The Tragic Flaw (6 page)

“
You
took care of that?” Bradley asks, stressing disbelief in his friend's involvement.

“No, not me. The Ninja,” Cicero clarifies, naming an accomplice by code word. Even though he could, he doesn't point out Brad's outrageous hypocrisy: his mescaline and Ecstasy dealing, his meth lab. The rain suddenly comes down harder, in bigger drops, blanketing the area.

“It was good seeing you, C. I'll have that for you later, man,” Brad says with a sly look. He turns to walk in the building, but stops and says with a grin, “Hey, try to stay out of trouble.”

Cicero smiles.

Trying his best to dodge the rain, Cicero runs from under the steel awning and hops in his coupe. He checks the caller ID on his ringing cell and ignores it.

Cicero looks like something is on his mind, and Kam, still sporting another man's internal Merlot, asks his friend, “You okay, dog?”

“Chillin',” Cicero responds.

“Hey, dude, I'm still hungry,” Kam tells his friend, flashing his diamonds.

Cicero just looks at him, then mashes the gas pedal and leaves the state-of-the-art compound cloaked in a cloud of burnt rubber.

F
ive-inch stilettos delicately tap the pavement on a sunny late-September day. It's unseasonably humid, and her fuchsia dress is diminutive, exposing excessive amounts of firm thigh and calf, skin resembling warm caramel.

A light breeze easily makes the airy fabric flow. Full hips and a slim ab-rich midsection sway under it. Passersby, male and female, young and old, ogle this delicious creature in awe.

“Damn, she's fine,” one city worker says to another as they both pause and stare, further neglecting that perennial pothole. Tax dollars hard at work.

She traverses several city blocks in the deteriorated working-class neighborhood, suede purse in hand, bosom, angelic. Sycamores line the avenue. Her ethnicity is hard to pinpoint. Spaghetti straps reveal toned arms and femininely soft shoulders, which are partially concealed by long wavy black hair.

“You need to get with me, baby, this is real pimping over here,” yells a manager of streetwalkers from his old-school Cadillac with gold trim.

She wears a look of confidence as she turns to her left, up a short flight of stone stairs, into the pristine Church of the Risen Christ.

When the riots of 1964 engulfed everything in the neighborhood, the church and its spectacular stained-glass windows stood untouched. It's rumored that the granite hand-carved statue of Mary, the mother of God, wept on that day in the church's outdoor atrium.

Even though she's inappropriately dressed, the femme fatale pulls one of the large wood doors open as it creaks from age.

She takes several steps into the lofty cathedral before stopping and turning back to dab her forehead with holy water. She pauses for a moment, expecting it to sizzle.

The church, first built to serve the area's well-to-do white community, now serves the elderly black community that once fought to live there. Unfettered sun rays pass through depictions of the Twelve Apostles and the Lamb of God. Golden glass rings denote their heavenly halos and perfectly etched pieces in brown mark their long hair and walking staffs.

Dozens of candles burn near the altar, lit for the sick and dying, and the hardheaded and evil. A few senior parishioners are scattered about, kneeling and praying, holding rosaries. The church smells of incense and faintly of dust.

Her heels are now silent on the carpeted floor as she walks to the front of the church, passing row after row of wooden pews, to where an old woman kneels, just to the right of the altar.

The grandmother's face shows time and love as she looks up at her child's daughter. Her expression changes from reserved, to smiling brightly.

“I'm glad you came, honey,” the old woman whispers as her granddaughter genuflects, then takes a seat next to her in the pew. She's delighted to see tomorrow's future.

“How have you been?” she asks with genuine interest.

“Fine,” Olivia curtly answers, her eyes looking down.

There's a lull in the exchange. A creak in the floor echoes as a parishioner exits a confessional. A married forty-year-old father of five has been uplifted. The weight of sin, much more than that of the rear axles he's lugged for years at the Ford plant, has been whisked away by the glory of God. He leaves the church in search of purity, and an end to his fifteen-year affair with his brother's wife.

“Have you looked at those admission forms I gave you for Penn Valley?”

Olivia doesn't want to disappoint her, but she truly loathes lying.

“No. I really don't want to go to a community college, Grandmother.”

“Well, I know, honey, but it's—”

“And besides, what's the point?” Olivia asks, frustrated.

At that moment an elderly Hispanic woman rises from a pew in the back of the church and saunters to the front near the altar. She lights a candle for recent earthquake victims in her native Peru. The cataclysm measured seven point two on the Richter scale, devastating Lima and leaving thousands dead or homeless. In the tongue of her father and his father before him, she offers a prayer:

“
Dios tenga merced sobre las victimas del terremoto y les enseñale el camino,”
the stout woman prays in a low voice.
“Dale paz y tranquilidad, ahora, en su tiempo de necesidad. Dios, esté con ellos hoy y siempre. Amén
.”

Olivia stares at her and wishes she still had such faith in the unseen. Her grandmother has that faith, and in many ways wishes to reintroduce it to the wayward Olivia.

Aware of her granddaughter's yearning, the wise mother of four looks at her and says, “Olivia, God loves you.”

Olivia's face remains blank as her eyes again begin looking downward. Her fresh beauty and lavender rouge stand out against the church's waning façade.

The caring grandmother grabs Olivia's hand, which rests on her bent knee. Pigeons take flight from the church's soaring steeple. The sound of their fluttering wings is piercing and resonates throughout the sanctuary and the empty balcony.

“Kneel with me, Olivia,” her grandmother instructs. And she does, reluctantly.

“God will be with you, honey, you just have to have faith,” she reassures her. “You just have to have faith. Trust me, you will have a long and beautiful life.”

Olivia briefly contemplates what she's heard. Then desperately asks, “Why did this happen to me, Grandma? I'm not a bad person.”

“Olivia, no one knows God's plans. No one.”

“But what about my plans, my future? I can never have a family now, or be married.”

“I know. I know, but—”

“And Grandma, you even liked him,” Olivia vents as she begins to become emotional. “I mean, how was I supposed to know he was…” and she stops. Her heart sinks. Vibrations in her purse signal a new text message has arrived on her credit card-sized communicator. She grabs the device and flips it open.

The small rectangular screen reads: “
Carne. Favre
.”

Olivia checks her pink, ruby-and diamond-encrusted wristwatch. It's three forty-seven p.m. She composes herself and stands to her feet.

“I have to go, Grandma.”

Her grandmother rises, then sits in the pew, as she watches the beautiful Olivia sashay out of the house of God and into the world of the pagans and idolaters.

 

“This is him,” Cicero tells Olivia as he slides her a wallet-sized photograph. They're in a small midtown coffee shop. The clientele is an eclectic mix of old businessmen and women in suits, and young slackers with dreadlocks and baggy pants. Conversations range from why the T-bond market tanked to astonishment regarding Tony Gonzalez's retirement.

The shop is dimly lit with low-wattage track lighting. Splashes of pumpkin and cardinal red adorn the interior of the cozy little spot. Ficus trees repose in unconventional spaces.

Olivia and Cicero convene at a corner table securely out of sight and earshot. They've sat here many times before, and the employees know not to disturb them.

Olivia studies the photograph closely, examining every detail and making mental notes: small scar over his right eye, chipped front tooth, sinister smile. Tattoos.

A long curly lock falls from the top of her head and lands to the right of her thin nose. It captivates Cicero for a brief moment.

Olivia is silent, but finally nods yes. She looks a bit hesitant. Cicero notices, but doesn't inquire. Roasting coffee beans and seasonal gingerbread yield an aromatic bouquet.

A couple of wasted stoners wander over to the conspirators' secluded section with café lattes in hand. Their unwashed, loose-fitting cargo pants drag along the Spanish-tiled floor. Young guys, probably part-time college students taking less than five credit hours, had spotted an open table next to Cicero and Olivia in the crowded shop and decided it was fair game.

But Cicero thinks otherwise, which is why he calmly lifts his cream-colored cotton sweater and flashes a black forty-caliber pistol at them and says, “This area is occupied.”

Sobered fast, the younger of the two turns one hundred and eighty degrees and speed-walks out the front door while the other puts up both hands and stutters, “It's cool, man.” He promptly does an about-face as well and follows his friend out.

Cicero looks at Olivia and says, “Cold steel is often an antidote for intoxication.” She simply grins.

He lowers his sweater and pulls a thick brown envelope from under his slacks and milky ostrich boots. Cicero passes the package under the table to Olivia, whose hand is there waiting for it.

“It's all there. You can count it later,” Cicero tells her. She nods again, this time with a more determined look on her face, as she sips her mochaccino.

Chattering voices flood the cozy coffee shop as Cicero stands and drops a fifty-dollar bill for their coffee and walks out with his espresso. Olivia pulls out a torch of a lighter and incinerates the photograph. It catches fire and immediately turns to ashes. A deliberate breath blows from her mouth and the ashes disperse. She sits there a few moments, idle, five-thousand dollars richer, and deep in thought. After taking a few more sips of her coffee, she walks out of the shop with much on her mind.

R
epetitious bass lines filter out of a nightclub. Twelve days after her meeting with Cicero, Olivia has tracked down the man who has crossed her employer. Velvet ropes block the entrance as an ethnically diverse line forms halfway down the block.

Faux fur coats and micro-miniskirts constitute much of the attire worn by anxious partygoers who have chosen to deal with the October chill on a Sunday night. Banging techno music and one-dollar pineapple martinis draw a nice mix of paraprofessionals and posers.

The wide Mexican bouncer at the door thoroughly checks IDs. After an underage girl left the club drunk and slammed into a state trooper leaving his wife a widow, the club goes the extra mile to avoid liability.

Olivia strolls past a slick, clean-cut Chinese crew, a couple of Armenians in silk shirts and black leather blazers, and a clique of Hispanics with intricately designed facial hair. Her skintight little black dress and tall boots get the attention of each and every one of them.

“
Que pasa
,
mami
?” one
vato
blurts. Cold air escapes his mouth. She smells of jasmine and fine oils.

Ignoring the multilingual cat calls, Olivia and her black full-length fur greet the bouncer, who is busily eyeing an out-of-state identification that doesn't exactly match the description of its owner.

“Hey, Manny,” Olivia says to the bouncer. “What's the cover tonight?”

He smiles and removes the latch from one of the purple velvet ropes and motions her in.

“Oh, hell no,” screams one pissed off sista who's watched Olivia bypass the entire line. She's been waiting to get in for nearly an hour.

Olivia passes under a bright pink neon sign reading
Chocolate City
. Another man opens the door for her and she is overwhelmed by the pounding music.
Boom, boom, boom, boom
.

The club is dark and densely packed. Its dance floor moves in waves like the Indian Ocean. Amber sconces decorate the walls. Behind the bar to the right, mirrors and premium liquors run the length of the wall, where groups of women down tequila shots and Jägermeister. They giggle as one spills the black Jäger down the front of her white lace blouse. Her friends don't care; it's after Labor Day and she shouldn't have worn it anyway.

Olivia eyes every male face. Many wink in response to what is perceived as her interest in them. Fifty or so simultaneous conversations inundate the part-time nightclub and restaurant in indiscernible babble. A few feminine outbursts of laughter break the monotone sound of white noise.

Techno continues to rock.
Boom, boom, boom, boom
. The low decibels knock. Undulating bodies brush against each other in this passionate venue of urban mating rituals. Olivia slyly maneuvers the crowd, careful to avoid spilled drinks and scuffs on the fourteen hundred-dollar, Italian-made boots she got on a trip to Milan.

Her mink glistens when the lime-green and baby-blue laser lights hit it.
Boom, boom, boom, boom
. She checks her crocodile-strapped timepiece. The oval onyx face shows it's a little after eleven p.m., plenty of time for her to complete her objective.

She glances to the rear of the club where satiny mint-colored sofas and rosey track lighting encourage networking and pickup line delivery.

“You're beautiful,” an inebriated man wholeheartedly slurs.

“Thank you,” Olivia says without looking at him. She feels another enticed partier tug at her minkened arm, an oft-used practice she hates, which is why she immediately yanks it free without looking at the guilty fellow.

“Oh, it's like that?” the sub-six-foot twenty-one-year-old asks. His question and his cheap cologne are ignored. Unbeknownst to him, a plot has been hatched, and the one he pursues is in pursuit of another, with potentially life-altering consequences.

The suitor allows Olivia to pass minus further harassment and grabs another, less-attractive woman who happily joins him on the overcrowded dance floor.

Olivia forces her way through the throng and finally comes to the entranceway of a rear lounge area. Liquid crystal television screens hang along the perimeter like neoteric Picassos. Cubism at its finest. Drunkards view the latest mini DVDs and play virtual reality video games.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

Olivia scans the room and notices from a distance what she thinks is a familiar face, so she edges closer.

“Excuse me, miss,” a well-dressed man blurts out. “I see you're not drinking. Is it a religious thing or what?”

He catches Olivia off guard and she smiles, so he continues.

“Well, if it's not, can I buy you a drink?”

She agrees with his appearance and dark skin, so she responds in the affirmative. “Sure.”

They walk over to a smallish, less-stocked bar in the corner where an interracial couple enjoys the unborn spawn of a beluga sturgeon. He orders a bottle of overpriced champagne in an unsuccessful attempt to impress the one he wants.

Miniature, hidden JBL speakers rock:
boom, boom, boom, boom.

“So I take it you're here alone?” the debonair bachelor asks. But before he can pop the cork, Olivia spots her mark across the room. She stares at him intensely, like an eagle stalking a field mouse. His cursive written tattoo gives him away.

“Excuse me, it was nice meeting you,” Olivia tells the gentleman. He's speechless. Her mark dons black glass headgear. He's engaged in a heated game of virtual football with the Latvian fellow next to him.

The quarry is dapper, wearing an all-midnight outfit and a matching wristwatch with black diamonds on the bezel.

Olivia steps closer to him. She is stunning. The unwitting man, glancing out the side of his headgear, soon notices her gaze. She stares at him. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes are enchanting. She smiles at him and makes her way to a nearby bar, still within eyesight.

She orders a blueberry martini as the mark follows her with his obscured eyes. His loss of concentration is costly, and his opponent scores a crucial last-second touchdown. Game over.

“Fuck,” he yells as he tosses the headpiece to the carpeted floor. Disappointed, but not too, he slides over to the bar and stands next to Olivia, who turns away from him as if no longer interested.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.
She's nonchalant and scopes the room, dismissing his presence.

“That's fucked up,” the guy says. His skin is ink rich.

“Pardon me?” Olivia sassily inquires, batting her long eyelashes.

“You all in my grill and l lose five-hundred dollars,” he spits. One arm rests on the bar as he leans on it. His breath smells of beer and vodka. Olivia is silent.

“You wrong for that,” he tells her.

“Oh really?” she responds as she sips her drink.
Boom, boom, boom, boom
, the techno bass is nonstop. “You can't stay focused?”

He grins. “I'm focused now, and that's real talk.” They begin eyeballing each other, making bedroom eyes.

“Well, I got something worth more than five-hundred dollars,” Olivia explains, playing her ace. “And you'll never be the same afterward.”

“Oh yeah?” the man asks as he strokes his face. The motion causes the short sleeve on his sweater to shrink, revealing the ominous name, V-Dog. “Well, I'm broke now, so can I put it on layaway?”

Olivia laughs, then downs her drink. She takes him by the hand and leads him through the jabbering crowd and past the champagne buyer who has watched their entire exchange in gut-wrenching disgust.

They reach a unisex bathroom and upon locking the door behind them, begin ferociously kissing as if there's no tomorrow. Olivia's beauty is irresistible, and V-Dog's ego shoots through the roof.

She loosens his silver belt buckle as he removes her mink and tosses it on the counter. His pants drop to the floor. His manhood is erect. Their tongues dance in each other's mouths. Up and down, side to side, lips smacking. V-Dog squeezes her firm breasts and she moans in pleasure.

Eager to have him inside her, Olivia eases her tight black dress up to her hips. V-Dog becomes profoundly horny when he sees she is panty-less, shaven, and soaking wet.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.

Without even considering stopping to grab a condom, V-Dog inserts himself into Olivia's hot vagina. She sits on the sink and wraps her gorgeous legs around his waist as he thrusts in and out with powerful strokes. She screams in ecstasy. Her tight love embraces his thickness.

“Fuck me! Fuck me!” she insists, squeezing him close with both arms and legs.

“You like that? You like that?” V-Dog asks as he breaks into a sweat. He thrusts and thrusts.

He pounds her over and over again. His facial expressions show unmistakable lust. Olivia moans again. The pleasure of pain is so good. A few moments later, V-Dog releases his fluids inside her, and lets out a loud groan.

“Oh yea, baby, let it go,” Olivia demands as she begins to rub his face.

V-Dog completes his act, and removes his penis from inside her. Olivia immediately turns to the sinks and begins to wash herself. V-Dog wipes his sweat with a paper towel, and pulls his boxers up followed by his slacks.

Olivia puts on her mink and fixes her hair and checks her makeup. Flawless. The good stuff doesn't run. V-Dog tucks in his shirt and fastens his belt. He feels like the luckiest dude on Earth.

Olivia turns and walks to the door and unlocks it, but before parting ways she turns toward him and whispers, “God bless you.”

V-Dog looks confused by her comment, but just shrugs it off and grins. Not by chance, but by design, he has bedded a new millennium black widow.

Olivia makes her way past the dance floor and heads toward the front door of the club, now packed beyond capacity and violating the city's fire laws.

As the minx leaves, two women behind her get into a fight, throwing punches, scratching each other, and cursing. It's a significant contrast to her clandestine method of warfare, less effective and much more visible.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Yet another victim has fallen for Olivia's sinister Kabuki.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.

 

“Hail Mary” is spelled out on Cicero's digital text-message communicator. He takes a quick look at the message, acknowledges its significance, and then deletes it.

He is expressionless and without reaction as he drives his pearl-white SUV through the inner city; titanic tires turning. Kam rides shotgun, once again blowing big blue weed smoke. Today's crop is dipped in embalming fluid, and Kam's being nosy.

“Who was that?” he asks as he inhales deeply.

“Olivia,” Cicero answers in his deep tranquil voice.

Kam looks as if he is thinking, trying to jog his memory. A light bulb comes on and he exhales.

“Oh! That bad-ass broad you be meeting in the coffee shop,” Kam decides. “She's killin' 'em,” he says in his deep, sluggish speech pattern. “What's up with you and her?” he inquires before taking another long puff of his marijuana-stuffed cigar.

“Nothing,” Cicero responds as he sips cognac from a red plastic cup. He's nicely dressed in a black blazer with matching T-shirt and slacks. His face and head are freshly shaven. His Italian loafers are well polished.

“Nothing? Shit, ya'll be kickin' it all the time, right?” Kam prods. He wears a similar all-black outfit with matching alligator boots. His dark ebony skin is smooth.

In the past, Cicero has kept his lieutenants in the dark regarding each other's activities, and he's pleased to see these operational details are exquisitely esoteric. He takes another sip of cognac.

“We have a business arrangement,” he tells Kam, who is high.

“A business arrangement?” Kam asks as he exhales and fills the SUV with skunk-smelling plumes of smoke. Hip-hop blazes through the sound system.

Cicero looks somewhat bothered, but at this point, he figures Kam no longer needs to stay in the dark. His questions reveal to Cicero that he has interest in Olivia, so Cicero chooses to enlighten him, and possibly save his life.

“I pay her to know my enemies,” Cicero states, “in the Biblical sense.”

Kam appears confused. He knows what Cicero means, but he can't understand why. He takes an extremely long drag from his blunt.

“Well fuck,” he weighs in, “how do I become one of your enemies?” He laughs and playfully punches Cicero in his arm, causing him to almost spill his drink.

Cicero takes another sip and ignores the comment. There's a long moment of silence, then for Kam's sake he states, “She has AIDS.”

Kam's eyes widen and his jaw drops. His face goes from showing glee to showing obvious disbelief. Cicero makes a gliding left turn on Twelfth Street, narrowly missing a homeless man pushing a shopping cart. Cicero thinks to himself that their destination cannot wait on some disenfranchised piece of shit to cross the street, even if he is a Vietnam vet.