pay scale which is both generous and dependable.
“Now that you mention it,” I sez, “it wouldn’t make much sense for the Boss to get into a power struggle or try to take over from Don Bruce, as he has never expressed any interest in or desire to elevate his standin’ in the Mob.”
Nunzio shrugged. “If that were his inclination, all he’d have to do is marry Bunny and let Don Bruce hand him the whole organization on a platter as an inheritance.”
He is referrin’ to the fact that not only is Bunny Don Bruce’s niece, she is head over heels in love with the Boss... somethin’ which seems to have escaped his notice entirely. Like we said earlier... the Mob and broads... stone stupid.
“You may be right...”
“Of course I’m right! It all fits!”
“...But even if you are, I’m not sure what difference it makes,” I finish, ignoring his rude interruption. “Whether we’re breakin’ Don Bruce’s word by accident or on purpose, we will still be in the line of fire when that notable decides to put things right.”
“The difference is that if we assume the Boss doesn’t want trouble with Don Bruce, we aren’t obligated to stand and fight. More specifically, we’re free to try to act as peace-makers between the two of them before blood starts to flow.”
This reasonin’ has a certain appeal to it, particularly as if said blood does indeed begin to flow, the odds are that it will be the two of us at the source of said flow.
“Okay,” I sez. “Assumin’ that you’re right about the Boss not wantin’ trouble, and assumin’ that Don Bruce lets you get a word in edgewise before the shootin’ starts, what are you gonna say to cool him down?”
“That part,” Nunzio hesitates, “...that part I’m still working on.”
It occurs to me that until my cousin comes up with a surefire sales pitch to settle things, all that takin’ a peace-maker role is accomplishin’ is committin’ us not to shoot back when the trouble starts!
PREOCCUPIED AS I was with my worries about Don Bruce and the Mob, the altercation between Sergeant Smiley and myself slipped my mind completely. As it turned out, however, this did not matter, as the sergeant took steps to remind me of it, and the way it was sprung on me, it wouldn’t have done me no good to have used up a lot of time and energy thinkin’ about it.
We had reached the portion of our trainin’ in which we was to learn how to relate to the enemy at close quarters... preferably without surrenderin’. That is to say, hand-to-hand-type combat.
Sergeant Smiley was teachin’ this section himself, which did not strike me as odd until later, as he obviously had more than passin’ familiarity with the techniques we was to learn. He homed in on the Flie brothers as his demonstrator/victims, and had great fun showin’ us all that size was not a factor in hand-to-hand combat by tossin’ and punchin’ ‘em both around with impressive ease... or, put differently, he really made them fly.
While all this was great fun to watch, I could not help thinkin’ that the lesson he was attemptin’ to drive home stank higher than the “Realistic Doggie Doodle With Lifelike Aroma that Actually Sticks to Your Hands” that I was so familiar with. I mean, I wonder if he really thought he was foolin’ anyone with his “size doesn’t make a difference” spiel. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that size can make a considerable difference in a physical-type difference of opinion, as one honest to goodness fight will usually demonstrate this fact clearly enough to convince even the dimmest of wits. The only time skill triumphs over size is if the little guy is very skillful and the big guy is very unskillful... not to mention slow and maybe has a glass jaw. If they are at all matched for skill, the big guy is a good bet to make strawberry jam of the little guy if he is so inclined. This is why professional contact, sport-type athletes, not to mention
“Now that you mention it,” I sez, “it wouldn’t make much sense for the Boss to get into a power struggle or try to take over from Don Bruce, as he has never expressed any interest in or desire to elevate his standin’ in the Mob.”
Nunzio shrugged. “If that were his inclination, all he’d have to do is marry Bunny and let Don Bruce hand him the whole organization on a platter as an inheritance.”
He is referrin’ to the fact that not only is Bunny Don Bruce’s niece, she is head over heels in love with the Boss... somethin’ which seems to have escaped his notice entirely. Like we said earlier... the Mob and broads... stone stupid.
“You may be right...”
“Of course I’m right! It all fits!”
“...But even if you are, I’m not sure what difference it makes,” I finish, ignoring his rude interruption. “Whether we’re breakin’ Don Bruce’s word by accident or on purpose, we will still be in the line of fire when that notable decides to put things right.”
“The difference is that if we assume the Boss doesn’t want trouble with Don Bruce, we aren’t obligated to stand and fight. More specifically, we’re free to try to act as peace-makers between the two of them before blood starts to flow.”
This reasonin’ has a certain appeal to it, particularly as if said blood does indeed begin to flow, the odds are that it will be the two of us at the source of said flow.
“Okay,” I sez. “Assumin’ that you’re right about the Boss not wantin’ trouble, and assumin’ that Don Bruce lets you get a word in edgewise before the shootin’ starts, what are you gonna say to cool him down?”
“That part,” Nunzio hesitates, “...that part I’m still working on.”
It occurs to me that until my cousin comes up with a surefire sales pitch to settle things, all that takin’ a peace-maker role is accomplishin’ is committin’ us not to shoot back when the trouble starts!
PREOCCUPIED AS I was with my worries about Don Bruce and the Mob, the altercation between Sergeant Smiley and myself slipped my mind completely. As it turned out, however, this did not matter, as the sergeant took steps to remind me of it, and the way it was sprung on me, it wouldn’t have done me no good to have used up a lot of time and energy thinkin’ about it.
We had reached the portion of our trainin’ in which we was to learn how to relate to the enemy at close quarters... preferably without surrenderin’. That is to say, hand-to-hand-type combat.
Sergeant Smiley was teachin’ this section himself, which did not strike me as odd until later, as he obviously had more than passin’ familiarity with the techniques we was to learn. He homed in on the Flie brothers as his demonstrator/victims, and had great fun showin’ us all that size was not a factor in hand-to-hand combat by tossin’ and punchin’ ‘em both around with impressive ease... or, put differently, he really made them fly.
While all this was great fun to watch, I could not help thinkin’ that the lesson he was attemptin’ to drive home stank higher than the “Realistic Doggie Doodle With Lifelike Aroma that Actually Sticks to Your Hands” that I was so familiar with. I mean, I wonder if he really thought he was foolin’ anyone with his “size doesn’t make a difference” spiel. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that size can make a considerable difference in a physical-type difference of opinion, as one honest to goodness fight will usually demonstrate this fact clearly enough to convince even the dimmest of wits. The only time skill triumphs over size is if the little guy is very skillful and the big guy is very unskillful... not to mention slow and maybe has a glass jaw. If they are at all matched for skill, the big guy is a good bet to make strawberry jam of the little guy if he is so inclined. This is why professional contact, sport-type athletes, not to mention
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