The Tragic Flaw

by Che Parker

  “Well, I’m out,” Lana tells them. “Ya’ll be safe.”

  And she strides toward the door, wild hair bouncing. And once again she attracts the eyes of both he and she, as young Ms. Lana exits the eatery.

  Kam and Cicero receive their meals and begin to indulge.

  “So, where you gonna go?” Kam asks, stuffing his mouth with fries. Later tonight he’ll be brushing his teeth thoroughly with jewelry cleaner.

  “Don’t know yet,” Cicero answers, not giving Kam any details. He figures it’s better that way. No loose ends.

  Kam’s eyes squint.

  “I figure I’ll just lay low,” he adds. “You know, just chill out. Spend a few days getting my shit together outta town. You should do the same.”

  “Naw, fuck that,” Kam exclaims in his slow, deep voice. “I’m not into bouncing like that. I mean, I got money to get. I ain’t worried about it.”

  Cicero leaves it at that. They finish their meals and wait for the check. Cicero drops one-hundred dollars for the food and the tip and they depart, going separate ways.

  C enters the parking garage, then hops in his Maybach. The supple dark-blue leather happily greets him.

  “I love this car,” he says to himself, staring at the engagingly illuminated instrument panel.

  The vehicle smoothly rolls out the garage and Cicero makes a left on West Forty-Seventh Street. The royal-blue sky is impeccable on this cloudless day. The temperature is perfect.

  There’s no music playing in the car, so Cicero is free to think, uninterrupted. He ponders Brad’s intentions to basically fuck him and Kam. He thinks about how he and Brad were so close in college, and yet over time, have drifted apart. Struggling in college had brought them together, but once their struggles were over, Cicero thought, so were their commonalities.

  Then his cell phone rings. His Maybach heads east, crossing Troost Avenue, KC’s very own Mason-Dixon Line, as he answers the phone.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Not too much. I just haven’t heard from you in a while,” Olivia says in her eternally saddened tone.

  It’s true. Cicero has had no need for her, so he could not care less.

  “Yea, I’ve been hella busy,” he tells her. “How have you been?”

  “Okay, I guess,” she says, sighing as she lies in her bed staring up at the ceiling. Several bottles of medication line her bureau. She’s taken her cocktail for today, and is feeling dispirited as usual. Fortunately, the nausea hasn’t kicked in yet, and her occasional bouts of diarrhea have subsided.

  “Oh yea?” Cicero says, unconcerned. “So what’s new with you?”

  Olivia sits up in the bed and crosses her arms and legs at the ankles. The white T-shirt and red shorts she has on fits her in a comfortably sexy way.

  “Cicero, what do you think about me?”

  “What do you mean, O? You’re my girl. My partner. You know?”

  Olivia doesn’t buy that answer.

  “No, Cicero. That’s not what I mean. Do you care about me?”

  Cicero exhales deeply. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He’s been able to avoid this discussion since day one. He mashes the pedal in his Maybach headed toward the hood.

  “Olivia, it pleases me when you’re happy, baby. And that’s all I can say. I want you to be happy.”

  Olivia pauses and her eyes go down. Her beautiful skin is freshly oiled and it shines as sunlight penetrates the blinds in her room. Her hair flows past her shoulders and down her back.

  “You really don’t care about me, do you, Cicero?” she asks.

  Cicero is becoming fed up with this conversation. He has Brad to worry about, not to mention Jimmy and other shit. And he still needs to make travel arrangements. He simply has more important things to deal with.

  “No. No, I don’t give a fuck about you, Olivia. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Cicero flashes. “I mean, shit, I pay yo tainted ass to fuck mothafuckas I hate. Could I really give a fuck about you?”

  Olivia is silent. A solitary tear descends from her right eye and lands on the corner of her mouth. She extends her tongue to taste it.

  “Yea. I always knew that,” she says confidently. “I always knew that. But I’m glad that you said it. Thank you.”

  Cicero looks at the phone, not believing his ears.

  “You know, I thought you at least cared a little bit, but I guess not. You’re an evil man, Cicero. But you’ll get yours.”

  “Whatever,” Cicero grumbles. “Are you done?”

  “Yes. Good-bye.”

  And she hangs up.

  Cicero glances at his phone, then tosses it onto the passenger seat. It’s easy for him to degrade and abuse Olivia and have no feelings of remorse.

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” he states in his deep voice. “Nasty-ass, stupid-ass bitch.”

  Cicero reaches Prospect Avenue, then stops at a red light.

  “Where the fuck am I going?” he questions out loud.

  He makes a sharp left into a gas station, then parks.

  “Damn, that car is sick,” a young cat with gold teeth yells. He and his boys jump into an eighty-six Monte Carlo SS and get low in a hurry, while Cicero places a fully loaded nine-millimeter on his lap. He knows how guys in this part of town get down, and he’s ready for them.

  Cicero glances down and checks his new Patek Philippe watch. It’s 4:36 p.m.

  “Fuck it.”

  He grabs his cell phone and calls information.

  “What city and state?”

  “Kansas City, Missouri.”

  “What listing?”

  “American Airlines.”

  Moments later, Cicero Day has a roundtrip ticket to the Golden State. His flight leaves at 8:00 p.m. tonight.

  He puts the pedal to the floor and burns rubber back to the west.

  Cicero grinds his teeth as murderous thoughts scale hurdles in his bald head.

  “This punk-ass mothafucka,” he whispers to himself, thinking about Brad’s treachery. His black Maybach glides like a daydream down the rugged pothole-laden street as scattered clouds begin to roll into the stratosphere above.

  A certain Bradley Micheaux shall soon have an uninvited guest.

  Stopping by his apartment, Cicero grabs a small black vial from a nightstand drawer and stuffs it in a tight black velvet bag. He then opens a safe under his bed and takes out ten-thousand dollars in cash. Rushing and nearly tripping over the black leather bench in front of his bed, Cicero also tosses a few sweaters, a suit, a couple pairs of slacks, some alligator boots and a pair of Italian loafers into a black suitcase before trotting down to the parking garage and hopping back in his sedan.

  “Yea, Brad, I got somethin’ for ya,” Cicero says to himself as he starts his car. Then once again he’s in the wind, cutting corners, on a mission.

  Cicero navigates toward The Paseo, then heads north, crossing the Missouri River, toward the International Airport and the unsuspecting Bradley Micheaux’s North Kansas City home.

  Cotton, silk, and wool blends twist and bend, misaligned and uneven. Cuffs touch collars. Zippers invite sleeves. Buttons long to be fastened. Boxer shorts crumple under the weight of dress loafers. Wrinkles feel at home on expensive trousers as toiletries are dumped on them, joiningthe fray.

  A certain Cajun also has travel plans in mind, so he secretively throws his clothes and personals into a large dark-brown carpetbag. A similar bag rests next to it on the king-sized bed, stuffed to the brim with chrome-like discs containing little blue tablets, and the chemicals needed to replicate them. Documents with notes and formulas also lie in the bag, along with a hundred thousand in cash.

  Brad, shirtless and wearing only faded blue jeans, leisurely ambles about his small, modernly designed bedroom grabbing essentials. He’s unshaven, a bit scruffy looking, and his hair is unkempt.

  Alternative rock vividly escapes a tiny high-tech silver stereo on a faux wooden shelf. The two-story home is neatly decorated with all
modern furniture in pale sandalwood shades and grays and silvers.

  His decision to skip town with his newly invented drug in hand while owing the mob money has stressed Bradley out, but as troubling as it has been, it is nonetheless the path he has chosen.

  All the walls in his bedroom are a ghostly white, absent of color, with the exception of a wide abstract painting to the left of the doorway. Blobs of crimson and pumpkin quarrel as a long slanting streak of indigo fights for attention in its downward descent from left to right. For Bradley, the painting resembled progress, and man’s ongoing struggle with himself, ignoring the possibilities of that progress.

  Bradley zips the bag with his clothes in it and an artificial sense of relief overcomes him as he lies on the snow-white down comforter to rest his mind. He stares up at the blank ceiling and its recessed lighting with his hands behind his head. His bare feet caress the hardwood floor.

  “This time next week, I’ll be knee-deep in something Brazilian,” Bradley says slyly to himself with a smile. “And that’s real.”

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Brad’s heart jumps into his throat and he quickly sits up in the bed.

  “Who the fuck is that?” he says out loud, perplexed and fearful. He walks over to a nine-drawer sandalwood dresser and pulls out a pistol.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  “Yea, I don’t do unannounced guests,” Bradley mumbles as he steps through his living room en route to the front door.

  He steps to the left of the front door to look out the window and avoid any slugs or buckshots that may come right through the door.

  Brad places his index and middle finger on one of the cream mini blinds and pulls it down, causing it to V. That’s when he eyes Cicero’s Maybach parked straight ahead in the street, black and glossy.

  Brad then looks a bit to his right, and sees Cicero’s broad shoulders standing at his front door.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  “Damn. What the fuck is C doin’ here?” Brad whispers to himself.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Knock.

  Unsure of what to do, Brad decides to stash his gun under a gray sofa cushion and returns to stand before the door.

  “Yea! Who is it,” he yells in a sleepy-sounding voice.

  “It’s me, man. Open up.”

  The latch turns and the doorknob does the same as the white wooden door swings inward and opens.

  “Damn, man, what were you doin’ in there? Jackin’ off?” Cicero jokes with a wide smile on his face. A light breeze ruffles his expensive lime-green sweater.

  In his hands is a plastic bag with two Styrofoam containers inside.

  “I got lunch, dude. Let’s chit-chat,” Cicero tells him. Cicero’s still not completely sure of Brad’s plans, but he needs to find out, if he can, before leaving town.

  Confused and anxious by Cicero’s unannounced stop and cheerful demeanor, Bradley has no choice but to accept his offer and entertain him. As soon as Cicero leaves, he’ll be on his way to a sunny beach to be besieged by the infamous Brazilian bikini wax.

  “Yea, come on in, man,” Brad says to his friend, and Cicero enters. As he comes in, Cicero quickly peers right into Bradley’s bedroom and sees the two packed bags. Brad forgot to close his bedroom door, and that was all the confirmation Cicero needed.

  Brad closes the door and glances over at the sofa cushion, which is now bulging and looking out of place.

  Cicero walks in and heads straight for the island in the kitchen. The white tile blocks are clean and uncluttered.

  “Man, you’re gonna like this. It’s from that one little Italian spot in Gladstone.”

  “Oh, okay, I wanted to check that out,” Brad nervously comments.

  “Yea, my dad used to take me all the time. It was one of his favorite ristorantes,” Cicero says with an Italian accent and a smile.

  “Cool,” Brad says as he pulls up two silver barstools.

  Brad checks Cicero’s hands again, then looks at the island, and notices there is no red plastic cup present.

  “You ain’t drinkin’ today, dog?” Brad asks his friend.

  “Nope. Not today. I’m tryin’ to live a little healthier,” Cicero says as he removes the Styrofoam containers from the plastic bag. “I even ate a salad earlier.”

  Brad’s eyes squint.

  “A what?”

  “Dude, don’t start.”

  “Whatever, man. Say, you want something to drink?”

  “Naw, I’m cool,” Cicero replies as he hands Brad the container that was on top.

  Brad opens it and eyes a delectable portion of fettuccine alfredo with grilled chicken and crushed white pepper. Two lemon wedges grace the right side.

  “Damn, dog, this looks real good,” Brad says. He struts over to a drawer and removes two forks.

  “A, man, grab me a spoon too.”

  “All right,” answers Brad.

  They sit next to each other and begin to partake.

  With the spoon in his left hand and the fork in his right, Cicero twists the fettuccine noodles in the spoon with the fork, then neatly lifts it into his mouth.

  “Yep, this is some good shit,” Cicero says with a full mouth.

  “You ain’t kiddin’. This is real good,” agrees Brad. “Kinda spicy, though, for alfredo sauce.”

  Cicero slurps his noodles and glances over at Brad, who is eating slowly, as if thinking about something.

  “What’s on your mind, man?” Cicero inquires. “You look like something is bothering you.”

  “Ah, naw, man, I’m just a little tired, you know? Been busy with the product.”

  “Oh, yea. Man, that paper is rollin’ in. Kinda slow though. What you think? I mean, what do you see us doing in the next few months?” Cicero asks with a smile on his face.

  “Yea, we’re just about ready to start expanding, you know. You know, hittin’ Topeka, Lawrence, Warrensburg, and St. Joe.”

  Suddenly, Bradley begins coughing. He places his right hand to his mouth to cover it; he’s never been a rude person.

  “Damn, what’s on this?”

  “It’s just white pepper, man. What, you can’t handle it?”

  “I’m cool, man. I just need something to drink, some fucking water,” Brad says as he stands and walks toward the refrigerator, coughing more ferociously.

  “Naw, dog, you know what? I don’t think that’s the white pepper that’s causing you to cough like that,” Cicero says as he continues to eat his meal.

  Brad looks back at Cicero with one hand on the silver refrigerator door, still coughing. His eyes water and phlegm flies out of his mouth.

  “Yea, man, I think that’s that poison I put in your food,” Cicero says, smiling.

  Brad’s eyes go huge and he drops to one knee and places his left hand on the floor to keep from falling.

  “Why, C? Why would you do that?” Brad asks as he continues to cough and gasp for air. He glances over to the bulge in the sofa, but he lacks the strength to get there.

  Cicero’s smile turns to a menacing look, and Bradley comes to know the depth of his friend’s wickedness. Remorse knows him not.

  “What you mean, why? Because you tryin’ to fuck me, Bradley, that’s why. Next time you plan on skipping town with my money, and my drugs, close your bedroom door, dumb ass. You deserve to die for that dumb shit.”

  Fear rolls up into Bradley’s heart as he continues to cough forcefully and his eyes turn bloodshot red.

  “Oh my bad, there won’t be a next time,” Cicero tells him as he finishes the last of his fettuccine.

  Then Cicero smiles as Bradley completely collapses to the kitchen’s cold gray linoleum floor, his bare skin slapping it. Vomit oozes from this mouth. His toes curl with disgusting tension.

  “Man, I have to admit I was a little nervous at first, because I forgot which one had the poison in it. That’s
crazy, huh? But thanks for figuring it out for me, dog. You are a good friend.”

  And Bradley dies. His breathing was restricted and his oxygen was cut off. His brain functions ended, then his heart abruptly stopped beating. The descendant of Acadians leaves the world of the living via toxin-induced asphyxiation, delivered by a dear friend.

  “Rest in confusion, Bradley Micheaux,” Cicero says before grabbing both Styrofoam containers, forks and his spoon and placing them in the plastic bag.

  He walks into Bradley’s bedroom and grabs the bag stuffed with the dope and chemicals and the hundred grand.

  He carries the satchel out to the living room, sets it on the stainless steel coffee table, and looks through it.

  “Cool. I can give this to Jimmy and get back in his good graces,” he says out loud. “He thinks the money has been coming in too slow; like we’ve been holding out on him.”

  Then he has a second thought.

  “Shit, then again, I could give this to him and he can still whack me. Just for general purposes. To prove a point to his other lieutenants. Fuck that. Plus the feds are watching him. Fuck. Shit. What if Jimmy is working for the feds?”

  Cicero grabs his cell phone from his hip and dials a familiar number. He checks his watch; it’s almost 5:30 p.m., so it has to be someone fairly close to his location.

  “Hello,” a female answers.

  “Hey, what’s crackin’?”

  “Not much, still with my cousin. We’re actually in the movies,” Lana says.

  “A, I need you to meet me right now at that spot in North-towne,” Cicero instructs. “It’s hella crucial.”

  “How much you got?” Lana asks. Her talking during the movie is frustrating a few people near her, and her endearing older cousin looks upset and offended.

  “I got you, girl. Just meet me in about forty-five minutes. I got something to do first. Cool?”

  “All right, cool.”

  And she hangs up.

  He places the phone back on his hip and walks into the kitchen, where Brad’s body lies in an awkward dead man’s position.

  Cicero grabs a black plastic bag, then bends down and puts his arms around Brad’s chest. He then lifts his body and drags it down the hall along dusty hardwood floors to a messy bathroom, and tosses his slender muscular corpse into the white porcelain tub.