Not a Violent Man
Charles Langley

Since returning to writing three years ago after a
fifty-nine year hiatus, Charles Langley has
written seventy stories for e-zines, print magazines,
and anthologies. He is now working on a
collection of short stories by senior citizens for
publication this Fall.
©Copyright 2001
Charles Langley

Sam Sigliani was not a violent man. He would tell you this at the
drop of a hat or the crack of a kneecap. Of course, in the
pursuance of his calling he would sometimes have to break an arm
or in some way limit the ambulation of some “late on his payment”
unfortunate, but that was not Sam’s fault. At the insistence of his
parole officer, Sam had once read most of a book on selfimprovement
and what stuck in his mind was that man must be
responsible for his actions. In his mind this meant that the stupid
asshole should at least have come up with the vig, even if he
couldn’t pay off the nut.
This applied especially in the incident with Vinnie, who borrowed
heavily to bet on a sure thing in order to pay for his wedding. The
horse he bet on finished after the other nags were already relaxing
in their stalls. To make things worse, word got back to his boss that
he was a big spender at the track so his employment became a
thing of the past. His wedding was off and he had to deal with the
enforcer. Sam, not being a violent man, would have settled for a
clean, fast to heal broken arm. But Vinnie fought back and the
additional damage to his being was simply his own fault. Sam
refused to admit any fault on his part, even though Vinnie was his
kid brother.
When Sam was called on to administer to Leon Katz, the candy
store/numbers drop owner, he had misgivings about the job. Leon
had held out on numbers bets and some of them had been hit. He
could either renege and have the syndicate find out about his
misdealing or cover the hits on his own. He borrowed the money
from Bennie, intending to pay it off out of future numbers business.
The numbers boys heard about his problem and took away his
book. There wasn’t enough profit in fountain sales to pay off the
debt, so Sam was sent to call. It wasn’t Leon’s age that bothered
him.
“Anybody live in this neighborhood seventy-five years gotta know
you don’t mess with Bennie the Bank,” he explained. It was
memories of the times in his youth when Leon had staked him to a
two-cents plain or chocolate egg cream that gave Sam pause. “He
just let me hang ‘em up until I had a jingle in my pocket again,” he
said, “I don’t know if I ever paid him back for all of them.”
The fact that Leon’s ancient bones were brittle and that the lesson
finished him off was no fault of Sam’s. Leon should have thought of
that when he was skimming the boss. And he should have been
glad that Sam wasn’t a violent man.
Sam’s downfall came as the result of the good luck of Sollie the
Schlemiel. Sollie was hit by a truck and ended up in a cast from
neck to nozzle. The injuries were so severe that the insurance
company paid off fast, before some ambulance chaser could get into
the act. This timely intervention by Lady Luck enabled Sollie to
hand over the five gees he owed Bennie when Sam arrived to
collect. Since Sollie was in no condition to get to a bookie to put it
on a horse, got the money, along with a story. The fifth race at
Hialeah was fixed, Sollie said. He had it straight from the horses
mouth. Bennie the Book and associates had arranged for a leisurely
run by the other future dogfood suppliers and had put large sums
on the head of Salacious Sal, an unknown filly from out of state.
Sam had never been a gambling man. He had paid too many
visits to men who were gamblers to take the risk himself. But this
was a sure thing since his own boss was behind it. He scattered the
five big ones belonging to his boss around to keep from upsetting
the odds, and even put a C note of his own on the nag for Sollie, to
pay for the tip. Unknown to either of them, the arrangement for the
fix fell apart and the fixers went elsewhere for their rakeoff.
Salacious Sal had a diet of dust from the fleeting hooves of the
faster bangtails and Sam was down for five and three zeroes. Failing
to show up with money belonging to the boss was far more serious
than falling behind on a payment, so Bennie sent his toughest
collector to see Sam.
Unfortunately for Sam, this new enforcer WAS a violent man. Sam
Sigliani came out of the hospital with one leg in a cast and one arm
in a sling. He held no grudge for the beating that had put him in
medical manor, but he was concerned about how he was going to
pay back the five thou that had been the reason for the beating.
Five thousand plus the vig, which increased the amount daily. Sam
had never been introduced to hard work, and it was doubtful that
the pay would be sufficient to pay off the nut if he should arrange 
an introduction.
Once he healed, the boxing game seemed to be the most likely
answer. So he talked “Punchy” Riley into giving him a go at a new
heavyweight who was just getting a start. Sam was no stumbling
block to the newcomer’s career, since he ended up supine in the
middle of the first round, with a loud buzzing in his ears and the
newly found knowledge that big muscles do not a boxer make.
Wrestling had to be easier, since the moves were all rehearsed
and the pain and agony were mostly academy award material. But
Sam wasn’t good at remembering the scenario, so in his second
outing he leapt forward when he should have fallen back. “Man
Mountain” Wroblesky’s foot long foot caught him where his jewels
hung and it was a long interval before they could stop his soprano
wailing and get his face back to something resembling a human
visage.
He fouled me,” Sam complained to the referee, “He shoulda
kicked me in the head, like the script said.”
“I wouldn’t talk about it,” the referee told him. “Ever since he
married my sister he’s been a mean mother. He just might sue you
for breaking his foot.” It looked like the only way Sam could get out
from under his problems was to up his profession to hit man.
Sam was raised in the church and, while he could find no
prohibition in their teachings against rearranging the anatomy of
some scum-bag who failed to meet his payments, the
commandments themselves said “Thou shalt not kill”. He wasn’t
sure whether this applied to everybody, or just to those within the
church. To be on the safe side he decided to accept hits only on
protestants and other heathens. This turned out to be a problem,
because he couldn’t find many people worth offing outside the
mother church.
A Swede named Vidkun Olsen had been nibbling around the
edges of the local rackets and while not big enough to give them
any worries, he was establishing a precedent that was could lead to
more formidable intrusions. Don Mario decided to take care of the
problem and put out a contract on him. Not a big one. That would
have made him seem more important than he actually was. But a
ten gee hit to a loser like Sam was manna from Heaven. He asked
around for a price on a cold piece, and was told he could get one
with no serial numbers for $450. If he had $450, he wouldn’t have
been so anxious to cop a job. He finally glommed a Saturday night
special from a high school dropout on the way to juvie hall who
didn’t need it anymore. It was a real bargain at just fifteen bucks.
Sam cased the job well, getting down the facts on where the
Swede was at all times and with whom. He finally decided that the
best venue was in the park during Vidkun’s daily jogging run. He
positioned himself and waited in a remote spot where witnesses 
would be scarce. Unfortunately, the Swede had a sudden yen for
some Scandinavian comforting and skipped jogging to go home
to his wife.
The next day Sam was there again. When his target hove into
view he sighted carefully, held his breath, and slowly squeezed
the trigger. The gun barked and Sam screamed, holding up a
thumb that was half an inch shorter that it had been before and
trying to stop the flow of blood with a dirty handkerchief. Olsen,
unaware that he was supposed to be the one bleeding, ran over
and offered help.
“You gonna shoot targets,” he advised, “Don’t trust them cheap
pieces. They blow up all the time.”
Sam decided that Murder, Inc. didn’t need another partner. He
had to find some foolproof way to pay off his debt or else get
out of town. He decided the latter was the wiser and hitched a
ride on a truck headed for New Orleans. There he would change
his name, wipe out his previous identity and start all over. Maybe
this time he wouldn’t be such a loser.
There were many loan-sharks in New Orleans and Sam easily
found a job.
“I’m really a lucky guy,” he told a new friend, “I got a job, I got
new friends, and I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder.
I never had it so good.”
Two weeks later Gino Garibaldi was still looking all over Sam’s
previous haunts, trying to find the missing Sigliani. His friend had
dropped completely out of sight.
“I can’t understand it,” Gino told anyone in hearing, “That’s
ain’t like Sam. He give me a sweepstakes ticket to hold for him
and it hit. All he has to do is take it in and take home five mil. I
can’t cash it because his name is on it. Poor bastard sure could
use the money. He ain’t got no luck at all.”