The Tragic Flaw Read online

  “Blow his motherfucking head off, Stevie,” the passenger yells to his cohort. “Stay on his ass, man!”

  Driving about eighty miles per hour down a side street, Cicero calmly makes a quick right down a residential block on Forty-Fourth Street. His pursuers follow as an unaware kid rides his bike from the sidewalk toward the street in an attempt to cross it.

  Cicero sees the kid out the corner of his eye at the last minute and hits the horn, then swerves to his left, tires screeching. The youngster falls from his bike, but is unscathed, lying safely on the ground between two parked cars. The jackers in the green Camaro zoom by seconds later. They want those rims. They need those rims.

  But Cicero’s sudden right on the next block and his state-of-the-art German engineering is too much for the American muscle car, which is why the Camaro’s driver loses control of the vehicle and it skids to the left, crashing head-on into a towering oak tree. The car’s front end is completely crushed, and the engine catches fire. Cicero sees the collision in his rearview mirror and promptly hits the brakes, stopping on a dime. Sade’s voice is riveting, and helps keep him composed.

  From about fifty feet away, he stares toward the wreckage and observes twitching, movement. They survived the impact. But he is resolved. They deserve to die. They’re going to die.

  “You mothafuckas wanna try to jack me?” Cicero says to himself. “Okay, I got something for you bitch-ass mothafuckas.”

  Without missing a beat, he lifts the seat cushion on the passenger side and pulls out a fully automatic submachine gun.

  He hops out the silver two-door, seemingly in slow motion. His tailored suit clings to his body.

  Seeing Cicero through the engine’s flames, sliding to the left, the Camaro’s driver shakes the cobwebs and yells to his armed comrade, “Shoot that mothafucka. He’s got a—”

  The sunroof gunman stirs, but before the driver can finish his command, Cicero, hunkered down behind a pickup truck, unleashes a flurry of slugs through the driver’s side windshield, with a sound similar to a ferociously rolling tongue. Gun smoke pollutes the air, inevitably increasing this midtown neighborhood’s asthma rates.

  The rounds penetrate the driver’s chest, puncturing a lung and chopping his heart, spewing his blood onto the dashboard and out his mouth. He dies instantly.

  The passenger, who has just watched his partner take four in the chest, struggles to release himself from his jammed seatbelt.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Then, “Yes!”

  Finally able to free himself from the restraint, the passenger jumps out of the fiery vehicle and moves laterally to his right, firing rounds from a nine millimeter pistol he had tucked near his navel.

  Cicero, not realizing the passenger was armed, is stunned by the slugs that are whizzing by his head. He’s baffled, but only momentarily. He’s been in shootouts before, which is why he reacts by sliding further to his right, with his weapon’s butt pressing firmly against his shoulder. He then lets off three aimed, controlled bursts. The first slug misses just under the shooter’s outstretched arm, which is still firing rounds as he moves further across the street.

  But Cicero’s second slug is successful, and it strikes his target in the middle of his Chiefs jacket, pulverizing his sternum into minuscule fragments of bone, causing him to drop his weapon and yelp. His neck is then aerated by the third and final round, forcing him to gasp for oxygen as blood bubbles in his throat.

  Leaking too much necessary fluid, he falls lifeless to the pavement.

  Cicero lowers his weapon and stares at the carnage in the street. A few children happen by on bicycles, and gawk in fright at the bloodshed on their block.

  “Oh my God, that dude is dead,” one points and yells as his friends spin their knobby dirt bike tires faster and disappear around the corner. Unfortunately, these kids have seen dead bodies before.

  Slightly embarrassed, Cicero turns to get in his coupe but his peripheral vision catches motion on the right.

  The rooftop shooter has regained focus, and he lifts his shotgun toward Cicero, who responds with inhuman quickness and releases nine slugs, Swiss cheesing the would-be killer.

  In his mind Cicero hears a voice. It is that of the rounds he’s firing. They speak to him: “I am leadened fury. Release me upon thine enemies, oh master, and I shall smite them. My flight ensues, and you shall have your rage enacted upon such transgressors.”

  At that moment a second thought manifests, seeming to be not his own, “And lo, whilst thee revels in thy triumph, beware of grander vengeance, my master. For your Master is master-less, and he alone claims all rights to vengeance.”

  Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Like a Jitterbug dance instructor, the gunman’s body trembles and quakes to the steel applause as the hot lead makes his anatomy resemble room temperature margarine.

  Cicero dashes back to his coupe, but stops in his tracks when he notices his cognac has spilled on the pavement.

  “Fuck,” he mumbles, looking at the wasted beverage, before slamming the door and mashing the gas pedal. He hits zero to sixty in 4.6 seconds and is in the wind. Chunks of glass fall from his rear window in large clumps. The single red rear fog lamp has been converted into smithereens.

  He heads south up Troost Avenue toward his mother’s house, riding his wounded steed. Staring over at his empty cupholder, Cicero is pissed. He decides to pull over at the next liquor store and grab a fifth of Louis.

  Sure enough, there’s a liquor store on the next block, and he hits the brakes. Glass descends into the backseat. Passersby gape at his vehicle, many in utter amazement. The bullet holes are still fresh. Smoke emanates from several.

  Once inside the store, Cicero sees his reflection on a round security mirror. There’s a small cut on his forehead from flying glass, and a laceration on the top of his bald head from the near-fatal buckshot. More importantly, Cicero notices he looks…different. Like a sub-humanoid absent of compassion. A person with no inkling of decency, or virtue. A killer.

  He ignores it and ambles over to the counter. “You got Louis?”

  The Italian behind the counter nods yes, but appears cautious. Cicero looks a mess, and people rarely wander into this ghetto corner store asking for $1,600 cognac. The clerk grips the pistol on his belt as he turns his back to unlock the case holding the requested merchandise.

  He sets the crystal bottle on the counter, and Cicero drops $1,600, plus tax, in cash. The storeowner eyes Cicero, and seeing that he had money like that, pretends to be concerned, hoping to establish a rapport with this rich moulie.

  “Hey, you look like you were just in a shootout or something,” the clerk quips. “You alright there, buddy?”

  Cicero just nods yes, and then asks for a cup with ice. The owner retrieves it, then returns and opens his mouth to say, “That will be twenty-five cents.”

  Cicero frowns. “Are you serious? I just spent over sixteen hundred dollars in here and you’re going to charge me for ice?”

  “It’s not the ice, it’s the cup,” the clerk states.

  Cicero just laughs.

  “Fine,” Cicero responds, and he throws down another hundred-dollar bill. Cicero quickly snatches his bottle and his cup of ice and heads out the store before the owner stops him.

  “Hey, you want a whole bag of ice?”

  Cicero ignores him and walks out to his car, cracks open the Louis and, violating cognac rule number one, pours the drink on the rocks. He takes a sip and drives off. Cool breezes and sunshine easily make their way through the auto’s newly installed urban ventilation system.

  The streets are empty. Only churches, most of them former houses or stores, see steady bustle. Feathered hats and trench coats make their way toward benches and chairs to pay tithes and hopefully absorb the Word. Cicero resentfully stares at the flocks he passes on every other block, sipping his cognac. Some of God’s children ogle his fish-netted vehicle with astonishment, and unbeknownst to Cicero, several offer prayers for him d
uring morning services.

  The blank-faced man arrives at his mother’s house moments later, with a nice buzz, just as his cell phone begins to ring with that unambiguous violin solo.

  “Yea,” Cicero answers.

  “A, man, my stomach hurts,” Brad replies from his in-house lab in North Kansas City. Sun lamps and ultraviolet lights illuminate plants behind him, while Bunsen burners heat glass beakers in front of him. Aluminum tubing and blue chemicals conceal the white table where he’s working.

  “I don’t feel like interpreting right now, Bradley. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, in our initial trial runs with the product, everything was perfect, right?” Bradley asks.

  Cicero’s end of the line is mute.

  Bradley continues, nervously leafing through shorthand scribbled notes and esoteric mathematic equations.

  “Well, we’ve repeated the process, but the compound won’t solidify. We’ve tried everything, but the product is not turning out right.”

  “That is a problem, Bradley,” Cicero responds. A much-needed gulp of cognac slides down his throat. He eyes the cup, and says, “Twenty-five cents,” under his breath. “Today has not been my day.”

  “So what do ya’ll wanna do, C?”

  Following a deep exhale, C answers, “First, we return J’s money, with interest. And then we look over our shoulders for the rest of our lives.”

  Brad is silent.

  “That’s going to be a problem too.”

  “Oh, really, Brad?”

  “The money is gone. We spent it all on the chemicals we needed. Equipment, supplies and shit. And your connect wanted more money to bring the leaves into the country. Fuckin’ jerks. They said some shit about their bosses cracking down on them because of terrorism threats and shit. But anyway, the mixture is damn near worthless, man. Like, we’ll have to start from scratch or somethin’.”

  Cicero pours himself another cup because his ice has melted and diluted the fine mixture. Sitting in front of his mother’s house, he just shakes his head. Early April breezes blow through the vacancy in the rear, chilling his head.

  “Well, the money is not a problem, Bradley, just sell the stock in your company, and pay J back his initial investment, plus interest.” Cicero’s deep voice contains footprints of agitation.

  “Stock! Man, are you kidding me?” Brad blurts. “Unfortunately, our young-ass CEO lied to our investors and our stock is pretty much worth shit now.”

  Cicero pauses before responding.

  “Dude, I’ve known you for a very long time. I trust you. You know this, right?”

  “Yea.”

  “Okay, with that said, get the fucking money,” Cicero yells into his phone.

  Brad interrupts, “But—”

  “But nothing, Bradley. Get J his two point five. Make it happen. Look, dilute the mixture, change it, whatever. I don’t give a fuck if you piss in it,” Cicero demands, then sips his drink. “Either have the money or the dope. Get your shit together, cuz.”

  Then he hangs up. He exits the car and staggers up the sidewalk to his mother’s front door and knocks.

  Ruth is dressed in a lovely white blouse and black skirt when she opens the door.

  Her appearance warms his heart.

  In less than a second Ruth sees something is amiss, and she hugs her son firmly, holding him for longer than usual.

  “Hey, Son. How are you?”

  Looking younger than her years, the angelic mother of two bids her son to enter. He walks past her and Ruth peeks at his buckshot-riddled sports coupe.

  “It’s good to see you, Son,” she says. “You look nice.” Her son’s suit is the only thing that helps him maintain the ounce of dignity he has left. Ruth frowns as a sliver of glass falls from Cicero’s trousers onto her hardwood floor, but she doesn’t prod.

  “Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”

  “Naw, I haven’t eaten, but I don’t have much of an appetite right now. How was church?” Cicero asks.

  “It was nice. Reverend Cleaver delivered the Word today,” Ruth says while locking the front door.

  They have a seat in the spotless living room, facing each other, with the glass and marble table between them. Over the exposed maroon brick fireplace hangs a framed collage of old and new family photographs. Cicero is without words, but calamity invades his demeanor.

  On the table is a large King James version of the Bible. Cicero briefly eyes it, then looks away. Seeing her son’s cynicism before her, Ruth inquires, “What’s bothering you, Cicero?”

  He’s silent, then, with eyes to the floor, exclaims, “I had that dream again.”

  Ruth’s lovely face looks troubled.

  “What did I tell you, Cicero?

  He peers at her sheepishly, then back toward the polyurethane. Even though her son is a bona-fide gangster, he’s developing what he’s read to be oneirophobia, a fear of dreaming.

  “I told you, you had to pray.” Ruth’s hands are wrinkled and soft, and she rubs them together as she talks. “God will take those nightmares away from you, Son.”

  She goes on to say something else, but Cicero interjects.

  “God. God has the answers, does he?” the skeptic questions. “You wanted me to go to college and get an education, right? Well, I did and I’ve been taught to rely on evidence, on facts. Not presumptions and wishful thinking.”

  “Cicero, God is real, and He is loving. Faith is the ultimate venture.”

  “Loving? Then why was my father murdered? Why was I the product of a sinful affair?”

  Ruth is slightly ashamed and without answers, as her son calmly goes on.

  “Why do young black children catch stray bullets? Some god you have, Momma. Life is like the weather, unpredictable random chaos. Kneeling and mumbling won’t change that.”

  Since before working for the Kansas City school district, the phone company, and taking computer classes at night, Ruth was never one to complain. It was a trait Antonio also had, and so did Cicero, usually. But today’s release was new to Ruth. She never knew Cicero harbored such feelings.

  “Well, Son, people have free will,” Ruth says. “We decide the paths our lives and our souls will take.”

  “But what about Olivia? She went to church, didn’t smoke or drink, or even curse,” states Cicero. “Did she deserve to get AIDS?”

  Ruth pauses. She appears tired. Years of sending prayers to heaven for two children have become a burdensome load. She stands and turns to walk toward the dining room, then stops.

  “Look, Cicero, I don’t have all the answers. Do bad things happen to good people? Yes. Honey, all you can do is be honest, live a moral life, and treat people fairly. And you know what, I will keep praying for you, Son, because I love you.”

  There’s suddenly a light knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Cicero says.

  He saunters over and opens the door. His sister has striking natural beauty, but she looks worn out. As she stands there grinning, the baggage under her lovely hazel oval eyes is heavy, aging her beyond her thirty-eight years.

  “Well, well, well,” Lucia quips. “If it isn’t the one and only Cicero.”

  She steps into the house. In her arms is a one-year-old baby boy. Neatly dressed in a trendy pink velour sweatsuit, her curves are accentuated, but excessive rouge and eyeliner make a failed attempt to conceal many moons of late-night partying and early-morning regrets. Lucia’s learned from experience that burnt toast and another vodka tonic are not the magical cure for a hangover.

  “How are you, Lucia?” Cicero asks, looking down at his five-foot-six sibling.

  “I’m fine,” she responds after letting her son stand on his fat wobbly legs. “What the fuck happened to your car?”

  “I ran into some knuckleheads.”

  “Hmm. I bet you did.”

  The toddler ambles off toward the glass living room table. Lucia is inattentive, as she is with all her kids, so her mother grabs the youngster before he fa
lls and his head is split open on the edge of the glass.

  Ruth walks over with baby in hand and shuts the front door behind her daughter to prevent the cool breeze from entering.

  “You all want something to drink?” Ruth asks her children. The baby drools on her white blouse.

  “I’m fine,” answers Cicero, still grasping his cognac-filled plastic cup.

  “Yes, I want something to drink. You got some beer?” asks Lucia, smiling.

  “Um, no. Well, there may be some beer you left in the fridge from last time,” Ruth states. “If not, I have some wine.”

  “That’s cool. Is it zinfandel?” Lucia asks. Her mother doesn’t respond as she steps toward the kitchen, and Cicero and Lucia seat themselves in the seldom-used dining room.

  “Where’s Shaquanda?” Cicero asks of his eldest niece.

  “With her father, thank God. She’s really starting to get on my nerves. He is too, shit.”

  There’s a brief moment of silence between the two. They haven’t seen each other for over three months. They run in different circles with different degenerates. The six-seat table is set, as it always is. Fake aromatic reeds and tulips occupy a sky-blue vase in the middle. Ruth painted it herself one day out of boredom.

  Lucia’s son is seen stumbling from the kitchen.

  “So are you still doing private shows?” Cicero asks his sister. “For the so-called V.I.P. crowd?”

  “Yep,” Lucia quickly replies. “Everybody doesn’t have two degrees like you, Cicero.”

  It doesn’t matter to Lucia that his degrees have never earned him an honest paycheck or even a single day’s wage.

  “Lucia, you don’t need two degrees to keep your damn clothes on,” her brother tells her in an unfriendly tone. He’s usually more cool about it, but faking his dissatisfaction for Lucia’s lifestyle takes effort, and today’s events have already drained him of that resource. Not to mention he’s still fuming about the twenty-five-cent cup.

  “Who the fuck are you to talk to me like that?” screams Lucia. “I used to change your funky-ass diapers! Remember that!”