"What kinda cheap barroom shooters do you take us for??" I barks right back at him. "Me and Nunzio is professionals!! Any jerk can kill somebody, but it takes SKILL to leave 'em in a condition where they can still pay protection ... OR give you information ... OK ..."
"What my cousin means to say," Nunzio sez, steppin' between us quick-like, "is that wounding an enemy takes three opponents out of the action instead of just one, since someone's got to help him get back to ..."
It was a good try, but too late. The sergeant was still into takin' me on.
"Are you calling the trained soldiers of Possiltum jerks?" he hollers, steppin' around Nunzio to come at me again. "What are you? Some kind of PACIFIST?"
"What... did ... you ... call... me ... ?" I sez in my softest voice, which I only use on special occasions.
The trainin' area around us suddenly got real quiet and still ... except for Nunzio who gave a disbelievin' whistle through his teeth as he stepped back.
Somethin' in my voice or the way I was drawin' myself up to my full height must have triggered the sergeant's survival instinct, 'cause all of a sudden he looked around nervous-like as if he were tryin' to find an emergency exit door.
"WHAT ARE YOU ALL DOING JUST STANDING AROUND??!!!" he bellows, turnin' his attention from me to the crowd which has gathered around us. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE QUALIFYING!! MOVE IT!!! NOW!!!"
This interruption gives me time to get my temper under control, and, after coolin' down a bit, I decide it is just as well the episode has drawn to a close. It seems, however, that the sergeant has a few last words for me.
"Guido!" he sez, just loud enough for me to hear, not lookin' me in the face. "Yeah, Sergeant?"
'This isn't the time or the place, but we will continue this discussion ... later."
The way he said it, it wasn't a challenge or a threat ... just a statement.
Chapter Five:
"When I travel, nobody knows me ... and I like it that way!"
S. KING
NUNZIO AND ME was tryin' to figure out what it was they had put on our plates under the laughin' title of "dinner," when Spyder plops down next to us. We're a little surprised at this, as we're normally left to ourselves when dinin', but the reason for her forwardness is not long in comin'.
"You guys are with the Mob, aren't you," she sez, without so much as a "Hello" or "Nice evening."
Now, way back in the intro, I mentioned that we are not real big on bein' asked questions in general, and this specific question is a definite no-no.
"Are you a cop?" Nunzio shoots back, automatic-like.
This is a 'Must Learn' question for anyone whose livelihood depends on extra-legal activities, as if one asks it of a cop, however undercover they might be, they have to acknowledge their profession. Otherwise, any attempt to use the followin' conversation as evidence is dismissed as entrapment.
"Me? Are you kidding? No, I'm not a cop. Why do you ask?"
"Why do you want to know if we're in the Mob?" Nunzio shoots back.
You will notice that at this point, Spyder has answered our question, but we have not yet given a "yea" or "nay" to hers. Like I say, one has an inclination towards caginess in our line of work. Maybe it's a habit resultin' from our regular and prolonged discussions with DAs and Grand Juries. "I've been thinking of trying to join up with them once I get out of the army," she sez with a shrug. "I thought maybe you guys could give me a little information about what it's like workin' for the Mob, if not give me a recommendation or at least a contact."
"Connection."
"What's that. Swatter?"
"I said 'Connection.' In normal business you have contacts. In the Mob, the first step is to get 'connected.'"
"... Or so we've heard," Nunzio sez quicklike, givin' me one of his dirty looks. "I dunno. We might be able to share a few rumors with you. What do you want to know?"
As you can see, my cousin is still bein' cautious, havin' less faith than I do in a "hearsay" defense. With his "rumor" gambit, however, he has opened the door for us to answer a few questions bout the Mob without actually admittin' to any affiliation on our part.
"Well, what's it like?"
"The hours are lousy," I sez.
"... And the retirement plan leaves a lot to be desired," Nunzio adds.
"... But the pay's good. Right?" Spyder urges.
I have mentioned before that my cousin has few loves greater than the desire to lecture, and this chick has just pushed one of his favorite buttons. While he does not relax completely, he defrosts a bit.
"Not as good as you'd think from what the media says," he squeaks. "You see ... remember what Guido said a second ago about being connected? Well, for a long time, when you first join the Mob, you actually have to pay us ... strike that ... them instead of the other way around."
"How's that again?"
"It's easier to understand if you think of it as a franchise system. The Mob gives you permission or license to operate, and you give them a share of your profits. You have to give a percentage, say half, to the guy over you, who in turn has to split with the guy over him, and so on right up to the top. Of course, the guys at the top pull down a bundle, since there's a whole pyramid under them feeding 'em percentages."
"Wait a minute!" Spyder frowns. 'The last time I heard something like this, they were trying to get me to sell cosmetics ... or was it cleaning products?"
"There are similarities," Nunzio agrees. "But there are some major differences, too."
"Like what?"
"Like the cosmetic pyramids don't break your face or your legs if you try to operate independently," I sez.
"What I was going to say," Nunzio sez, glarin' at me, "was that the cosmetic chains don't supply you with lawyers, much less alibis, if the authorities take offense at your activities ... or your tax reports."
"Oh yeah?" I bristles, gettin' a little fed up with Nunzio's know-it-all attitude. "Well the soapsy folks don't whack you if they think you're shortin' them on their take, either!"
"Well what do you expect 'em to do?" he snaps right back at me. "Have 'em arrested?"
"What's with you, Swatter?" Spyder sez, cockin' her head at me. "You sound like you're really down on the Mob."
"He's just a little edgy," Nunzio puts in quick before I can answer myself. "We were having a bit of an argument when you joined us."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she blinks, poppin' to her feet. "I didn't know I was interrupting anything. I can catch you guys later. Just think about what I was asking, okay?"
We watch her walk away, which is a real treat, as feminine company has been notably lackin" since we started our trainin'. Then Nunzio turns to me.
"Okay. What's eating you?"
"The same thing that's been eatin' me since the Boss sent us on this assignment," I sez. "Talkin' about the Mob makes it harder than usual to ignore. Know what I mean?"
"We wasn't assigned, we volunteered."
"We was asked to volunteer by the Boss, which for us is the same as bein' ordered."
Nunzio heaves one of his big sighs and droops a little.
"I guess we might as well have this out right now," he grimaces. "You're talking about us being here in Possiltum right?"
"I'm talkin' about us declarin' war on the Mob," I corrects. "Seein' as how we're currently holdin' the bag at ground zero, this is of some concern to me. Sorry, but I tend to get a bit nervous about overwhelmin'-type firepower when it is apt to be directed at me ... especially when all we've got is government issue crossbows ... and leather skirts for armor!"
If, perhaps, this concern of mine has taken youse by surprise, allow me to enlighten youse, startin' with a brief history lesson. For those of youse already aware of the danger cousin Nunzio and I are in, however, feel free to skip to the next asterisk-type punctuation mark.
Nunzio and me first met the Boss about five books back [Hit or Myth (Myth Adventures #4)] when we was assigned to tag along with one of the Mob's mouthpieces whilst he was looking for the same
Big Julie we was conversin' with in the first chapter. To be more precise, he was lookin' for the army which Big Julie was supposed to have been leadin' in a little fund raisin' venture for our organization, and which, accordin' to reports, had disappeared into thin air after encounterin' a bit of resistance led by the Boss. Of course, in those days we didn't call him the Boss as we weren't workin' for him at the time. All we knew was that there was some bad news-type sorcerer named Skeeve the Great givin' the Mob grief and we was supposed to keep him off Shyster's back whilst the investigation progressed.
In the interest of brevity not to mention the preservin' of our royalty income from the backlist of this series, I will refrain from narratin' all the intriguin' details of that assignment. What is crucial that you understand, however, is that at the conclusion of that first encounter, a deal was struck between the Great Skeeve and Don Bruce, the Mob's Fairy Godfather. By the terms of that agreement, Don Bruce and the Mob was to lay off the Kingdom of Possiltum in general and Big Julie and his boys specifically, in exchange for the Great Skeeve givin' the Mob access to another dimension ... to wit, Deva, complete with its rather famous bazaar.
Shortly thereafter, Don Bruce hired the Great Skeeve to oversee the Mob's interests on Deva, and assigned Nunzio and me to him as bodyguards ... which is when we started callin' him Boss.
With me so far?
Okay, now review the circumstantials with me again, and see if youse can understand the dilemma facin' us.
First of all, the Boss is working for the Mob.
Second, he has sent us to deal with the situation in Possiltum while he goes after Aahz.
Now, as he works for the Mob and we all work for him, the entire strike force which is currently movin' on Queen Hemlock can be considered to be in the employment of the Mob.
Unfortunately, there is a deal in effect, one personally negotiated by Don Bruce himself, which says that no one in the Mob is to move against Possiltum! This means that our current operation is in direct violation of Don Bruce's sworn word ... and while I can't say that notable has never gone back on his word, to do so is a decision he usually reserves for himself personally and tends to get more than a little peeved when someone else undertakes to break his word for him.
As you may have noted from followin' whatever type of media is in vogue where you're readin' this, when someone of Don Bruce's level in the Mob gets peeved, it is not usually expressed by an angry memo. If he feels his position or authority in the Mob is bein' challenged by some overly frisky underling, his usual response is to squash said underling like a bug. Of course, in our position as bodyguards to the Boss, this places us between the Squasher and the Squashee, resultin' in the edginess I was referrin' to a couple pages back which necessitated this explanation.
Understand now? If not, just trust me that I know more about these things than youse, and that our whole crew will be in trouble with the Mob when and if Don Bruce finds out what we're doin'.
"I've been giving it a lot of thought," Nunzio sez like he never left the conversation, which of course, he hadn't, "and I'm not sure the Boss knows he's crossing Don Bruce by sending us back here."
Now this set me back on my heels a bit. I had been assumin' all along that Skeeve sendin' us here was a premeditated move. The idea that he might be ignorant of the consequentials of this action had never occurred to me.
"How do you figure that?"
"Well, the way I see it, the Boss is a real sharp cookie, except in two areas: the Mob, and broads."
"That's true," I sez, 'cause it was. While I have nothin' but the highest regard for the Boss overall, in those two areas he tends to be what we refer to in the Mob as "dumb as a stone."
"Also," Nunzio continues, "there's the fact that he didn't consult with us about the advisabilities of startin' a ruckus with the Mob, or even warn us to be careful of anything except Hemlock ... which is not like him at all if he was expecting trouble from Don Bruce."
Again he has hit on a valid point. Skeeve has easily been the most considerate Boss we have ever worked with and has always been sensitive to our feelin's ... especially those which is attached to parts of us which bleed or break. This has a lot to do with the loyalty and genuine affection we hold for him ... along with his 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!
Chapter Six:
"Boards don't hit back!"
-B. LEE
PRE-INHABITED 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 kneecappers like Nunzio and me, are on the extralarge side. It isn't because our employers figure we are cheaper if cost justified on a "by the pound" rate, it's because we tend to win.
Of course, even if one accepts the "skill over size" concept, there is still a glarin' flaw in the sergeant's logic. Remember how long I said it would take to train someone with a longbow? (No, this isn't gonna be a test ... I was just askin'.) Well, it takes even longer to train someone to be skillful at Hand-To-Hand. A lot longer. The idea that someone like the Spellin' Bee could absorb enough skill in one afternoon to be effective against one of the Flie brothers, however unskilled, is laughable. Realizin' this, it was clear to me that even though he said we was bein' prepared for combat with the enemy, all he was doin' was showin' us a few tricks to help us survive the inevitable barroom type brawls which seem to naturally gravitate toward people in uniform who are tryin' to have a quiet drink around civilians durin' their off-duty hours. Simply put, we was bein' trained to deal with unskilled civilian-type fighters, preferably blind staggerin' drunk, rather than against skilled soldier-type fighters in the field.
"... Of course, these are techniques which will enable you to dispatch an unarmed opponent!" Sergeant Smiley was sayin', which was again misleadin' as none of the countermoves he was demonstratin' were lethal enough to "dispatch" anyone, confirmin' my belief that someone was figurin' we'd only use them on civilians.
"... To deal with an ARMED opponent, however, is a different matter entirely! Fortunately, we have an EXPERT with us to demonstrate how that is done! GUIDO! Front and center!"
"Me, Sergeant?" I blinks, as I had not expected to be called upon.
"That's right," the sergeant sez, showin' some extra teeth in his smile. "At the firing range you made a big point that only jerks have to kill people, Well, here's your chance to show everybody how to 'gentle' an enemy into submission when he's trying to kill you."
Needless to say, I don't care for the sounds of this, but as I have been summoned, I have little choice but to step forward into the clear space bein' used for the demonstrations. My discomfort grows as the sergeant gestures to Corporal Whittle, who tosses him a short sword. That's right, a real short sword ... with a point and sharpened edges.
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