by Che Parker
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.
Chapter 4
Smoke 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.
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.