ONE COULD SAY LIFE is only a matter of the choices we make. That our day-to-day lives amount to nothing more than a finite combination of those choices. If this is true, if our lives are the sum of these choices, are we not then masters of our own destinies? Free to say yes or free to say no, and in so doing, free to take our lives in any direction we choose?
There is, of course, the other point of view: that the path each person’s life takes is preordained. Set before us at birth. That we have no choice but to walk that one path, forced to follow wherever it leads until, at last, we come to its inevitable end.
Perhaps Joe da Silva was reflecting on this as he scrambled down the dirty alleyway, his rasping breath echoing off the graffiti-covered walls. He could hear his pursuers gaining on him but did not look back, worried that in so doing they would be closer still. The thought injected a new energy into his shuffling run.
The pace of the men following quickened, too. Joe looked over his shoulder and stumbled into some trash cans. He almost lost his footing but regained his balance and forced his aching legs on. Up ahead, a high brick wall blocked the way, but Joe could see the alley leading off to both right and left in front of it. He had seconds to make his choice.
He turned right, glancing back as he did. The men chasing him were close, the light glinting malevolently off their long-barreled silencer pistols. Joe took a few more steps before realizing the way he'd chosen was a dead end. He pulled up, blinking stupidly at the wall that blocked his way. Large black garbage bags were heaped carelessly at its base, some split to spill their rotting contents into the alley. Sweat trickled down his face. He licked his lips nervously and tried to focus his panicked thoughts on what was happening behind him. His pursuers had stopped running and Joe could hear their steady footsteps as they strode calmly toward him. His left hand groped for the .38 tucked in the waistband of his baggy jeans.
“Put your hands where we can see them, da Silva!” demanded a voice from behind.
Joe’s hand closed around the .38's grip.
“Hands where we can see them, Joe,” urged the voice again.
“Give us Manny Mendez and we let you walk,” offered a second voice reasonably.
Manny Mendez was not the kind of man you crossed. Joe knew what would happen if he did. On the flipside, he wasn’t even sure these men would let him live, should he talk. This, if anything, decided it for him. He wrenched the .38 from his waistband and spun about.
The men fired repeatedly before Joe could even pull the trigger, the cough of their silenced pistols echoing loudly off the brick walls. He staggered back as the rounds hit him and slumped down onto the heap of garbage bags, the .38 slipping from his grip. The two men walked up to where he lay propped, a beggar-king hunched on his sagging throne of garbage. They held their pistols casually; Joe da Silva was no longer a threat.
“Now that wasn't very friendly of you, Joseph,” said the shorter man with mock surprise.
Joe squinted up at the two strangers standing over him.
“Who the fuck are you?” he stammered.
“We ask the questions,” grunted the taller man.
He lifted his pistol and put a bullet through Joe’s left knee.
Joe screamed.
The two paused to allow Joe a moment to collect himself.
“Now, tell us where we can find Manny Mendez?” enquired the shorter man.
Joe grimaced in reply.
“Don't know him.”
“Whenever a person wants to insult someone, you ever wonder why they call them a dick, or a cunt, or an asshole?” began the shorter man. “You know, when you think about it, all those are useful body parts. I mean, the body just can’t function without them. The appendix, on the other hand, now that’s pretty much a useless appendage. It just hangs out in your body until one day it ruptures, poisons you, and then you end up dying because you didn’t get to the hospital in time. So, what are you, Joseph? Are you a cunt or are you an appendix? You gonna help us out, or does my friend here have to get creative with his pistol?”
“You talk too much,” retorted Joe with feigned braggadocio.
“Fuck this,” spat the taller man.
He raised his pistol again and shot the prone man’s other knee. Joe uttered another high-pitched scream, and then in a tumble of words proceeded to detail everything he knew about Manny Mendez.
A short while later, the two men exited the alley onto the quiet city street, one carrying a sports bag. They strolled past a hooker, her ample ass on display as she bent forward to rest her elbows on the open car window of a potential john. Neither noticed the two men walk by as they continued to negotiate her price. The men continued toward the black sedan parked farther up the street.
“You think he told us the truth?” asked the shorter man.
“No reason to believe he wouldn’t,” replied the taller. “Stupid fuck actually thought giving up Manny was gonna save him.”
“Suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” mused the shorter man. “Of course, if it doesn’t check out, then killing him might appear a little shortsighted.”
The taller man scowled.
“Say what?”
“Manny’s been lying low for over a month now, correct?”
“Yeah, and?”
The shorter man shrugged.
“Well, considering this is the first decent lead we’ve had on where he’s been hiding, I just thought it might’ve been prudent to keep the source of that information alive,” replied the shorter man. “Besides, he wasn’t the target.”
The taller man snorted.
“Are you going soft on me, John?” he asked.
“No, Matt, I’m just making a point.”
“What?” retorted Matt. “That we should let all drug dealers live?”
“No, that we should stick to the job we were given.”
“He told us to eliminate Manny,” said Matt. “He didn’t say how we should do it. Besides, it’s a bit late for you to grow a conscience now, isn’t it?”
“I’m in this, same as you, Matt,” said John. “I remember why we volunteered for it. Maybe it’s just that I don’t take as much pleasure from this as you seem to.”
They stopped by the car and John walked round to the driver’s side, opened the door, and got in.
Matt laughed as he slid into the passenger seat.
“We’re all going to pay the piper sooner or later, John,” he observed casually. “Joe just got to do it sooner.”
John answered with a contemplative look which, had Matt been more observant, he would have recognized as a signal of the growing rift between them. They had walked one road, but now, perhaps enticed by some unseen power, each had turned to follow their own path, neither man understanding the awful fate each choice held.
Moments later, their black sedan pulled away from the kerb, leaving the world no poorer for the loss of one Joe da Silva.
***
Manny Mendez was across town at that moment. He had just finished filling the tank of his purple Cadillac and was waiting for his change from the gas station clerk. His swept-back black hair, chizelled features, and olive skin had caught the eye of many women, but the more perceptive would have noticed a certain malevolence in his studied swagger. Manny took a long draw from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. He noticed the full cash register and made a casual mental note.
The clerk’s nose wrinkled at the acrid smell. He coughed and opened his mouth to launch into a speech about second-hand smoke but thought better of it. Something in the coal-black eyes of the individual opposite him was unsettling. Manny’s lips curled back into a predatory grin and the clerk’s gaze faltered under Manny’s malevolent stare.
“Have a good day,” the cashier offered weakly along with the $1.50 change.
Manny took the money.
“Give me a pack of Marlboro,” he said.
The cashier hesitated.
“Excuse me?” His voice wavered nervously.
“A pack of Marlboro. Give me a pack of Marlboro. You stock them, don’t you?”
There was a hard edge to Manny’s voice now.
“Yes, of course. Sorry, I… I’ll just get them for you,” stammered the cashier.
He turned his back reluctantly on Manny to unlock the cabinet behind.
Manny didn’t smoke Marlboros, preferring the stronger taste of his own hand-rolled cigarettes. He just enjoyed watching the cashier squirm, a dog lying on its back offering its belly to the dominant alpha male.
The cashier turned back with the cigarettes.
“That’ll be $6.00,” he said.
He pushed the pack as far forward as the counter would allow.
Manny snorted derisively.“$6.00?”
The cashier took an involuntary step backward.
“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You can put them back now.”
The cashier hesitated.
“Stupid fuck,” Manny sneered, then turned and left the store.
He strolled over to his Cadillac and reached into his pocket for his keys. At that moment, a silver minibus rolled quietly into the gas station and stopped at the pumps opposite him.
‘The Whitby Foundation Finishing Academy’, it read on the side of the bus.
Seated behind the driver were six young women. Manny’s interest quickened, his eyes roving over the young women and examining each in turn. They appeared identical—styled blonde bobs that finished just above their navy-blue blazers; cool porcelain skin; long eyelashes and pinched noses perched above full sensual lips. The young women stared ahead in silence, apparently oblivious to the world outside. They were out of his league.
Manny whistled softly. He’d pimped young women from time to time over the years. Most had been teenage girls with drug habits who owed him money and had run out of options. The others were those he’d coerced using more forceful methods. His eyes lingered on the young women. Having one or two of these girls work for him would sure turn a handsome profit.
But not before he’d sampled the goods first. Nothing quite like getting in the saddle and breaking a young filly in. He smiled at the thought.
The nearest young woman turned suddenly and looked at him, her pale, ice-blue eyes moving over his body, studying him. Manny smiled wolfishly. She returned the smile with a slight curve of her lips, then lowered her eyes demurely and turned back to face her front. A sudden hardcore vision of him penetrating her writhing naked body popped into his head.
Any thought of introducing himself was quickly quashed at the sight of the man that suddenly exited the driver’s side of the bus. He was a big man in a black suit which just managed to contain his heavy, muscled body. A black chauffeur’s cap was pulled low over his bald, dome-shaped head. The man proceeded to fill the minibus with fuel.
Manny’s pornographic mental imagery quickly evaporated.
No hope in hell, he decided.
His gaze strayed back to the young women for one final look. The one who’d made eye contact before was looking at him again. She raised a tube of red lipstick to the bus window. The young woman wrote in reverse without a hint of hesitation, so that to him the numbers appeared in their correct order.
Phone number, he thought, and reached for the cell phone in his pocket.
He quickly punched in the numbers then glanced back at the chauffeur. The man continued to fill the gas tank. Manny opened the door of his Cadillac and slid behind the wheel. He inserted the key into the ignition and the engine turned over with a satisfying rumble. He revved the engine gently, looked over at the blonde, winked, and slowly pulled out of the gas station.
