The Tragic Flaw (26 page)

“What the hell are you doing, man,” a young waiter yells as he rushes over to stop the guy from killing his untrue girlfriend. He jabs the fork into her neck over and over again before the waiter can grab him and wrestle him to the ground.

Cicero sits watching, sipping his water, as the two squirm on the banquette. He could easily stop the skirmish, but he chooses not to intervene.

“This is tight,” Cicero says with a smile, enjoying the show.

Police are quickly on the scene. The bleeding girl turns pale, holding her neck with a wad of bloody-red napkins. The waitress kneels next to her, praying she doesn't die.

“It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay,” the waitress repeats, as tears roll down her face. She strokes the bleeding girl's hair.

Infused cinnamon and berries from the King cake decorate the man's black T-shirt as the police handcuff him and lift him off the ground. Moments later, paramedics arrive and whisk the bleeding girl away for treatment. Several undesired puncture wounds ventilate her bleeding throat.

The waitress, in a stained white Polo shirt, stands in near shock with her right hand over her mouth as the ambulance speeds off.

“Excuse me, is my French toast ready?” Cicero callously asks.

The waitress turns to her left to face him. She wears a look of disgust.

“Coming right up, sir!”

She returns with a plate of three dense slices of brown, egg-soaked bread lightly drizzled with powdered sugar and smothered in fresh strawberries and fresh strawberry syrup. She throws it on Cicero's table, causing the yellow rose to shake.

“Thanks,” he says without becoming angry. The waitress turns to leave and slips on the woman's blood, nearly losing her footing and falling.

He immediately digs into the food on his plate. Slicing the fluffy French toast and depositing chunks into his mouth, chewing his food thoroughly before swallowing.

The Vieux Carre is now still, and Cicero enjoys his meal, thinking about his plans for the day and evening. A knife scrapes a plate and a fork assists. Platinum and diamonds sparkle on a wrist in the early morning light as it penetrates through the swamp gases of the Big Easy.

A
bout nine-hundred miles away, intense dark eyes covertly watch the townhouse of a young slumbering feminine creature.

Smoke escapes out the window of a beat-up Buick Regal. This is the car that Kameron uses when he doesn't want to be recognized. Everyone in Kansas City, Missouri, and Kansas knows his classic Chevy and his big black truck. So he crouches low in the plush, velvety, burgundy interior of the light-gray Regal.

Lana's east-side block is silent on this Monday morning. A few young professionals arise and prepare for work, some skipping breakfast, others skipping showers.

The new town homes where she lives are spectacular. Fresh white siding, forest-green rooftops, vaulted ceilings, and recessed lighting can be found in each of the identically cloned units. Spacious garages contain brand-new SUVs and convertibles. All lie smack dab in the middle of the ghetto, where Kam is comfortable.

He inhales deeply, chest expanding, capillaries engorged. His diamond-encrusted mouth is polished and bright.

“Yea, you done fucked up, little girl,” he says to himself, voice raspier than ever.

Sticky dew clings to individual blades of grass, as ants march toward fumbled candy two by two. They're unaware they live in a high-crime urban area, so they march on.

The flick of a switch and the introduction of brilliant electricity disturbs the darkness in Lana's house.

Kam tries to quickly perk up to get a better look, but he does so slowly. Cornrows line his head flush and neat in intertwining pairs. Opaque round glass, once his eyes, reside inside his dome.

Shadows are cast on cheap plastic mini blinds as movement occurs in Lana's bedroom. Her French-cut lavender panties and lace brassiere are a man's dream come true. Kansas City has never known such flawless skin, or such supple lips.

The Kohler knob rotates in the restroom with the help of a caramel-wrapped hand. She sighs.

“I got a whole lot of shit to do today,” Lana says to herself while removing her unmentionables. Her wild amber-colored curly hair barely budges when the hot water hits it.

Streams of steamy moisture roll down her perfect, young face as she lathers her loofa sponge with a perfumed shower gel smelling of jasmine, licorice, and fresh mint. A drought strikes the showerhead and Lana dries herself, then quickly dresses.

Outside, Kam continues to choke on his dwindling blunt when a powdered and perfumed Lana emerges from her front door. Her black form-fitting skirt hugs her round hips as the silky red shirt on her back dips low and flows. The ants momentarily stop and look.

“Damn, that bitch is bad,” Kam mutters in his deep voice, as if seeing her for the first time. Then he perversely laughs and says, “I should rape her mothafuckin' ass, for real.”

She slides down her stone-paved walkway to the new champagne convertible sports car in her driveway. The compact two-door chariot is sleek and smooth, the product of tireless Japanese engineering and compulsive perfectionism.

On. Off. The taillights briefly glow as she disables the alarm system and unlocks the door from the keychain in her tiny hand. The engine purrs and white rear lights are activated when she reverses out of the driveway and into Kansas City's empty morning streets.

Kam tosses his roach out the window and follows close behind in his under bucket. Not too close though, so as to avoid raising Lana's suspicion. He knows she is street smart; the type to constantly check her rearview mirror. THC clings to his cellular makeup as it has for many years. To Kameron, the moving world looks blurry and slow.

He follows Lana west along Forty-Seventh Street, lifting his left wrist and checking his black-and-gold numberless timepiece. It's 8:30 a.m. Hate festers in his mind.

“Where the fuck is yo' stupid ass goin'?” he grumbles about Lana's route toward the Plaza. They pass a homeless couple pushing a shopping cart and holding hands on Troost as they exit the black side of town and enter the white.

The homes instantly grow larger. Property values miraculously rise, as if levitated by the realty gods. Black rubber grips the asphalt and twists backward, thrusting forward.

“And, flu, zim, today, up, oyals, look, yea, oh no, then they,” the radio spits while Kam twists the knob.

“You might want to dust those barbecue grills off. Expect the high today to be eighty-five degrees,” the KPRS DJ gushes. “That's right! Eighty-five. Tonight's low will be around seventy. It's gonna feel like summer in February in the city today!”

“Damn. That's some tight shit,” Kam blurts to no one, then chuckles. “It's got to be the end of the world.”

Summer weather unexpectedly materializes in the month of black history.

Lana coasts across Maine and Broadway, venturing into the luxurious Country Club Plaza on the posh western side of town, where days earlier she met with Kam and Cicero. The young lady and her tail travel past block after block of classical Spanish architecture, mosaic teal tile, and spewing fountains. Kameron follows like an unseen rook, positioning himself for checkmate.

She makes a left on Wornall Road, then a right onto Ward Parkway before stopping just in front of a quaint and exclusive luggage shop. Most of the Plaza's posh businesses are closed, minus a few coffee spots and stores where employees are setting up for the day.

Kam parks his Regal near the corner on Wornall, across from Williams-Sonoma, and watches Lana climb out of her coupe and knock three times on the glass door of the luggage store. A petite man in an English-tailored suit soon ambles over gingerly and unlocks the door.

“Hey, girl. Damn, your hair looks good. Come in, come in,” he says in a high-pitched feminine tone.

“This fag,” Kam growls with disgust, slightly leaning forward in his car to enhance his view around the corner.

The man's suit is the fine color of dying daisies. His dark bald head resembles a piece of melting fudge in the humid air.

“Girl, we gotta hurry up. My manager called and he is on his way! He wasn't supposed to be here today.”

“Boy, calm down. It is gonna be okay. I'll be in and out,” Lana calmly tells her nervous accomplice in her sweetest voice. “And I know you like it in and out.”

He laughs. “Girl, you are crazy! I'll be right back.”

She patiently waits by the polished oak counter as Chauncey scurries to the back room to grab some merchandise for her. The small shop is lit by gold and crystal chandeliers and is home to only seven pieces of luggage. Each represents wealth and the designer's full line. If a customer wants more, a customer orders it.

Chauncey returns moments later pulling a huge Louis Vuitton trunk with brown and flaxen LV wheels on the end.

“Look, girl, the two Louis suitcases and the tote bag are inside.”

“Great,” Lana says as she reaches into her hot-pink canvas handbag and pulls out a thick rubber band-wrapped wad of tens and twenties. “So I already gave you half, here's the other half.” And she hands him three-hundred dollars.

“Okay. Shoot, that's what I'm talkin' about.” Chauncey quickly takes the money with his left hand and stuffs it into his pocket, and they walk out the store together.

“Yea, girl, just let me know next time you want the hookup. See, all our stuff is insured. So if somebody steals it, or if it's damaged and a customer returns it, we just write it off, and no one misses it.”

“Yes, Chauncey, I'll definitely be seeing you again,” Lana states with a smile, flashing her perfect white teeth. She remotely pops the trunk and Chauncey lifts the Louis luggage and places it in the empty space.

“Well, that's cool, girl, but you know I need you to do that thing for me, before my manager gets here.”

“Oh, yea. Boy, I almost forgot too.”

With that, Lana opens her passenger side door and pulls out an old bulky red and brown wrench.

“Yea, I got this from my brother,” Lana says, looking at it as if admiring the craftsmanship. Chauncey eyes it too, and says, “Yea, that's cool. That will work.”

Lana takes a quick look around, then grasps the heavy wrench tightly and swiftly bashes Chauncey in the head with it. Blood squirts out his cranium and runs profusely down his face, dripping on his suit.

Kam sees the incident and is stunned. “Oh shit! This bitch is crazy. Fuck this. I will shoot this cute bitch, like, so fast.”

“Damn, girl, you did that like you hate me,” exclaims Chauncey, holding his head as blood trickles through his middle and ring finger. “But that's cool, it's got to look real.”

Seeing the two still talking, Kam catches on to the ploy, and he laughs.

“Oh. These two here are wild.” He chuckles, then focuses on Chauncey's bleeding head. “That mothafucka is an idiot. I can't wait to tell C. There's got to be a better hustle than that!”

The two partners in crime share a few more words before Lana smashes off and Chauncey passes out from blood loss.

Still laughing about the ridiculous event he just witnessed, Kameron follows Lana along the winding and elevating Ward Parkway near the Kansas state line.

He trails about six car lengths behind her, with a silver Benz station wagon between them, as his thoughts begin to veer. The weed in his system has Kam in a daze heading south, passing the old money of Ward Parkway.

He eyes the fifty-and sixty-room mansions that line the wide immaculate roadway divided by bubbling fountains and dedicated statues. Tennis courts, indoor swimming pools, guest houses, and servants have all been passed down from Kansas City's first ambitious robber baron whites to today's elite bloodline.

The weed causes Kam to think in strange ways, and his thoughts soon become philosophical. “Even their laziest mothafuckin' family members, and shit, can live life to the fullest,” he mumbles, then laughs. But the thoughts don't end there.

Seeing these enormous red brick and gold stone estates on spacious, bright green acreage with groundskeepers and electronically timed sprinkler systems, Kam ponders the American system.

He thinks about how whites often argue that in today's world, all people are equal, which may legally be the case. But the written codes fail to capture many of the practices, and never will they make up for the unleveled playing field. Kam laughs to himself.

“This is some bullshit. These fuckin' laws. These fuckin' honkies got a three hundred-year head start, and shit,” he says, talking to himself like a mental patient. “That's like makin' the Chiefs stay in the locker room while the Chargers put fifty points on the board.”

“Then you tell the Chiefs, ‘Play ball,'” he says with a radio announcer's voice. Then he chuckles. “Fuck that.” He laughs again. Drivers in cars next to him gawk at this psycho with braided hair and platinum and diamond in his mouth talking to himself.

“White people are a fucking trip.” He chuckles again.

Kam laughs again as he cruises slowly, well below the speed limit. This time the laugh is with a hint of cynicism.

“They got a real big fucking head start on us, cuz.” He laughs, then his thoughts stray further. “I really don't know why there are any poor white people. What's their excuse?”

He finally focuses his attention back on the road, and Lana's Lexus is nowhere in sight.

“Aw, fuck.”

The rolling plant-coated hills of Ward Parkway conceal her vehicle, but Kam is able to catch a glimpse of its sleek taillights about a mile ahead of him.

“Shit.” He smashes the gas pedal and promptly gains on her.

The coppery coupe eventually passes Eighty-Fifth Street and makes a left into Ward Parkway Mall. The stores are about thirty minutes away from opening but dozens of elderly mall walkers have already started their laps.

Lana navigates her coupe around to the south end of the mall and Kam keeps a safe distance behind in his beat-up Regal. The mall's entrance is bare and beckons Lana to enter. She parks and steps out of her convertible carrying a large paper shopping bag, and glides into the mall as the automatic doors slide apart, making way for her thieving highness.

Kam parks on the west side of the mall where the early morning sun causes the one-level building to cast a vast shadow. He's just close enough to see the front end of Lana's drop top.

He sits in his car motionless, listening to the Isley Brothers on cassette. Feeling his high coming down, he checks the pockets of his blue sweatsuit, but finds nothing. Birds chirp from nearby trees, signifying the glorious coming of a new day.

Kam checks his ashtray for roaches and remnants of old joints, but his search is futile.

“Oh, this is some bullshit,” he says in his deep voice, diamonds shining. Not one to be deterred, Kam checks his messy, paper-stuffed glove compartment for some type of mind-altering substance, when he stumbles across some tiny round purple pills.

He grabs the three light-violet pills and stares at them. “What the fuck is this?” Unsure but willing to find out, he quickly pops the pills into his mouth and swallows them.

“Oh, well, hopefully I won't die,” he mutters with indifference. Within minutes, black butterflies sprout from his Regal's upholstery, and his windshield sheds liquid metal tears.