The Tragic Flaw (10 page)

L
ater that morning, water runs in one of the black marble double sinks in the restroom. The place is warm and cozy. Cicero sits on a
negro
leather bench in front of the bed buttoning his pale-pink, ultra-soft cotton shirt. It's finely pressed, and matches nicely with his light-gray English-tailored suit.

A newscast blares from the flat screen in the living room on the digital sound system.

“The U.S. Supreme Court is expected to decide tomorrow whether all religious material and historical references to religion, will be completely banned from America's public domain, including schools, libraries, privately owned businesses, and the Internet. Top legal experts close to the matter say the ban is inevitable. For more on the story, we go to the nation's capital…”

Oblivious, Cicero stands and ambles over to a tall, slim, rosewood and glass case that holds his two dozen timepieces. A bright solitary bulb at the top illuminates the case magnificently, highlighting his many Swiss minute hands and bezels, sweeping second hands, multiple complications, one hundred or so total carat weight in diamonds, and over seven hundred and fifty-thousand dollars in gold and platinum. Time is of the essence.

Cicero gazes over the collection for a few seconds, then decides on a plain-face platinum piece with a single flawless carat where the twelve would be. The bracelet is flush and impeccable.

It's Sunday, and since he hasn't shaved in two days, stubble begins to bloom on his face. Shower waters continue running in the restroom. It's 9:18 a.m.

Cicero glides out of his bedroom to his prized cognac mélange, unlocks it, and selects the Louie, pouring it into a simple red plastic cup kept in a cabinet under the glass shelves. The crystal
Trece
bottle is now more than half-empty. Truly the breakfast of victors.

Exquisite dark chocolate appears in the bedroom doorway, fresh from the massaging showerheads. She's five feet eleven without the pumps, and a prime example of what an African queen looks like. She possesses blemish-free skin from face to foot, and tightly wound spiral curls protrude from her head like a God-given crown. Under her towel, her large firm breasts resemble sacred Indian burial mounds.

Cicero looks at her and takes a long sip, thinking, “Damn.” His penis jumps beneath his slacks. For a split second he ponders bending her over the sofa and pounding her firm round ass from the back, but decides not to. He's got shit to do.

She strides into the living room with her undergarments and moisturizer in hand, sits on the loveseat, then slides her hot pink thong over her infinite legs. A glimpse of shaven vagina reveals itself. Her lips look like flower petals; eyes set at nearly forty-five-degree angles.

The towel falls to the divan; her bosom, divine. Areola, saucer sized.

“You leaving?” she asks while rubbing cocoa butter on her long stems.

“Yes. You can let yourself out,” Cicero says, then takes a swig.

His guest looks disappointed.

The man of the house strolls over to the front door and sits on a mahogany bench where he slides on his Italian loafers.

The mocha queen stands, then turns to enter the bedroom to get dressed, but Cicero stops her.

“Hey,” he yells to her.

“What?” she replies with a hint of attitude.

“I need fifty bucks.”

She looks stunned.

“What? Um, C, you're ballin', right?” And she smiles.

Cicero just smirks. “How you know I'm ballin'? Let me get that out of you.”

His overnight friend goes into the bedroom and retrieves a canary-yellow canvas tote. She walks over to the foyer and pulls out a one-hundred-dollar bill.

“All I have is a hundred,” she tells him.

“Cool, that'll work.” He snatches it, opens the door and turns to leave, then pauses.

“Hey, on second thought, go ahead and get dressed and leave now.”

She frowns. Upset, she hurriedly tosses on her saffron designer dress, grabs the rest of her things, and leaves. Cicero locks the door and heads toward the parking garage and his seductive sport coupe.

Once inside, Cicero places his drink in the retractable cup holder and turns the stereo on. Commercials advertising parties in death-trap locations and rent-to-own centers, seem to be on every station.

Put off, he slides in a CD and increases the volume. The singer's voice is internationally known, and it helps to calm him. He is still seeing visions of his mother's grotesque appearance.

After exiting the garage, Cicero drives several blocks from his condo, just south of downtown. He passes several Spanish-inspired fountains spewing waters from serpents' mouths and babies' penises. There isn't a cloud in the sky. The music is relaxing, and he takes a swig of his cognac.

Fuck, I need some breakfast
, he thinks.

His thoughts then run the gamut: from Olivia to Kam to Brad, to his mother, to his father, and to his sister. He wonders how Brad's work on their new dope is going, and he considers stopping by his house before seeing his mother. As he ponders making a quick detour, he comes to a yellow light and plans to run it, but decides against it, slamming the brakes.

While sitting at the light, he is engulfed in the lyrics of the French African songstress.

“You give me the sweetest taboo.”

He feels the tranquilizing melody.

“That's why I'm in love with you.”

As he vibes to the slow jam, a moss-green 1968 Camaro pulls up on the left side, but a few feet from the intersection. Cicero glances over and sees only the passenger, a scruffy guy with dirty blond hair.

Cicero turns back to the light, which is amazingly still red. Rock-n-roll thumps from the Camaro and the passenger bobs his head to it. The man then looks over to Cicero, as the sunlight bounces off the coupe's twenty-inch chrome ceiling fans that are still spinning.

The ruffian, clad in a hand-me-down Chiefs jacket, sees his reflection in the rim, and is mesmerized. He grins, looks at Cicero again, then leans over to his boy in the driver's seat and whispers in his ear. A rear passenger in a filthy peacoat leans forward to hear what they're discussing, then he too looks over at Cicero, then his rims. They're spectacular, and at twelve thousand dollars for the set, they're a liability.

Bored with staring at the light, Cicero glances in his side-view mirror back over at the dudes in the unwashed Camaro, and he notices the sunroof is now open. Cicero is still eyeing it, when the third man in the backseat pops out of the sunroof with a pistol-grip shotgun pointed at his coupe. His bearded face shows heinous intentions. Seeing the weapon, Cicero punches the accelerator and darts through the traffic light that has yet to turn green.

“Come off those rims, bitch,” the man in the sunroof yells as he pulls the trigger. The blast shatters Cicero's rear driver's side window, sending glass flying and buckshot into his seat. One grazes the top of his head, breaking the skin.

Cicero's foot is planted in the pedal, cutting corners at breakneck speed. High-performance Japanese tires clutch the asphalt. And even though the Camaro needs some serious bodywork, the engine is police chase ready and the driver clings to Cicero's bumper.

“Catch me if you can, you punk-ass bitches,” Cicero says to himself in a low voice.

Left, right, straight away. Straight away, right, left, he can't shake the threesome. Since those nights of sneaking out the house in eighth grade and joyriding in stolen cars, Cicero has considered himself an expert driver. But the Camaro's driver is no slouch, and the sunroof gunman fires again, this time taking out the coupe's rear window with a loud blast. Shards of glass spray.

“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.