The Tragic Flaw Page 6

  Chapter 6

  Repetitious bass lines filter out of a nightclub. Twelve days after her meeting with Cicero, Olivia has tracked down the man who has crossed her employer. Velvet ropes block the entrance as an ethnically diverse line forms halfway down the block.

  Faux fur coats and micro-miniskirts constitute much of the attire worn by anxious partygoers who have chosen to deal with the October chill on a Sunday night. Banging techno music and one-dollar pineapple martinis draw a nice mix of paraprofessionals and posers.

  The wide Mexican bouncer at the door thoroughly checks IDs. After an underage girl left the club drunk and slammed into a state trooper leaving his wife a widow, the club goes the extra mile to avoid liability.

  Olivia strolls past a slick, clean-cut Chinese crew, a couple of Armenians in silk shirts and black leather blazers, and a clique of Hispanics with intricately designed facial hair. Her skintight little black dress and tall boots get the attention of each and every one of them.

  “Que pasa, mami?” one vato blurts. Cold air escapes his mouth. She smells of jasmine and fine oils.

  Ignoring the multilingual cat calls, Olivia and her black full-length fur greet the bouncer, who is busily eyeing an out-of-state identification that doesn’t exactly match the description of its owner.

  “Hey, Manny,” Olivia says to the bouncer. “What’s the cover tonight?”

  He smiles and removes the latch from one of the purple velvet ropes and motions her in.

  “Oh, hell no,” screams one pissed off sista who’s watched Olivia bypass the entire line. She’s been waiting to get in for nearly an hour.

  Olivia passes under a bright pink neon sign reading Chocolate City. Another man opens the door for her and she is overwhelmed by the pounding music. Boom, boom, boom, boom.

  The club is dark and densely packed. Its dance floor moves in waves like the Indian Ocean. Amber sconces decorate the walls. Behind the bar to the right, mirrors and premium liquors run the length of the wall, where groups of women down tequila shots and Jägermeister. They giggle as one spills the black Jäger down the front of her white lace blouse. Her friends don’t care; it’s after Labor Day and she shouldn’t have worn it anyway.

  Olivia eyes every male face. Many wink in response to what is perceived as her interest in them. Fifty or so simultaneous conversations inundate the part-time nightclub and restaurant in indiscernible babble. A few feminine outbursts of laughter break the monotone sound of white noise.

  Techno continues to rock. Boom, boom, boom, boom. The low decibels knock. Undulating bodies brush against each other in this passionate venue of urban mating rituals. Olivia slyly maneuvers the crowd, careful to avoid spilled drinks and scuffs on the fourteen hundred-dollar, Italian-made boots she got on a trip to Milan.

  Her mink glistens when the lime-green and baby-blue laser lights hit it. Boom, boom, boom, boom. She checks her crocodile-strapped timepiece. The oval onyx face shows it’s a little after eleven p.m., plenty of time for her to complete her objective.

  She glances to the rear of the club where satiny mint-colored sofas and rosey track lighting encourage networking and pickup line delivery.

  “You’re beautiful,” an inebriated man wholeheartedly slurs.

  “Thank you,” Olivia says without looking at him. She feels another enticed partier tug at her minkened arm, an oft-used practice she hates, which is why she immediately yanks it free without looking at the guilty fellow.

  “Oh, it’s like that?” the sub-six-foot twenty-one-year-old asks. His question and his cheap cologne are ignored. Unbeknownst to him, a plot has been hatched, and the one he pursues is in pursuit of another, with potentially life-altering consequences.

  The suitor allows Olivia to pass minus further harassment and grabs another, less-attractive woman who happily joins him on the overcrowded dance floor.

  Olivia forces her way through the throng and finally comes to the entranceway of a rear lounge area. Liquid crystal television screens hang along the perimeter like neoteric Picassos. Cubism at its finest. Drunkards view the latest mini DVDs and play virtual reality video games.

  Boom, boom, boom, boom.

  Olivia scans the room and notices from a distance what she thinks is a familiar face, so she edges closer.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a well-dressed man blurts out. “I see you’re not drinking. Is it a religious thing or what?”

  He catches Olivia off guard and she smiles, so he continues.

  “Well, if it’s not, can I buy you a drink?”

  She agrees with his appearance and dark skin, so she responds in the affirmative. “Sure.”

  They walk over to a smallish, less-stocked bar in the corner where an interracial couple enjoys the unborn spawn of a beluga sturgeon. He orders a bottle of overpriced champagne in an unsuccessful attempt to impress the one he wants.

  Miniature, hidden JBL speakers rock: boom, boom, boom, boom.

  “So I take it you’re here alone?” the debonair bachelor asks. But before he can pop the cork, Olivia spots her mark across the room. She stares at him intensely, like an eagle stalking a field mouse. His cursive written tattoo gives him away.

  “Excuse me, it was nice meeting you,” Olivia tells the gentleman. He’s speechless. Her mark dons black glass headgear. He’s engaged in a heated game of virtual football with the Latvian fellow next to him.

  The quarry is dapper, wearing an all-midnight outfit and a matching wristwatch with black diamonds on the bezel.

  Olivia steps closer to him. She is stunning. The unwitting man, glancing out the side of his headgear, soon notices her gaze. She stares at him. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes are enchanting. She smiles at him and makes her way to a nearby bar, still within eyesight.

  She orders a blueberry martini as the mark follows her with his obscured eyes. His loss of concentration is costly, and his opponent scores a crucial last-second touchdown. Game over.

  “Fuck,” he yells as he tosses the headpiece to the carpeted floor. Disappointed, but not too, he slides over to the bar and stands next to Olivia, who turns away from him as if no longer interested.

  Boom, boom, boom, boom. She’s nonchalant and scopes the room, dismissing his presence.

  “That’s fucked up,” the guy says. His skin is ink rich.

  “Pardon me?” Olivia sassily inquires, batting her long eyelashes.

  “You all in my grill and l lose five-hundred dollars,” he spits. One arm rests on the bar as he leans on it. His breath smells of beer and vodka. Olivia is silent.

  “You wrong for that,” he tells her.

  “Oh really?” she responds as she sips her drink. Boom, boom, boom, boom, the techno bass is nonstop. “You can’t stay focused?”

  He grins. “I’m focused now, and that’s real talk.” They begin eyeballing each other, making bedroom eyes.

  “Well, I got something worth more than five-hundred dollars,” Olivia explains, playing her ace. “And you’ll never be the same afterward.”

  “Oh yeah?” the man asks as he strokes his face. The motion causes the short sleeve on his sweater to shrink, revealing the ominous name, V-Dog. “Well, I’m broke now, so can I put it on layaway?”

  Olivia laughs, then downs her drink. She takes him by the hand and leads him through the jabbering crowd and past the champagne buyer who has watched their entire exchange in gut-wrenching disgust.

  They reach a unisex bathroom and upon locking the door behind them, begin ferociously kissing as if there’s no tomorrow. Olivia’s beauty is irresistible, and V-Dog’s ego shoots through the roof.

  She loosens his silver belt buckle as he removes her mink and tosses it on the counter. His pants drop to the floor. His manhood is erect. Their tongues dance in each other’s mouths. Up and down, side to side, lips smacking. V-Dog squeezes her firm breasts and she moans in pleasure.

  Eager to have him inside her, Olivia eases her tight black dress up to her hips. V-Dog becomes profoundly horny when he sees she is panty-less, shaven, an
d soaking wet. Boom, boom, boom, boom.

  Without even considering stopping to grab a condom, V-Dog inserts himself into Olivia’s hot vagina. She sits on the sink and wraps her gorgeous legs around his waist as he thrusts in and out with powerful strokes. She screams in ecstasy. Her tight love embraces his thickness.

  “Fuck me! Fuck me!” she insists, squeezing him close with both arms and legs.

  “You like that? You like that?” V-Dog asks as he breaks into a sweat. He thrusts and thrusts.

  He pounds her over and over again. His facial expressions show unmistakable lust. Olivia moans again. The pleasure of pain is so good. A few moments later, V-Dog releases his fluids inside her, and lets out a loud groan.

  “Oh yea, baby, let it go,” Olivia demands as she begins to rub his face.

  V-Dog completes his act, and removes his penis from inside her. Olivia immediately turns to the sinks and begins to wash herself. V-Dog wipes his sweat with a paper towel, and pulls his boxers up followed by his slacks.

  Olivia puts on her mink and fixes her hair and checks her makeup. Flawless. The good stuff doesn’t run. V-Dog tucks in his shirt and fastens his belt. He feels like the luckiest dude on Earth.

  Olivia turns and walks to the door and unlocks it, but before parting ways she turns toward him and whispers, “God bless you.”

  V-Dog looks confused by her comment, but just shrugs it off and grins. Not by chance, but by design, he has bedded a new millennium black widow.

  Olivia makes her way past the dance floor and heads toward the front door of the club, now packed beyond capacity and violating the city’s fire laws.

  As the minx leaves, two women behind her get into a fight, throwing punches, scratching each other, and cursing. It’s a significant contrast to her clandestine method of warfare, less effective and much more visible.

  Boom, boom, boom, boom. Yet another victim has fallen for Olivia’s sinister Kabuki. Boom, boom, boom, boom.

  “Hail Mary” is spelled out on Cicero’s digital text-message communicator. He takes a quick look at the message, acknowledges its significance, and then deletes it.

  He is expressionless and without reaction as he drives his pearl-white SUV through the inner city; titanic tires turning. Kam rides shotgun, once again blowing big blue weed smoke. Today’s crop is dipped in embalming fluid, and Kam’s being nosy.

  “Who was that?” he asks as he inhales deeply.

  “Olivia,” Cicero answers in his deep tranquil voice.

  Kam looks as if he is thinking, trying to jog his memory. A light bulb comes on and he exhales.

  “Oh! That bad-ass broad you be meeting in the coffee shop,” Kam decides. “She’s killin’ ’em,” he says in his deep, sluggish speech pattern. “What’s up with you and her?” he inquires before taking another long puff of his marijuana-stuffed cigar.

  “Nothing,” Cicero responds as he sips cognac from a red plastic cup. He’s nicely dressed in a black blazer with matching T-shirt and slacks. His face and head are freshly shaven. His Italian loafers are well polished.

  “Nothing? Shit, ya’ll be kickin’ it all the time, right?” Kam prods. He wears a similar all-black outfit with matching alligator boots. His dark ebony skin is smooth.

  In the past, Cicero has kept his lieutenants in the dark regarding each other’s activities, and he’s pleased to see these operational details are exquisitely esoteric. He takes another sip of cognac.

  “We have a business arrangement,” he tells Kam, who is high.

  “A business arrangement?” Kam asks as he exhales and fills the SUV with skunk-smelling plumes of smoke. Hip-hop blazes through the sound system.

  Cicero looks somewhat bothered, but at this point, he figures Kam no longer needs to stay in the dark. His questions reveal to Cicero that he has interest in Olivia, so Cicero chooses to enlighten him, and possibly save his life.

  “I pay her to know my enemies,” Cicero states, “in the Biblical sense.”

  Kam appears confused. He knows what Cicero means, but he can’t understand why. He takes an extremely long drag from his blunt.

  “Well fuck,” he weighs in, “how do I become one of your enemies?” He laughs and playfully punches Cicero in his arm, causing him to almost spill his drink.

  Cicero takes another sip and ignores the comment. There’s a long moment of silence, then for Kam’s sake he states, “She has AIDS.”

  Kam’s eyes widen and his jaw drops. His face goes from showing glee to showing obvious disbelief. Cicero makes a gliding left turn on Twelfth Street, narrowly missing a homeless man pushing a shopping cart. Cicero thinks to himself that their destination cannot wait on some disenfranchised piece of shit to cross the street, even if he is a Vietnam vet.

  Kam slowly leans back in his seat, allowing the leather to engulf him as he takes a long pull from his blunt before tossing it out the window.

  In a subdued voice, Kam asks, “How’d she get that shit?”

  “Her boyfriend in college,” Cicero answers. “He played on the football team, came from a good family. She told me he was even on the Dean’s list.” He looks over at Kam. “You know, good grades and shit.”

  Cicero takes another sip of his cognac and begins feeling the effects of the one-hundred-year-old, oak-aged libation. Kam glares at him, listening intently.

  Cicero continues, “So needless to say, he was getting a lot of ass thrown his way, male and female. And he was happy to hit both. No one knew.” He pauses to take another drink. “That is, until he got sick.”

  “Damn,” Kam blurts in amazement. “He was a damn sodomite, with a hottie like that?” His cell phone vibrates but he ignores it.

  “Yea, after he found out why he was sick, he told Olivia to get tested,” Cicero adds. “And sure enough, she had it too.”

  Kam simply shakes his head. Beams from a street light sneak into the truck and brighten the interior after bouncing off Cicero’s platinum watch and Kam’s teeth.

  “Man, they were together for like three years,” Cicero says as he glances over at Kam, beginning to slur slightly. “By the time she got tested, that monster was already creeping through her blood vessels, murdering her silently.” He pauses. “The ninja.”

  “So she ain’t taking no medicine or nothing?” Kam inquires with youthful curiosity.

  “Yea, she is, which is why she needs me,” Cicero answers. “She was so distraught and fucked up in the head when she found out her status that she dropped out of school and basically gave up on life. She came back to Kansas City where really nobody knows her. She just felt lost.”

  “Then you came into the picture?” Kam jumps in.

  “Basically,” Cicero responds as he takes a sip of cognac. “Since she doesn’t work, and the state’s not paying for that shit, I supply her AIDS cocktails and what not. The good stuff, you know, so she’s able to keep her looks.” He pauses. “She can’t live without me.”

  Kam thinks for a moment. “But man, don’t they have like a vaccine for that shit? I thought they were working on some shit?”

  “Yea, they’re working on one, but it’s too late for old Olivia,” Cicero states. He takes another sip. “Just a little too late, cousin.” He takes another quick drink of his cognac, and begins bobbing his head to the fierce hip-hop lyrics.

  Kam thinks further. “But damn, so she’s basically spreading that shit?”

  Cicero takes another sip of his drink and puts his cup down.

  “You ever see Pulp Fiction? You know that part when Samuel L. Jackson is talking about that shit, that Bible verse he says to people before he smokes ’em?”

  “Yea, I saw that shit, but I don’t really remember it,” Kam says.

  “Well, anyway, in the movie he’s like, he says it just because it’s something sick to say to a mothafucka before you blast ’em. That’s how I feel about Olivia, really. It’s some cold-blooded shit to say to a mothafucka. Besides, fuck ’em. Them mothafuckas should use condoms.”

  Cicero picks up his drin
k and laughs to himself.

  Kam glances at his friend and is briefly disenchanted with his sinister words. He then turns his head and looks out the window in silence.

  With enough sodium chloride, even the good mascara runs, which explains the cheetah-like streaks cascading down Olivia’s face. She cruises in her cherry-red, two-seater convertible, top up, listening to India Arie.

  “Give me some Stevie, give me some Donny, give me my daddy, give me my mommy.”

  The smooth soulful lyrics comfort her, but only as much as a stranger’s voice can.

  She passes several women of the night, out soliciting for rent, gold bracelets, or to pad another’s coffer. Olivia glances over her shoulder and makes direct eye contact with one, maybe seventeen, getting into a beat-up Buick. The young girl is cute, but her make-up is caked on and tacky. Her platinum blonde wig is bouffant. Yet and still, she looks resolved, as if she’s merely clocking in to her nine-to-five desk job.

  Olivia wipes her face and turns the heat up in her sixty-thousand-dollar German-made sports coupe. Her Italian boot gently applies more pressure to the accelerator and she further exceeds the posted speed limit. Being cited for a moving violation is the last thing on her mind.

  Two hours after her latrine rendezvous, Olivia is full of regrets. She bursts with them. Even the red light before her is not enough to slow her progress and an oncoming driver mashes his horn and swerves to avoid her.

  “Watch where the fuck you’re going, you stupid cunt,” the incensed man yells.

  Olivia doesn’t hear a single word or even see his car. She continues to head east as she makes a blind left on the right block, College Avenue, just out of years of conditioning. A strong wind blows and shakes her vehicle’s light fiberglass chassis.