The Tragic Flaw (23 page)

“Naw man, just visiting,” Cicero says, trying not to sound pissed off.

The yellow cab reaches the highway and heads eastbound on I-10. Cicero rides silently in the backseat of the spotless taxi, thinking about how he should have done something, anything, to hurt the dude that disrespected him.

Zydeco blasts through the Caprice Classic's shoddy speakers. Towering palm trees line the median of the highway. The reeking odor of swamp water, moss, and mud is everywhere.

The men travel from the western outskirts of New Orleans, passing colorful hotels, vast billboards, and various swamp life marooned on the side of the highway.

Out-of-state tags clutter the roadway as the cab driver weaves in and out of the congestion.

“See, bruh, it's like this every Mardi Gras,” the driver tells Cicero. He has typical New Orleans features: thick lips, a square jaw, reddish-brown skin. He wears a stained white Mardi Gras T-shirt reading “Mardi Gras, New Orleans” in purple lettering. On the back, the shirt reads “Like a man” in gold lettering.

Cicero ignores the driver's comments and gazes out the window at SUVs with tinted windows and Volkswagen Jettas packed with pretty college girls. Breasts at the ready.

The zesty accordion-based Zydeco hits Cicero's inner ear, transmitting the essence of the rudimentary Cajun instruments and the rhythms of the area's black Creoles. Cicero takes in the sounds and smells. He's not in Missouri anymore.

A cool breeze shakes the cab on the cloudless sunny day. Chalky white seagulls soar above, alone and majestic. The cab coasts over a high arching off ramp, leaving much of the traffic behind on their way to a shortcut en route to downtown New Orleans and the awaiting French Quarter.

The rear window on the driver's side is slightly lowered, allowing a thin gale to blow a circular wind to the other side of the cab, striking and tingling the back of Cicero's neck.

The disc-shaped Superdome stands out among the rectangular skyscrapers of the downtown N.O. This is a place where modern meets backwaters. And American urban decay taints Old-World European ways.

It's a peculiar and unique town,
Cicero thinks to himself, as he peers at the cemetery to his right with its thousand or so aboveground mausoleums. Light-brown eyes look at Cicero through the oblong rearview mirror. The driver notices Cicero staring at one of the area's curiosities.

“Yea, bruh, the ground's too moist. Dem bodies, they wouldn't stay buried,” the driver says with a laugh. An orangish-gold tooth covers one of his top front teeth. “No indeed.”

“Yea, I know. I've seen 'em before,” Cicero coolly responds. “Just can't get used to 'em. You know?”

“Me edda, bruh.” The driver smiles, flashing his gold tooth, with one hand on the steering wheel. “Me edda.”

The cab exits the highway and immediately hits traffic on Canal Street, which is lined with aged hotels and burnt-out retail shops, some of which have been refurbished, others of which have not. Nonetheless, all are full of tourists, or frequented by visitors with disposable currency to spend and waste.

“This is cool,” Cicero tells the driver as they sit idle in the middle of the downtown traffic. He hands him a hundred-dollar bill for the twenty-five dollar trip and opens the door to get out.

The financially strapped driver looks at the bill and is stunned by the enormous tip.

“Well, well, where ya goin', bruh? You got a hotel room?” the driver inquires with a slight stutter, looking back at Cicero through the rearview mirror.

“Naw, I forgot to reserve a room, man,” Cicero admits, grabbing his black suitcase from the floor of the backseat. “I guess I'll just try to find one.”

Impressed by Cicero's generosity, the driver offers a favor.

“Naw, bruh. Check it out, my cousin Fleaurette works over at the Ritz at the front desk, bruh,” the cabby says. “Tell her I sent you ova dear. My name Rafael.”

Neutral ground divides the hustle of Canal Street as the traffic light ahead turns green and horns begin to honk at the taxi. Young guys and girls in green, gold, and purple masks cross the street in front of and in back of cars, stumbling in drunken stupors.

“Happy Mardi Gras, you bastards,” one guy screams with both hands toward the heavens. His friends all laugh and tug at his shirt for him to follow them.

Cicero stands outside holding the cab door open, thinking about what Rafael has just told him as the honking horns grow in number and become louder in unison.

“I'm tellin' ya, bruh, it's a nice hotel,” Rafael says. “And it's just right the way on this street. Dis Canal Street, bruh. Ya heard me?”

“All right, cool,” Cicero finally decides. “Thanks, man.” Then he slams the door shut.

“All right den, bruh. Remember, my family's name is Fleaurette. She just made twenty-six, she good people,” Rafael yells as he mashes the gas pedal and skirts off to catch cars that were once right in front of him.

Cicero strolls south down the sidewalk on Canal Street through groups of men wearing rainbow-colored afro wigs and large plastic breasts. White sheets of paper with religious copy and party announcements litter the street and get trampled under the feet of the desirous.

Tonight, the king, queen, maids, and dukes of krewes and their captains shall prepare for spectacular float rides and masked balls. Some krewes will relish at the variety of performances to be held for them. For this weekend, they will be treated like royalty.

Cicero passes several narrow blocks, becoming disenchanted with his jaunt and the mostly intoxicated crowd. He stops at a red light as a light-brown trolley in nearly original condition slowly rolls past in the median. He peers to his left down Bourbon Street, and is overwhelmed by the sight of thousands of people walking, dancing, drinking, yelling, and flashing skin.

“Damn,” Cicero says to himself out loud. “Mardi Gras is too wild.”

Electrical pulses turn crimson to mint and Cicero again proceeds south on Canal Street, which in the eighteen hundreds was the dividing line between the French Quarter and the American sector of New Orleans.

A long line of shiny black limousines catches Cicero's eye and he realizes the Ritz-Carlton hotel is in his sight. A large royal-blue flag bearing a lion's head gently flutters in the delicate breeze.

“This better not be no bullshit,” Cicero murmurs, thinking about what the cab driver told him as he lugs his suitcase.

A long line of bell boys and doormen in traditional garb and top hats rush back and forth in front of New Orleans' only AAA Five Diamond hotel. It is the best of the best.

The Old World architecture of nine twenty-one Canal Street blends the prestigious structure into its surroundings.

Cicero walks through the foyer passing oil paintings of French countrysides and ladies in waiting. He enters the lobby and is engulfed by classical furnishings and the wealthy fringe of Mardi Gras; a sight seldom seen by most Fat Tuesday revelers.

Before making his way to the front desk, Cicero takes a moment to bask in the elegance of the property. Places like this are why he hustles. He takes in the enormous flower display to his right. Orchids, daisies, azaleas, and palm leaves spring forth from a huge Italian-made vase.

“This is truly nice,” Cicero says while gawking at the priceless antique credenzas, crystal chandeliers, and huge gold-trimmed mirrors in the lobby.

He steps left toward the front desk and is immediately stunned by the sight of a beautiful Louisiana native behind the long polished redwood counter.

She looks up from a computer screen and makes eye contact with him. Her ocean-blue eyes are stunning, providing a prominent contrast to her earthy, red-toned skin. A second woman, a leggy Czechoslovakian with streaky blonde hair, busily grabs paperwork and plastic room keys for impatient well-paid guests.

“Whoa. I hope that's Fleaurette.”

Cicero reaches the counter and sets his suitcase to the carpeted floor and its intricate patterns of salmon paisley and sapphire and jade French crests.

“Hello, sir, how may I assist you?” the beautiful woman says.

Cicero glances at her nametag. It reads: Fleaurette.

“Hello, how are you?” he asks with a grin.

“Fine, sir. Are you checking in?” Fleaurette replies professionally without giving in to his flirting. Her natural eyelashes extend up to her eyebrows. Her teeth are pearl white and straight as an arrow.

“Well, you may find this kind of strange,” Cicero hedges, “but your cousin said you may be able to hook me up with a room.”

The five-foot-seven Fleaurette simultaneously appears confused and bothered.

“My cousin?” she inquires. Her Southern Louisiana accent is thick and sexy.

Cicero is instantly worried he won't have a place to sleep tonight. That he'll be forced to rest his head in some extremely suspect motel, or worse, somewhere on the repulsive New Orleans streets. But he doesn't panic.

“Yea, your cousin Rafael. He told me to look for the most beautiful woman at the Ritz-Carlton, and ask her to hook me up,” Cicero says in his deep voice, looking Fleaurette in her amazing blue eyes. Her long straight black hair curls near the bulging breasts straining against her navy-blue pants' suit jacket. She smells of freshly cut roses and sweet oils.

She looks suspiciously at Cicero for having known her cousin's name and her accent really comes out.

“Raf don't never tell people to come here for me,” she tells him with a slight smile. “You musta gave him a beaucoup tip, yea?”

Cicero laughs. His defined chest and shoulders fill out his baby-blue Coogi sweater, but it's been a long day. A long, annoying day.

“That's what he said,” Cicero tells her.

She smirks, then begins typing in letters and digits into a hidden computer terminal with her curving, long, burgundy-painted fingernails.

“I really don't know why he told you that, we are fully booked,” Fleaurette informs him while looking at the computer's monitor.

Sensing the impending bad news, Cicero reaches into his pocket and pulls out five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Check it out, Ms. Fleaurette, if you can find me a room, I'll give you five-hundred dollars for being so helpful,” Cicero whispers. “I'm telling you, I'd really appreciate all of your help if you could do that for me.”

For a person making ten dollars an hour, a tax-free lump sum just to cancel someone else's reservation is a damn good deal.

“Okay,” she answers without hesitation. “And your name?”

Cicero smiles.

“Cicero Day. C-I-C-E-R-O. And I'm paying in cash.”

Fleaurette smiles and completes the transaction. Cicero slides her seven-hundred dollars for her trouble, and she flashes her beautiful white teeth.

“Thank you,” she tells him as she passes Cicero his room key. “Just take the elevators down the hall to my left, up to the third floor, and follow the signs to your room. It's marked in the envelope.”

Cicero grins. His craggy face is tired, showing the wear and tear of cognac, deception, and murder. And yet, Fleaurette returns the gesture in a way that only a Creole girl can.

Cicero takes the oak-lined elevator to his room on the third floor. He gazes down at the cocaine-white envelope for the room number: three sixteen.

After a few steps down the quiet, elegant hallway recently restored and renovated in undying Southern decor, the tan plastic key card slides into the black box near the brass door knob. A red dot diminishes and a green dot illuminates.
Clank
.

He turns the knob and enters the opulent executive suite, complete with rare China, complimentary cookies, an armoire-encased flat-screen television, and a fully stocked mini-bar.

Cicero steps into his large suite and the door slams behind him, causing a framed water-colored painting to rattle against the wall. The scene is out of Paris in the late seventeen hundreds. Raw life.

Cicero stares at the plush feather beds and duvet cover, envisioning what he needs the most: a restful night.

“Yea, I can deal with this,” a weary Cicero mutters to himself.

A black suitcase immediately smacks the carpeted floor, followed by the baby-blue Australian-woven sweater. There is silence on the multi-line telephone; no pornography or e-mails being generated through the high-speed Internet access.

Instead, three-hundred-thread-count Frette sheets swaddle a man in deep, deep sleep. Cicero's eyelids are firmly shut. The room is silent and his body is still. The ruckus three stories below him fails to penetrate the exorbitant lodging that surrounds him. Tonight, Cicero Day sleeps soundly. Nightmares cannot find him this evening in the Bayou, dozens of feet below sea level.

Flambeaux
carriers dance and whirl about on the dark nighttime street as gawkers and drunkards clank nickels and dimes off the metal torches they carry. These descendants of slaves carry on tradition. The men who carry the torches for the parades traditionally lit the early processions before the invention of the light bulb.