by Che Parker
Numerous palm trees sprawl out. Kam is careful to water them according to their need. This is the second batch. He killed the first few he had by overwatering them, so now he’s more mindful.
“So where’s your girl?” Kam asks.
“She just texted me. She’s trying to find a parking spot.”
While Kansas City is known for its wide-open spaces, Kam’s apartment sits in one of the most congested midtown neighborhoods, filled to the brim with transients, weirdos, prostitutes, hobos, and losers.
There’s suddenly a succession of feathery rapid-fire knocks at the door.
“Come in!” Kam yells from across the room as he sits on the futon and opens a plastic bag of red-haired marijuana. His deep voice booms.
A petite caramel-skinned beauty enters, carrying two large black plastic trash bags.
“Kam, you need to check those homeless mothafuckas downstairs,” the cutie says while removing her altitude-boosting black boots. Her truck driver mouth contrasts with her actress face and her delicate green eyes. “One tried to grab my ass.” An eight-button sleek leather coat clings to her defined shoulders and hugs her spherical derrière.
Kam just laughs. The lemon-yellow velour sweatsuit he wears is plush and vibrant.
“You should have smacked him,” he tells her.
“No, I should have shot him,” she retorts, hair purposely untamed. “Hey, Cicero, how you doin’?”
“Fine. How are you?” he asks, seated in his gray suit at the other futon with his drink.
“Just tryin’ to make a livin’, you know?”
“I heard that.”
She steps into the center of the loft and looks around. The bags appear to be heavy, but with her many hours spent in the gym she has no problem lugging them about.
“So where you want it?” she asks Kam.
He looks up from the table. His fingers vigorously break down the sticky weed without looking at it.
“Right there is cool.”
“Okay,” she responds, then dumps the two big bags on the floor. Recently stolen designer shoes and hand-knitted sweaters spill out, all in various sizes and bearing authentic store price tags.
Cicero and Kam gaze at the seductive pile.
“Look, those Allen Edmonds were kinda hard to get, but I got a couple pairs,” the girl says. Her craft is age old, and she is a tenacious five-foot-three student of the art.
“You got any Thomas Pink shirts over there?” Kam asks. His blunt is rolled and he ignites it, taking a big puff. A small circular terra cotta ashtray captures the embers.
“Yea, there’s a couple in here, and some short-sleeved Lacoste in solid colors,” she answers. Her voice is sweet and high pitched. She unbuttons her jacket and tosses it on the arm of the futon. A tiny T-shirt exposes her sexy flat midsection.
“What’s up with that Patek Philippe?” Cicero weighs in as he searches through the textile mass.
“I’m working on it. Those watches are kinda hard to come by,” she says. Thick thighs bulge through her tight low-rise jeans, which allow a scarlet silk thong to see the world. “I’m working on this square cat at Pivoli’s jewelry store, so it shouldn’t be much longer. But I’ll let you know when I get my hands on one.”
“That’s cool, just let me know.”
Kam decides Lana has come across some good plunder, so he inquires about the entire lot.
“How much for all of it? I can give my little cousins the shit that don’t fit.”
Lana thinks for a moment, then says, “Just give me two.”
He immediately reaches into his bulging pocket and pulls out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and counts out two-thousand dollars and hands it to her.
“Cool,” she says, while stuffing the wad in her red lace bra between her firm breasts. “Alright, then, you guys be good.” She turns to leave but then stops in her tracks.
“Oh yea, my great aunt died last week,” she tells her clients.
“Damn, Lana, I’m sorry to hear that,” Cicero says.
“Yea, I know you stayed with her. You need anything? You straight?” Kam asks.
“No, I’m cool, but fuck her. She was mean as hell,” Lana responds.
Kam and Cicero chuckle.
She continues, “Shit, I’m taking bids on her social security number right now. Bitch has flawless credit. You know it’ll take the IRS like ten years to figure out she’s dead and recycle it.”
“Yea, I know,” Kam says, then flashes his diamonds with a laugh. “You said she had good credit?”
Cicero looks interested. Cascading water flows in S patterns down the stony fountain.
“Man, she had a seven hundred-fifty beacon score,” Lana yells with the enthusiasm of a teenager.
“Damn,” Cicero and Kam respond in unison.
“Where’s the bid right now?” Kam asks. Unpaid schools loans from years ago remain on his scarred credit report.
“Right now it’s at like five thousand dollars,” she says.
“Is that it? Shit, I’ll give you seven thousand dollars right now,” Kam tells her.
She thinks about it for a second, then chooses to decline his offer.
“Naw, I’m okay, I’m waiting to see how these bids pan out. I got some Mexicans on the West Side that might really come through with some real money. You know they need work visas and shit.”
“That’s cool. If they don’t come through, come holler at me,” Kam says.
“Alright. Alright, C, alright, Kam,” Lana says as she opens the door to leave.
“Okay, baby, be careful out there,” Cicero says.
She just giggles. “I thought you knew.” And she returns to the realm of undercover security guards, five-finger discounts, and attorney’s fees.
Kam shovels the clothing and shoes back into the bags and places them near his informal closet; the untidiness is disturbing the tranquility of his loft.
Cicero pours himself another drink, and takes a moment to exhale.
“Man, did I tell you some assholes tried to blow me up,” Cicero calmly tells his friend.
“For real?” Kam asks as he tokes his blunt and begins to cough. “What was that shit about?”
“I don’t know, but I think they wanted my twenties.”
“Damn. They tried to take your head off for your Barry Sanders?”
“Yea, I guess,” Cicero answers. “That’s crazy, huh?”
Kam hits his weed again and holds it for ten seconds before exhaling. His lips are becoming blacker by the day.
“So I guess since I’m talking to you,” Kam says, “it’s safe to say you introduced their insides to the outside world?”
Cicero nods in the affirmative.
“That’s cool.” Kam begins coughing violently, on the verge of coughing up a lung. Snot trickles from his nose and he wipes it with his sleeve.
“Whoa, this is some good shit,” Kam exclaims. “You sure you don’t want to hit this, dog?”
“Naw, I’m cool,” Cicero says as he takes a sip of his liquor. “But thanks for offering.”
“Hey, anytime,” Kam says politely. “So you know who they were?”
“Who?” asks Cicero. Just that quick other thoughts have clouded his mind.
Frustrated, Kam says, “Man, the mothafuckas that tried to give your head a permanent part.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Some sick-ass white boys. Irish cats, I think.”
Kam looks as if he’s thinking while he takes another drag from Mary Jane.
“Damn. Some white boys? Dude, the economy must truly be fucked up for some white boys to resort to jacking people.”
Cicero laughs.
“Tell me about it,” C answers.
“I mean, for real, that’s generally not their style, you know?” Kam asserts as his high begins to kick in and the philosopher in him takes over. “You know, they might get down with some computer hacking, or maybe molesting some little kids, or somethin’. You know? Some sicko shit. Serial killing and shit.
But jackin’? That’s wild.”
“I know,” Cicero simply responds. But he knows people, regardless of race, are capable of anything, especially in hard times. Pressure either crushes, or creates diamonds. The assholes who tried to jack him allowed the pressure of greed to place them on an anvil. And Cicero gladly took on the role of the sledgehammer.
“Oh, and just so you know,” Cicero weighs in while pouring himself another drink, “the product isn’t looking too good.”
Kam perks up.
“It’s not a total wash. I don’t think,” continues Cicero, “it’s not going according to plan, though.”
“Fuck, are you serious?” Kam asks, fingernails clenching the smoldering roach. “Damn. So I guess we can expect drama from Jimmy?”
“Yea. Just anticipate it. You know? Stay on your toes.”
“Oh, that’s always, homeboy. I thought you knew?”
“But I told you that for a reason.”
“Oh, yea?”
“Yea. I need you to do something for me.”
“Shit. Just say the word, cuz.”
Cicero stands from the futon and ambles over to the kitchen, and returns with a pen and a sheet of paper.
“When you get a chance, go to this address for me, and holler at Bradley.” Cicero checks his platinum watch. “He likes playing golf there, usually on Mondays, I think. And check it out, I’m going out of town for a while, hittin’ a few spots, so maybe in, like, a few weeks, go holler at him. Cool?”
“Alright. So what’s the plan? I mean, what do you want to happen?”
“Just put something in his ear. You feel me?”
“I got you.”
Cicero hands him the slip of paper as the fountain’s cool waters rush down the sloped rocks.
“Now, Kameron, you know Bradley is my friend. Right?”
“Man, I got you. Not a problem.”
Cicero knows sometimes people need that extra push. While he doesn’t necessarily want Brad harmed, he does want to kick-start his engine. And Kameron can be one hell of a motivational speaker.
Cicero checks his timepiece again.
“Well, I got to get out of here. I’m fuckin’ starvin’. Might get some Gates.”
“Yea, I got some shit to do, too,” Kam replies, and they both stand, feeling woozy. “And C, why don’t you go ahead and take my truck, man. Your shit is fucked up. Your Escalade still getting worked on?”
“Yea. Fuckin’ Mexicans fucked up my electrical system.”
“For real? Fuck that. But yea, I’ll have my guy come pick your shit up and take it to the crusher.”
“Yea, okay,” Cicero answers. “You still got that plug at State Farm?”
Kam smiles and nods yes.
“Cool. I’m going to write off some extra shit, like that original Matisse I bought in Paris for my mom’s birthday.”
And they both laugh.
“You know I had one in my backseat,” Cicero says with a grin.
“Hey, I’m not mad at you. That’s what you’re supposed to do,” Kam says. “But why you bullshittin’? You know my boy Jacque works at that art gallery on Southwest Trafficway. He could probably hook you up.”
“Oh for real? Cool. I’ma go holler at him.”
They start to walk out when Cicero’s thoughts jump to a completely unrelated topic.
“A, so have you thought about going back to school?”
Caught off guard, Kam asks, “Where the fuck did that come from?”
“Man, I was just wondering.”
Kam pauses and looks at his friend.
“Actually, I thought about it. But you know how it is. Gettin’ this paper now,” he says as he grips the blunt, now mere millimeters in length. He goes to take a hit and the cinders burn his lips. “Ouch. Shit.”
Cicero starts to laugh.
“No, for real. You should think about that.”
“Yea, I know. That’s what my Mexican weed man keeps telling me,” Kam says. Then in a Mexican accent, he adds, “He says, ‘Bro, you should go to school, cuz. These streets are evil, cuz.’”
They both start laughing.
“Well, your weed man might be right.”
“Yea, I know. But fuck him. I’m about to start getting all my shit in Canada. The price is right, and it’s fire. Like that K-Town.”
“That reminds me, I need to call my Mexican snowman,” Cicero says.
“Yep, you don’t wanna get caught with no product, missin’ paper,” Kam explains.
“I know.”
And they depart from the serenity of feng shui. Waters run and flames burn despite their absence.
Chapter 11
Ropes of burgundy pepperoni, oregano, and marjoram-spiced sausage hang from steel racks attached to the ceiling. Chattering and ringing bells from archaic cash registers happen to drown out the conversation of two important men who are discussing weighty and clandestine matters.
“How the Royals gonna do this year?” a tall man asks his fat boss.
“First of all, they need some real pitchers, that’s the first fuckin’ thing,” Jimmy says. His voice is rough. “A closer. Somebody who can get some saves under his belt.”
He points to a wheel of aged ivory-yellow Parmesan and the clerk quickly cuts off about a pound and weighs it: It’s one-point-one pounds.
“Yea, but they don’t have any power hitters either,” the tall man says.
“Well, yea, but that comes second. You don’t give up ten hits a game and expect to win.”
They walk along the long glass case inspecting the day’s meats and cheeses.
“Well, to be honest, Jimmy, the franchise has gone downhill ever since the eight-six season, after they got Bo Jackson.”
“Yea, honey, what else can I get you?” a young butcher asks an elderly Italian donna, who requests an extra slice of shaved ham to get her purchase right at one and a half pounds.
“What?! Are you fucking kidding me?” Jimmy is irate and his hand motions suggest that as they jut back and forth. “Bo Jackson’s one of the greatest athletes to ever live.”
Herbs and cheeses emit nostalgic fragrances from behind the spotless glass case.
“Yea, but—” The tall man doesn’t quite agree.
“No, fuck that,” Jimmy says, cutting him off. “This town should be happy he ever played here.”
The deli is busy as usual. Baby boomers, with their liver spots and wrinkled faces, bark out orders to the half-dozen hurried bakers and butchers.
“This guy played two major league sports and went to the all-star games for both,” Jimmy continues.
The tall man nods in agreement, so Jimmy calms.
“But that was years ago, they need to worry about today. Fucking Martinez and Lopez aren’t going to get the fucking job done. I’ll tell ya that,” he concludes.
“Let me get half a pound of the kosher corned beef,” an elderly Jewish man asks, his hands quivering with old age.
“I’ll tell ya what, they need another George Brett,” the tall man weighs in, causing Jimmy’s eyebrows to raise.
“Look, don’t get me wrong, Brett was a consistent player, but fuck him. The guy’s a fucking asshole,” Jimmy exclaims. He stops strolling along the glass case and looks the tall man in the eyes. “Me and Jimmy Jr. waited after a Twins game once. And this fucking asshole comes out and doesn’t sign my kid’s autograph book.”
The tall man looks shocked.
“Really?” His voice is deep and steady.
“Yea. He’s a prick. I seriously thought about having him kneecapped, but it was late September and the Royals were just a game and a half back.”
The tall man nods again.
“You know what I mean?” Jimmy emphasizes. “What are ya gonna do?” He throws his hands up in disgust, as they begin walking again.
“So what are you going to do about that little situation?” the tall man asks. His eyes are dark and menacing.
“You mean the one involving Cicero?” Jimmy’s voic
e is booming, but no one is listening. They’re too busy trying to order the last of the pumpernickel and humus.
“Yea. That needs to be rectified, don’t you think?”
Word gets out fast in K.C. Leaks abound. The grapevine is intense. Good gossip is power; underworld gossip is omnipotent. Without Cicero’s knowledge, his connects know there’s a problem with the product, which means a potential problem with the return on their investment.
“Yea, that’s good. And let me get two pounds of fresh mozzarella,” Jimmy tells the clerk. “First, two things,” he says to his associate as he wheezes. “One, Cicero is a man of his word and a man of loyalty. I used to run numbers with his father, for God’s sake. And we did a lot more than that, believe me.”
The tall man listens closely. His face is without expression as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket.
“So if there is a problem, I know I’m going to get my money back, with interest,” Jimmy continues. Even though he owns numerous businesses, he wants his money. All his money, even money that isn’t his.
Foot traffic at the deli increases. The front door swings open every few seconds, inviting chilly winds and WWII veterans and widows inside.
“And two,” he adds, “they might be expecting us to act. I would think that if I were them.” His camel hair coat hovers just above the white tile floor. “Hey, this time, just two pounds of that sausage,” Jimmy tells the butcher. “I’m trying to watch my cholesterol.”
The butcher nods and grabs about a foot of links and weighs them before wrapping the meat in wax paper and plastic.
Jimmy turns back to his associate. At that moment, his cell phone rings from his coat’s inside pocket. He checks the caller ID.
“Well, well. Speak of the devil,” Jimmy says before answering the phone. “Hello, young man. How’s business?”
“It’s slow goin’,” Cicero communicates over the phone.
“That’s not good to hear,” Jimmy says. “I expect better from you.”
Cicero pauses.
“I know. I’ll take care of it,” Cicero tells him.
“Good. See that you do.” And Jimmy closes the flip phone, ending their discussion.
Then he looks up at the tall man.