with almonds, parsley, and lemon juice.

Kam, on the other hand, is undecided. He's torn between the five-ounce filet mignon smothered in a truffle red wine sauce and the
boeuf bourguignon
drizzled with a light brandy cream remoulade.

As Kam debates his choice, a waiter saunters over and asks if the gentlemen would like to view the wine list. The group declines the bistro's superior Riesling and Chardonnay and orders their meals instead. Cicero requests the establishment's finest cognac as Kam decides on the filet mignon, medium rare.

After placing their orders, Brad breaks the silence with an intriguing question: “You guys want to hear a crazy story?”

The other two nod yes and listen with piqued interest as Brad begins.

“Now I normally don't date women I work with, you know, for obvious reasons. Ya dig? But I decided to go to dinner with this young lady in our accounting department. She's smart, kinda attractive, and kind of conservative.”

Kam takes a sip of water and Cicero samples his cognac as the waiter walks away and they continue to listen.

“Anyway, we had a really good meal, even though the conversation wasn't at all stimulatin', and we head back to her apartment,” Brad explains. “Well, I was just going to drop her off and head home, so I could still catch
The O'Reilly Factor
.”

Cicero grins. Kam is at a loss. “The what?” he asks, talking slowly.

Brad ignores Kam and continues, “But when we get there, she invites me in for a coffee. I say, ‘Sure, okay.'”

“Can you please get to the point,” an impatient Kam butts in.

“I'm getting there, just hold on, Kameron,” Brad reassures him. Cicero remains silent and attentive.

“So we go in and have a seat on her divan,” Brad says. “Then the next thing I know, we're kissin' and huggin'. Just goin' at it!”

“Finally!” Kam yells, throwing his hands up.

“Yea, this is good stuff, man, and she's aggressive too,” Brad says. “So then, she grabs my hand and leads me to her
boudoir
.”

“Her what?” Kam blurts. The candle's flame flickers and bounces off one of his two-carat baguettes, lighting up the room.

“So anyway, she sits me on the bed and tells me to get undressed,” Brad continues. His Louisiana accent is thick. “And I'm like, no problem, honey. It's been a while, if you know what I mean.”

Cicero and Kam both chuckle. They don't know what he means. They're constantly fighting women off.

“While I'm unbuttoning my shirt she goes into the bathroom and comes out a few minutes later in this unbelievable ruby silk negligee,” Brad ex-plains. “Just as I'm about to pull my loafas off, she says, ‘No, leave them on.'”

Kam and Cicero look taken aback.

“Yea, now I was a little perplexed by this, because here I am in briefs and dress shoes,” Brad says.

The two-member audience laughs.

“All of a sudden, she bends over on this freaky black leather bench in the corner and tells me to kick her in the ass as hard as I can.”

The drinking Kam spits water from his mouth, dousing the table's candle.

“Are you serious?” Cicero asks in astonishment.

“What the fuck?” Kam adds.

“Yea, I couldn't believe it,” Brad responds. “This quiet, petite girl asks me to kick her in the ass with my shoes on. And I'm kind of a conservative guy, so this is simply unbelievable, man.”

At that moment the waiter returns with two piping hot plates and Brad's salad.

He immediately digs in without waiting for the freshly crushed pepper. Kam and Cicero frustratingly stare at him, eager to hear his story's dénouement.

Sensing their eyes on him, Brad looks up with a mouth full of vinaigrette-smothered tomatoes and immediately resumes his tale.

“Oh, so after I kick her in the ass like sixteen times—” Brad says before he's interrupted by Cicero's and Kam's uncontrollable laughter.

“Damn, Brad, sixteen times?” Cicero asks.

“Yea, I counted, man,” Brad answers in a staid tone. “But anyway, all of a sudden she freaks out and tells me to leave.”

His two listeners continue to laugh; Kam's nearly in tears.

“I've seen her at work once or twice since then but we don't speak to each other,” Brad says, shaking his head. Cicero takes a bite of his trout as the waiter refills their water glasses and says, “You're a wild man, Bradley.”

“Hell naw, you're a sick bastard,” Kam says and he again bursts into laughter. “But fuck it. I would have kicked her in the ass too.”

Thirsty from his laughter, Kam squeezes juice from a lemon wedge into his water and goes to take a drink when he notices something adrift in his goblet.

A winged insect, about the size of an infant girl's earring, floats lifeless in his glass.

Kam, remaining calm, gets their server's attention. The thin, middle-aged waiter leisurely strolls over from near the bar and snobbishly asks, “Yes, sir, how may I be of service?”

“Yea, there seems to be a bug or something floating in my water,” Kam states as politely as he can. “Can I please get another glass?”

The waiter laughs, and Kam is dumbfounded.

“You must be joking, sir. We don't provide
that
type of service here,” the waiter says with conviction. “You must have put something in your water.”

“What?” a flabbergasted Kam asks, struggling to suppress his anger. Brad and Cicero sit and observe the situation, listening carefully.

“Yes, what are you trying to do, get a free meal or something?” the waiter says. “Please don't force me to escort you to the door, sir.”

“That's ridiculous, man,” Brad weighs in.

“Thanks, Brad, but I got this,” Kam assures him. “Look, mothafucka, I have enough cheese to buy ten of everything on this fuckin' menu,” Kam tells the waiter, his voice now louder. “I just want another glass of water. Are you going to get it?” Kam stares at him with unflinching eyes.

The waiter shrugs and begins to walk off. Kam looks at Cicero in bewilderment. Cicero's face is blank. Brad looks uneasy.

Kam immediately leaps up from his seat and grabs the waiter by the back of his collar. Brad stands up in shock, while Cicero sits peacefully and continues to enjoy his meal.

Enraged, Kam uses his strong six-foot-two-inch frame to easily swing the feather-light waiter around, who is completely stunned, and slams his face on the group's table. Cicero grabs his snifter so his precious cognac doesn't spill. The face-to-table action makes an amazingly loud crashing sound as saucers and salad forks clatter, a glorious accompaniment to the French words being belted from above.

“
Ah! qui pourrait me résister? Suis-je pas né pour la bataille
,” the baritone resonates, as Kam slams the arrogant waiter's face into the table again and again, and then begins driving it into his plate. Truffle red wine sauce runs down his battered face. He yelps in pain.

“
Malheur à qui m'ose irriter! Malheur surtout à qui me raille
,” the words go, functioning as a score for an urban gladiator's offensive.

“How you like that, mothafucka?” a ferocious Kam yells. The restaurant's other diners watch the ensuing mêlée. Several call 9-1-1 on their digital phones.

“Please! Please, stop!” the waiter begs. He's using his arms as a buffer between him and the plates and table.

Realizing this, Kam yanks the man up and begins dragging him through the bistro toward the kitchen. Some customers, as well as employees, are horrified and run out of the restaurant.

Cicero downs the rest of his drink and drops three hundred dollars on the table to cover their meals and any inconvenience or psychological damage the afternoon beating may have caused. He and Brad then follow Kam through the kitchen and out a back door, which Kam has courteously opened with the waiter's swollen mug.

In the rear of the establishment is a repulsively filthy alley, and Kam tosses the beleaguered waiter to the pavement, face first. He hits the ground with a hard thud and begins to squirm.

“Please, sir, I apologize!” he cries. “Please, sir, I'm sorry.” His pedigree-engrained politeness and professionalism are now absolute non-factors.

Wanting to really get through to the maître d', Kam pulls a black Saturday night special from the small of his back and begins to pistol whip him.

Brad is visibly nervous. The magna cum laude grad never envisioned being an accessory to murder.

“Are you going to stop him?” he yells to Cicero. He's on the verge of panicking. Cicero is a bit more concerned now, but he doesn't intervene.

Kam grabs the man by his hair and strikes him over and over in the temple, forehead, and face. Blood squirts from his head, staining Kam's outfit and the concrete. He pummels the man until Cicero steps in and grabs his thrashing arm. He instantly stops. His face, hand, and torso are splattered with blood. Chest heaving, he looks like an animal.

“I hope you didn't have anything planned for the weekend, mothafucka!” Kam yells as he spits on his victim.

The barely breathing waiter knocks on death's door, but does not enter.

 

Back at Brad's job without further incident, booming thunder is heard and it begins to rain.

“You alright?” Cicero asks his friend. While Brad doesn't necessarily fly the straight and narrow, he has never participated in such an event or even seen someone nearly killed.

“I'm cool,” he answers. They stand under the column-support overhang avoiding the sky's moisture. Kam rests comfortably in the car on the butter-soft leather, still fuming.

After a brief moment of silence, Brad asks, “Did you take care of that?” referring to some unspoken nasty deed.

“Yea,” Cicero answers.