Chance by Frank Sonderborg

Pedro worked as a Night Manager in a cheap flea pit of a hotel, in New York City. He lived with his mom and cousin Ava, and her three teenage boys, by three different Latino fathers. His mom worked as a cleaner in a Chinese restaurant. Ava was an exotic dancer in a sex club. Her three boys all went to school, as all good American citizens do.

Rufo came in one night to shoot the breeze. Rufo was from Colombia, but pretended he was a failed painter from Puerto Rico. He fooled nobody. His big news, there was a charity concert being held in a local warehouse, and it had some of the top Latino superstars performing. He laid down the names of the artists, and Pedro was impressed. But when he heard the price of the tickets, he thought, no way. $35 was way out of their league.

Rufo was known as, The Fixer, and said he could get 6 tickets for $70.

When Pedro told his mom, she said, “Hell yea son. Buy the tickets. Give him the $70 and we can all go.” So, he paid, and on the day of the concert they met Rufo to get the tickets.

The concert was the talk of the neighbourhood. Everybody wanted to go. Rufo took them in his van, but strangely, drove past the main entrance, where all the folks where queuing to go in, and around the back.

Pedro was starting to get a very uneasy feeling about this.  

“We go in this way,” said Rufo, smiling, “Like the stars. But keep quiet.” Pedro’s mom was too excited to notice they were going in the back door, and Rufo hadn’t actually handed over any tickets. Pedro just followed, as they weaved their way through the old warehouse.

It was dark, and they could hear the rats squealing in the dank corners. The excited teenage boys had skipped school for this, and Ava was struggling to keep them under control. They could hear the noise of the bands doing their sound checks.

Then two masked men, guns pointing, emerged from the dark.

Shit! Thought Pedro, we’re getting mugged in a fucking warehouse. Then he saw the ICE printed on their uniforms and said,” Rufo, what the fuck!”

Pedro froze, and watched as if time had suddenly slowed down.

The two ICE agents’ arms outstretched, guns pointing. Shouting, "ICE! Down on the ground! Now!"

Rufo the artist, pirouetting like a ballerina between them. His right-hand flashing. The glint of light on metal as the agent dropped his gun and held his throat. Rufo still moving, turning, twisting, the razor sharp blade slashing the second agent’s carotid artery. The agent loosing off a wild shot before he too, blood pumping from his throat, fell and died.

He heard his mom and then Ava screaming. Pedro turned and saw Young Tony lying dying on the floor. Rufo was moving quickly back the way they had come. Pedro blindly followed him. Leaving his mom and Ava holding on to Young Tony, and crying desperately out for help. Rufo was in his van and away. Pedro just started running. And didn’t stop.

Thanks to the incompetence of the FBI, he was still free and waiting to cross into Mexico. Rufo had allegedly been shot dead at the Canadian border. Pedro had also been reported as killed in a shoot-out. His mom had been put on an ICE plane to Libya. Ava was somewhere in an ICE internment camp in the Sudan. The two teenage kids had been taken and placed in foster care. Young Tony, Ava’s teenage son was buried by the state.

Pedro’s only salvation was a job with the Cartels. Unless they recognized him, and sold him out to ICE. At night he often dreamt of having a boring thankless job again. Then awoke, cried, and just tried to get through, another day.