The Tragic Flaw

  The Tragic Flaw

  Strebor Books

  P.O. Box 6505

  Largo, MD 20792

  http://www.streborbooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of

  the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or

  locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2007 by Che Parker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6848-3

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-6848-4

  LCCN 2007923863

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Tragic flaw (n) 1913: a defect in character that brings about the downfall of the hero of a tragedy

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my friend

  Oshun “O.G.” Garner

  rest in peace

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my mother, Shelley, and my aunt Onyta, the best consiglieri a young man could have.

  Thanks to my father, Robert Parker, without whom my education would not have been possible, rest in peace.

  And to my stepfather, Archie “Bobby” Miller, for providing for us and eventually kicking me out of the house. You will never know how much I needed that.

  Chapter 1

  Youthful laughter permeates the old neighborhood on an unseasonably sultry winter day. Three-story homes and greening arbors line the streets on either side. The homes’ aged and stately appearances clash with the sounds of adolescence. Older model cars dot College Avenue here and there. Most are well kept, washed and waxed, and parked close enough to the curb as to avoid the all too infamous sideswipe. Others lack hubcaps, or sport more than one tone—black and taupe, for instance—certainly not what the manufacturer intended.

  Still others lack tires, or have been clasped with city-owned clamps that prevent them from doing what they’re meant to do. Of course they’re American made. Names like Buick, Ford, and Oldsmobile are commonplace. More than one flatbed truck lives here, and is used here, often to haul in bicycles that require assembly, or to haul out sofas when excuses no longer dissuade eager landlords.

  The gold and red masonry of the homes stands strong in the face of frail innocence. The dwellings are seemingly paternal in essence, standing watch over tomorrow’s dearest. Visible black bars of iron cover nearly every window on the ground level, hinting at unforeseen perils and dangers that might thrive in this community.

  Most sidewalks are well swept, but a few could use sprucing up. They very often resemble the tidiness of the vehicles parked just in front of them. Wrappers with words like Coca-Cola, Jolly Ranchers, and Coors, and other colorful plastics with various titles are seen in gutters, not everywhere, but more than enough.

  A single ringing gunshot is heard while children are at play. Nothing uncommon for this neighborhood, so the youth continue their games in the thick humid air. Some, mostly girls, are tossing rocks on quadrangles and hopping on unsteady feet. Others, sweaty boys in T-shirts and dirty blue jeans, thrust outstretched hands toward still others, boys and girls who flee as if their pursuers wished to transmit smallpox or leprosy. Several girls, not quite nubile, twirl opposing ropes as a single entrenched participant leaps in a battle against the encircling cords. Her laughter is infectious, as her beaded locks frolic about and sweat drips from her brow. They’re clad in cut-rate shorts and tank tops with waning hues of pink and lavender, and off-white sandals that have had their fair share of rope jumping and inner-city jaunts. The other two partakers giggle with her and against her. They’re not new to this game; they have played it many times. Each time it is pleasurable. The summertime weather beckons, even though it is only February. Another gunshot rings out, echoing against the urban edifices. There’s still no reaction from the playing preteens as they chuckle and skip.

  They have songs and chants and rhymes that usually accompany their rope exercise, but not this time. This time it’s more serious. The middle combatant is a champion, and her compatriots wish to dethrone her. Even still, her feet seem to be magnetically repelled by the ground and the ropes. They smack the hot turf methodically while avoiding the merest brush with the composite twine.

  A graying grandmother exits her front door and comes to sit idle on her stoop, observing the ever-changing world through wise, time-tested eyes. She has been a witness to Jackie Robinson’s first base hit, lynchings, riots, and space travel. She’s seen the persecution of quadroons and conversely, the invalidation of age-old taboos. She, perhaps unlike others her age, has no fear of dying.

  Her faded floral housecoat and matching slippers appear as aged as she, and her brown, wrinkled, and calloused hands offer a glimpse into the difficult life she has led. Lovely roses of all colors begin to bloom in her yard, fooled by the early ninety-degree day. She has diligently tended to these flowers for years.

  The glowing sun fights through the scattered clouds. Baby blue occupies the sky. Undeterred yellow beams of light strike the pavement. It is un-doubtedly a beautiful day.

  A beam catches one young lass’s light-brown eyes and long lashes, enhancing both, as she twirls her end of the two ropes with coffee-colored hands. Sweaty palms grasp the cordage as she fights to hold on.

  Family gatherings bring the aroma of mesquite and charred beef and pork. Third generations are ordered to perform songs and dances for first generations. It’s tradition on days like this. And with weather so lovely in the dead of winter, all wish to take advantage of it.

  A badly lit mom-and-pop corner store sees a steady stream of at least three generations during the day and well into the night. The neighborhood’s rambunctious kids are sustained with consistently stocked shelves of licorice and hot pickles.

  Middle-aged and sturdy fix-it men in tattered coveralls stop by for D batteries, seventy five-watt light bulbs, nails, and flathead compatible screws kept on dusty wooden racks. They chat briefly with the owner about how their home team could go all the way if they just had a decent secondary and some semblance of a pass rush. Well-known rummies fall in for the inexpensive lagers and two-dollar bottles of vino stored in lukewarm refrigerator units.

  A cool breeze blows. A crackle of thunder interrupts the melodic chuckles, yet the play goes on. The flow of business at the bazaar is uninterrupted. A burnt-out drunk with a hardened face pours worthless suds from this empty beer bottle onto the sidewalk. He then asks the neighborhood’s young hustlers for spare change, and they in turn laugh at him, as always. The abodes, while casting a regal shadow of protection on the area’s most precious resource, hide a secret.

  For just a few feet away, one turn to the left, a few paces down, and yet another swivel the opposite way, then down an alley where vermin reside and slime and sludge congregate, lies a dying shell. It is the shell of a man. The dying, bleeding shell of a man. That ringing shot was no accident. It has hit its mark.

  Key aspects of his chest are absent. Maroon solution cascades down the side of his torso in a slow waterfall of despair and anguish.

  Yet the children’s laughter is still heard, ignorant that it fills the ears of the perishing, who is in no need of its sardonic prodding. The burgundy life force pools just beneath its reluctant spring. The giggling intensifies and is ubiquitous as the clouds open and it begins to rain. A mad scramble is made to every step, stoop, doorway, door, foyer, and elsewhere.

  The stray yellow beams of light have been overwhelmed by the dark gray coming of the rain.

  The relentless drops splash in the unsuspecting red sauce, pounding the man’s b
ody, which at this point has no say in the matter. Yet, sirens can be heard in the background. There is hope for him, as the rain pours. The sudden precipitation makes an overwhelming SSSHHHH sound as it coats everything in what appears to be insurmountable moisture.

  The man wears exquisite garb from the Old World. Fine lines, evenly stitched, and thread counts in the hundreds, position themselves along sinewy flesh. The stench of forthcoming death lingers as his eyelids flutter. His breathing is weak and faint.

  The brilliant powder-blue mainstay of his soaked shirt contrasts sharply with poignant crimson lines that intersect throughout it. Midnight-colored trousers, also of the Italian peninsula, rest comfortably on the drenched and ever more dampening pavement. The man’s slip-on onyx loafers lie fixed in a conflicting state, pointing directly at each other in a supple and unsightly way.

  Zeus is restless. The rain pounds it all. The man’s black blazer now functions as a colander for heaven’s tears. His earth-tone hands and fingers, furrowed by the wetness, are bent in awkward positions. The fingers twitch as if communicating via sign language prior to what looks like an inevitable trip to the spirit world. His eyes become securely closed, looking as if he is simply napping as the sirens get louder and closer. The lines on his face display a few years, but not many.

  He would look peaceful, if it weren’t for his contorted posture and weather-beaten exterior. His frame becomes cold, losing any inkling of heat or energy. Rivers of waste and other remnants are washed to the man by the driving rain.

  Rubbish, like shattered glass held together by sticky labels, begins to gather near his feet. Used condoms collect fittingly near his midsection; his body locked in a fetal position. All things urban are flushed toward this once proud man, who now finds himself a filter for a city’s precipitation and refuse.

  And still, the blood pours. It gathers, and then is dispersed by the rain into several streams that flow down the black glossy alleyway in an artistic display. It is fluid artwork that has decorated ghettos the world over. This medium, unlike colored pencils or pastel chalk, is the medium that keeps Hell engorged with uncaring youth and malevolent adults.

  An expiring heart pumps faintly in a rain-soaked alley.

  But blaring sirens near. All is not lost.

  Chapter 2

  Bullion barbs, approximately one hundred symmetrically aligned, millimeters in width, protrude from a focal point of gold. The entire mass rotates and reflects the radiant sunlight of the cloudless day.

  The twenty-four-inch disk is accompanied by three clones in flanking positions, as they all support the weight of a large, pearl-white sport utility vehicle and its driver, currently en route.

  The rotation of the SUV’s Ohio-made rims is hypnotic. Nothing that big should be that gold. The oyster exterior is luminous. Not a speck nor smudge defiles its brilliance.

  Its large black tires hug the Thirty-First Street concrete intimately, as if a love affair had been brewing since the new model left the showroom floor.

  The driver is ever vigilant of potholes, swerving carefully to avoid them.

  The scenery is bleak. Urban blight festers. Names crossed out in graffiti mark the deceased. On any given day, gunplay can make this place look like the Gaza Strip, or some Israeli settlement on the outskirts of the West Bank, except there’s no “Breaking Coverage,” no Wolf Blitzer, and no international outcry. Regardless, cashaholic militants carry out an assortment of transactions and will not hesitate to let Teflon-coated lead fly with the fervor of religious zealots. They’ll die for this shit.

  Corner after corner, someone’s uncle chugs cheap wine and cheaper beer in an attempt to drown his sorrows, but in the ghetto they know how to tread water well. This while someone else’s sister solicits every other blue-collar Joe and white-collar Jonathon.

  “Hey! Hey, baby!” one clad in cherry hot pants screams to the SUV’s driver, trying to flag him down. Her hazel eyes and delicate skin are appealing, but he’s focused, and her call goes unnoticed.

  The driver’s path is fixed. Avenue after avenue, he continues without making a single turn, avoiding stray dogs and children fresh from summer school on this late June day. Empty brick buildings with broken windows abound.

  There are signs of commerce, though. Aside from the open-air cash dealings for illegal narcotics, liquor stores, fast-food restaurants, pawnshops, pager shops, and check cashing businesses flourish here.

  Residents of this once up-and-coming middle-class community poison their livers with fermented fruits and vegetables, then continue the self-imposed genocide by poisoning their bellies with high-fat, high-calorie fare. It’s readily available and a little too convenient.

  And yet the gold rims keep spinning.

  The driver, clean-shaven and bald, sips expensive cognac from a red plastic cup. Bass lines from rap music send vibrations throughout the truck’s peanut butter leather interior, causing the rear view mirror to shake and shimmy.

  His tiny metallic digital phone rings. He grabs it from the center console, looks at the device’s caller identification box, notices the number, and decides not to answer it, tossing it onto the passenger seat.

  He takes another sip of his aged libation, hints of vanilla and oak escaping from the cup.

  “Uuhh,” he says, as his full lips curl. The drink is strong, but it’s good.

  Life in this neighborhood is enough to make anybody drink cordials during the middle of the day, the driver thinks to himself.

  After making a right turn on Jackson Avenue and cruising several blocks, the driver pulls in front of a home and stops. He steps out of the truck. His light-blue alligator boots gently kiss the pavement. His blue, short-sleeved Australian-made sweater is intricately woven into eye-catching patterns. It matches his boots to a tee, as well as the picturesque sky above.

  He crosses the street and comes before a white, one-story gated house watched by several surveillance cameras. It is extremely clean and well kempt, especially for this part of town.

  He pushes a buzzer on an intercom. His diamond-encrusted, European-made watch glimmers in the sunshine. The princess cuts catch and display every color in the rainbow with their many facets. It seems to say, bliiiing. The time is 4:06 p.m.

  A low male voice answers the driver’s page, and asks professionally over the intercom, “Who is it?”

  “Cicero,” the driver answers, as he takes another sip from his plastic cup.

  With a loud buzz, the gate, pulled by a rusty chain, begins to open, retracting to the left.

  Cicero slowly walks in, and the gate begins closing behind him, making an obnoxious clanking noise. He takes one last swig of his auburn beverage and discards his red cup right in the front lawn. There’s nothing else in the yard, and the cup stands out in the manicured emerald grass.

  The electronic eyes follow his progress from the gate to the covered porch. Bars cover the windows.

  Men’s voices can be heard, muffled, emanating from within the house. The door is unlocked. Knowing this, Cicero turns the brass knob and walks in.

  The place smells like a mixture of rancid marijuana smoke and fruity air fresheners plugged into the outlets, but it is immaculate.

  White coats everything: white carpet, a white leather sofa and matching loveseat, white stereo equipment, a white marble-based coffee table with a glass top. Yet the stylish purity clashes subtly with the black African art that decorates the walls, not to mention the mannish and outlandish speech coming from a back room.

  One rendering, framed in black wood, hangs above the sofa and features a black, bare-chested tribesman embracing his African queen, whose full breasts are exposed. It’s huge, running the length of the long white sofa. In the background is the enchanting Serengeti. The chiseled sunburned peaks in the distance further emphasize the softness of the tribesman’s bronze female.

  Cicero eyes it, as he has many times, and just for a split second longs to be the man in the painting.

  A sculpture of a woman stands ne
arly four feet and is situated to the left of the loveseat near a long hallway. The full figure and bouffant tresses give away the piece’s ethnicity as its back arches and its hands are raised toward heaven as if giving praise to the Almighty.

  A black-and-white still shot of Billie Holiday with her signature botanical adornment hangs over the love seat. The framed work beautifully depicts the elegant songstress’ defined cheekbones, fine lips, and long flirtatious lashes. Her spread fingers, reacting to the heart-pounding offbeat jazz rhythms, make her hands appear to be in flight. Her lace-trimmed blouse is billowy. She is floating.

  Mirrors, lined with white accents, are everywhere. The image of the large oil painting of the loving couple is bounced back and forth all over the wide living room, as is that of our elongated inanimate lady.

  Cicero bends down and removes his boots, placing them right next to a pair of brand-new sneakers. This Japanese-based tradition of shoe removal, as requested by the homeowner, is a sign of respect. It is also what keeps the carpet the color of pure cocaine. Tan work boots and colorful tennis shoes line the wall to the left of the front door all the way to the towering white entertainment center that holds the state-of-the-art stereo system (also white) and the corresponding flat-screen plasma television.

  “Shoot the fucking dice,” one man says as Cicero walks down the hallway to the source of the hostility. His white socks blend perfectly into the plush Berber carpet, leaving size eleven footprints in his wake.

  Cicero enters a back bedroom that has been converted into a recreation room of sorts. Five men occupy it. Four are kneeling. It’s a crap game.

  High stakes. Three thousand gets you a side bet. Four thousand gets you in the game.

  “Man, will you stop shaking the fuckin’ dice and just shoot,” one heavily tattooed man says to another who also bears ink, in a frank and quite unfriendly tone. Twin jade serpents intertwine on his right forearm. His hair is tightly braided in straight parallel lanes.