Following in his Italian father's gangster footsteps, the bi-racial Cicero Day has little problem rising to the top of the Kansas City underworld. He and his comrades deal with their enemies with all manner of weaponry: guns, knives, poison, trained beasts and even HIV. Yet, Cicero is haunted by recurring nightmares, and bothered with his mother's steadfast belief in God. Cicero, who is an atheist, feels there's no place for myths in a man's life who is trying to ascend to power. While he is
more >>
Following in his Italian father's gangster footsteps, the bi-racial Cicero Day has little problem rising to the top of the Kansas City underworld. He and his comrades deal with their enemies with all manner of weaponry: guns, knives, poison, trained beasts and even HIV. Yet, Cicero is haunted by recurring nightmares, and bothered with his mother's steadfast belief in God. Cicero, who is an atheist, feels there's no place for myths in a man's life who is trying to ascend to power. While he is the master of his domain and even viewed as a hero to some, there is an unseen kink in his seemingly impregnable armor.
Chapter 1Youthful laughter permeates the old neighborhood on an unseasonably sultry winter day. Three-story homes and greening arbors line the streets on either side. The homes' aged and stately appearances clash with the sounds of adolescence. Older model cars dot College Avenue here and there. Most are well kept, washed and waxed, and parked close enough to the curb as to avoid the all too infamous sideswipe. Others lack hubcaps, or sport more than one tone -- black and taupe, for instance -- certainly not what the manufacturer intended.
Still others lack tires, or have been clasped with city-owned clamps that prevent them from doing what they're meant to do. Of course they're American made. Names like Buick, Ford, and Oldsmobile are commonplace. More than one flatbed truck lives here, and is used here, often to haul in bicycles that require assembly, or to haul out sofas when excuses no longer dissuade eager landlords.
The gold and red masonry of the homes stands strong in the face of frail innocence. The dwellings are seemingly paternal in essence, standing watch over tomorrow's dearest. Visible black bars of iron cover nearly every window on the ground level, hinting at unforeseen perils and dangers that might thrive in this community.
Most sidewalks are well swept, but a few could use sprucing up. They very often resemble the tidiness of the vehicles parked just in front of them. Wrappers with words like Coca-Cola, Jolly Ranchers, and Coors, and other colorful plastics with various titles are seen in gutters, not everywhere, but more than enough.
A single ringing gunshot is heard while children are at play. Nothing uncommon for this neighborhood, so the youth continue their games in the thick humid air. Some, mostly girls, are tossing rocks on quadrangles and hopping on unsteady feet. Others, sweaty boys in T-shirts and dirty blue jeans, thrust outstretched hands toward still others, boys and girls who flee as if their pursuers wished to transmit smallpox or leprosy. Several girls, not quite nubile, twirl opposing ropes as a single entrenched participant leaps in a battle against the encircling cords. Her laughter is infectious, as her beaded locks frolic about and sweat drips from her brow. They're clad in cut-rate shorts and tank tops with waning hues of pink and lavender, and off-white sandals that have had their fair share of rope jumping and inner-city jaunts. The other two partakers giggle with her and against her. They're not new to this game; they have played it many times. Each time it is pleasurable. The summertime weather beckons, even though it is only February. Another gunshot rings out, echoing against the urban edifices. There's still no reaction from the playing preteens as they chuckle and skip.
They have songs and chants and rhymes that usually accompany their rope exercise, but not this time. This time it's more serious. The middle combatant is a champion, and her compatriots wish to dethrone her. Even still, her feet seem to be magnetically repelled by the ground and the ropes. They smack the hot turf methodically while avoiding the merest brush with the composite twine.
A graying grandmother exits her front door and comes to sit idle on her stoop, observing the ever-changing world through wise, time-tested eyes. She has been a witness to Jackie Robinson's first ba
<< less
MY CART | item(s)
U.S. Standard
Free U.S. Standard
U.S. Expedited
International
