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The Tragic Flaw
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, his voice a deep bass. The passenger’s mouth is inhabited wall-to-wall by platinum and diamonds. With every word he displays a brilliant $80,000 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’s knows such a statement would please his comrade. “Think you smoke enough of it?” He jokingly asks while keeping his eyes on the road.
“Nope,” Kam slowly says in response as he takes a long deep pull. He coughs ferociously, pounding his chest and producing phlegm. His nose begins to run.
“Not nearly enough.” His speech is extremely slow and his voice deep. 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 15-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 back seat.
“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 tetrahydrocanabinol 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 expensive automobile/chick magnet. Cicero blows his horn and contemplates letting a slug fly in a midday road rage dispute. The perpetrator and his thick glasses are 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 are 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 everyday.”
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 20-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 and a bright yellow Australian-made sweater and 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 quarter-million-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 suite 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, rust-colored V eight purrs, and in a matter of seconds disappears over the suburban horizon.
Just as Kam is getting over his vehicular crush and subsequent break up, 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 peddle 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 profit margin. Besides, it wasn’t even pure.
Suddenly, Mozart’s Concerto number five in A Major suddenly 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 one-hundred and seventy-five-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 in-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 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 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. “Does that count?”
Cicero doesn’t respond, he feels let down by Kam’s remark, who 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 just before dual towering steel doors accented by fine cherry wood. 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-downed 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 with 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, priceless statuettes abound, and pass a beautiful former model whom 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, young 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, 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 dusty, 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 slight 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 to himself 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 one-thirty in the afternoon.
“Oh hell yeah, let’s go ya’ll,” Brad answers as he grabs his key card and jacket. The three head back towards 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.”
Fresh baked bread and the enticing perfume of chocolate pervades the quaint brasserie. Elegantly designed, the 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 begin perusing the undemanding one page paper menu. A male sung Hector Berlioz aria hums in the background over the house sound system.
The assiètte 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 remolaude.
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 crazy story?”
The other two nod yes and listen with piqued interest and Brad begins.
“Now I normally don’t date women I work with, you know, for obvious reasons. 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.
“Any way, we had a really good meal, even though the conversation wasn’t at all stimulating, and we head back to her apartment.” Brad explains. “Well I was just going to drop her off and head home, I could still catch the O’Reilly Factor.”
Cicero grins. Kam is at a lost, “The what?” he asks, talking slowly.
Brad ignores Kam’s ignorance 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. 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 going 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 boudior.”
“Her what?” Kam blurts. The candles 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. “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 explains. “Just as I’m about to pull my loafers 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 and douses 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 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 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, questioning Kam’s motives. “Please don’t force me to escort you do 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 10 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 stare 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 tall, strong 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, glorious accompaniment to the French words being belted from above.
“Ah! qui pourrait me rèsister? Sus-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 the cops 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 towards 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 $300 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 is now an absolute non-factor.
Wanting to really get through to the maître d', Kam pulls a black Saturday night special from the small of this back and begins to pistol whip him.
Brad is visibly scared, the magna cum laude grad never envisioned himself 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 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.
“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.
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