Tony Partly Cloudy (7 page)

Jimmy started to walk out, then stopped and turned to face Tony. “Listen, Tony,” he said. “From now on, let’s do it like this: When I call you on Wednesday nights, if I tell you
I’m
gonna bring the beer and chips, that means there’s not really going to be a game,
capisce
? But if I ask
you
to bring the beer, that means I really need you to bring it. Fair enough? Can you remember that?”

Tony blushed, “Yeah, Jimmy, I got it. Listen, I’m real sorry about the mix-up tonight. It won’t happen again, I guarantee it.”

Jimmy waved dismissively. “Forget about it. I didn’t explain to you in advance how things work. But now you know, right?”

“Absolutely, Jimmy. Absolutely.”

Another clap on the cheek and Jimmy was out the door, his voice booming in the hallway. “See you next week, same time, same station, at the
Partly Cloudy Poker Club
!”

Smiling at how Jimmy had dubbed the event, Tony was closing the door when he felt it bump against something solid. Solid and unmoving. Peering around the half-open door, Tony found himself looking into a massive expanse of black leather. Looking up, he saw Eric gazing down at him, with an odd grimace on his face that Tony finally realized might be a smile.

“Thanks for the chips,” was all he said. Then he pulled the door closed behind him. Tony watched through the peephole as Eric disappeared down the hallway.

“You’re welcome,” Tony said, as he slowly locked the deadbolts. “Here at the Partly Cloudy Poker Club, we aim to please.”

COLLEGE WAS GOING WELL. Tony excelled in most of his classes, other than a near-death experience with Advanced Algebra, and hoped to graduate with honors in the spring of 1994. During the summers Tony drove moving trucks all over the state of New York, but at the beginning of his junior year, he quit his job at Mario’s to begin interning.

Kean’s Meteorology Department farmed out its upperclassmen to local newspapers, radio stations, and television studios in arrangements called
internships
, which in other circumstances might be called slavery, or at the very least, indentured servitude. Essentially these news organizations got free labor from ambitious young meteorology students eager to earn credentials. The students received no money, but did get some college credit for their efforts, plus the highly sought-after privilege of listing the experience on their resumes.

The work was mostly grunt work – clearing paper jams in the printers that spat out information from the National Weather Service, getting coffee and cigarettes for the rest of the office staff, and at one public radio station where Tony filled in for a week, cleaning out the litter box of the station’s communally owned cat.

But every now and then they actually got to do something related to the weather. Tony once got to call the National Weather Service to report a freak hailstorm that hit North Jersey. Talking to the harried-sounding woman who answered the phone at the new regional office on Long Island, Tony wondered what it would be like to actually work for the NWS. They probably had some amazing setup, like Mission Control in all those astronaut movies. Man, that had to be great.

Tony’s education was progressing in other ways. The Partly Cloudy Poker Club was a weekly tradition, and had grown popular with many of Jimmy Carbone’s associates in the family business. Over time, a genuine affection had developed between Jimmy and Tony, along with a healthy mutual respect.

Jimmy learned that Tony was loyal and dependable, and a pretty fun guy to hang out with, to boot. He realized Tony was a lot sharper that his ponderous size and rough speech would indicate. He looked like a big lug, but the kid was smart, and had a lot of heart.

And Tony learned to appreciate the precision and discipline with which Jimmy approached his life. His word was gold – if Jimmy said something was going to happen, it happened. Tony liked the fact that Jimmy didn’t talk down to him. When Jimmy called him “kid,” it was with affection, not disdain. And although Eric still scared the hell out of him, Tony never had a problem with Jimmy’s hulking attendant. He just made sure he always had an ample supply of potato chips on hand. With ridges, of course.

Overall, Tony looked forward to Thursdays – at least the Thursdays when
he
was instructed to buy the beer. Jimmy’s code had stayed in place, and at least once each month Jimmy would instruct Tony not to bother; that Jimmy would be bringing the beer. That would always mean a long, quiet night for Tony, with the couch pulled out sideways from the wall.

But Tony had never lifted the trapdoor to take a peek inside. Once, Jimmy surprised him by asking him if he had ever been curious, and had maybe been tempted to take a look,
you know, sometime when there was nobody around
...

“No, Jimmy,” Tony had said, shaking his head solemnly. “Not once – not ever. The way I figure it, curiosity killed the cat, am I right?” Before Jimmy could answer, Tony continued, “Me, I’m a dog person. I don’t want no cats – alive or dead – around here. Know what I mean?”

Although somewhat baffled by Tony’s metaphoric logic, Jimmy saw in the young man’s eyes a conviction that couldn’t be faked. He trusted Tony. In Jimmy’s world, that put Tony on an extremely short list of people.

Jimmy also learned to trust Tony’s instincts, but that was a lesson he learned the hard way. On one non-poker-playing Thursday, as Jimmy and several of his colleagues began their descent into the trapdoor, he noticed that Tony looked troubled. Jimmy gestured to the other men to go on ahead of him, and approached Tony.

“Is there a problem?” Jimmy asked.

“Well...”

“Come on, Tony – out with it. You’ve been acting weird tonight.”

Tony shifted uncomfortably, and mumbled, “Well, you know that I understand about not asking too many questions, right?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, “and you’ve been real good about that. You know I appreciate that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony said. “It’s just...”

“Just what? Come on, Tony – the boys are waiting on me.”

Aware of Eric standing by the couch, Tony spoke in a whisper. “It’s just that I got this feeling.”

“A feeling?” Jimmy’s voice was suddenly dead serious. “What kind of feeling are we talking about here? Like maybe somebody’s following you? You seen anybody snooping around or anything?”

Tony surprised Jimmy by laughing. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s the weather.”

“The weather?” Jimmy’s eyebrows arched. “Tony, what the hell are you talking about? I need to get going, you know?”

“I know,” Tony said, “and I didn’t know if I should say anything, but...”

“But what?” Jimmy grabbed Tony’s arm. “Tony. Talk to me. Now.”

Tony let out a sigh. “Well, I don’t know where you guys go when you go, you know, downstairs.” Tony nodded toward the trapdoor. “I mean, I don’t even know if you go outside, or stay inside, or what.”

Tony quickly added, “And I don’t want to know. But on the off chance that you’re maybe going somewhere, you know,
outside
, I couldn’t help but notice that none of you guys has an umbrella.”

“An umbrella? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about rain. Next hour or so, it’s going to rain, bigtime.”

Jimmy laughed. “Tony, have you been outside recently? There’s not a cloud in the sky. And there’s nothing on the news about any rain – hell, the guy on TV said we’re clear through the weekend.”

“I know,” Tony said. “I’m just saying.”

“You think it’s going to rain.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “I’d pretty much bet on it. I got this feeling.”

Tony considered telling Jimmy about the gift his grandmother was convinced he had, but sensed the man might not be open to such talk.

Instead, he simply said, “I’m usually pretty good with the weather.”

“Is that right?” Jimmy said. He hadn’t seen this side of Tony before. Gone was the cheerful palooka. In his place was a brooding, almost imposing young man, his face furrowed with concern. Jimmy looked at Tony long and hard, evaluating the conversation.

Then he broke into a smile.

“Tony, I think it’s great that you’re studying the weather. And we all think it’s terrific, how well you’re doing in school and everything. I bet you’ll turn out to be a hell of a weatherman.”

“But tonight,” he said, clapping Tony on the arm, “I’ll take my chances.”

Jimmy walked back to the trapdoor, and began making his way down inside it. He stopped when he saw the look on Tony’s face.

“Tony,” he said, “I appreciate your concern. You’re a good kid. But we’ll be fine. Forget about it.”

Jimmy flashed another smile. Then he was gone, followed by the lumbering Eric, who closed the trapdoor behind him.

Two and a half hours later, the trapdoor opened again, and half a dozen very pissed-off men emerged, soaked to the skin and swearing a blue streak.

“Jesus Christ,” one said, “it’s a goddamn monsoon out there!”

The others fell into a chorus of complaints.

“Fucking thousand-dollar suit, ruined!”

“You didn’t pay no thousand bucks for that suit.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Both of you shut up! We’re gonna need a goddamn ark to get home, this shit keeps up.”

“Man, that was some rain. Talk about cats and dogs. Big fucking cats and dogs. I’m talking lions and Great Danes here.”

“I don’t know where the hell it came from. I mean, it was clear as a bell when we got here, am I right?”

“I’m talking fucking panthers and Saint Bernards. Caribous and German fucking shepherds.”

“Enough with the cats and dogs crap already. And wait a minute. A caribou isn’t a fucking cat. It’s like a panda or something.”

“Bullshit. A caribou is like some kind of reindeer. Or a moose, maybe.”

“Whatever. But it’s definitely not a fucking cat.”

“I’m pretty sure a caribou is—”

“Guys,” Tony called out, “there’s some towels right there, on the arm of the couch.”

As the grumbling men lunged for the stack of towels Tony had set up, Jimmy caught Tony’s eye, waiting for the inevitable
I told you so
.

Tony didn’t crack a smile. “I heard the rain against my window,” he said, “so I figured I’d put some towels out. You know, in case you guys got caught in it. Man, that storm came out of nowhere, didn’t it?”

Grabbing a towel, Jimmy looked hard at Tony, waiting for the gloating derision he had expected.

But Tony wasn’t delivering, apparently finding no need to cause Jimmy to lose face in front of his colleagues. Instead, Tony circulated among his soggy guests, handing out beers and collecting towels. Finally he approached Jimmy, holding his hand out for Jimmy’s towel.

“Thanks,” Jimmy said, looking Tony in the eye as he handed him the towel. “I appreciate it.”

Tony grinned. The big palooka grin, without a trace of guile. “Forget about it,” Tony said.

Jimmy nodded. But forgetting about things wasn’t his style.

When Jimmy showed up the following Thursday, he came bearing gifts.

“What’s in the box?” Tony asked, pointing toward the large cardboard carton Eric was working on opening.

Jimmy said, “Give him a minute to set it up. In the meantime, maybe you could get the boys something to drink.”

“You got it,” Tony said, and hurried about the business of taking drink orders.

When he was finished distributing beer to his guests, Tony saw that Eric had taken up his usual post by the door. The cardboard box had disappeared.

But next to the couch now stood an ornate iron umbrella stand, stocked with six large umbrellas.

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

Tony got along well with everybody who attended the Partly Cloudy Poker Club. Well, almost everybody. Despite Tony’s best efforts, Louie the Leg maintained an attitude toward him that made Frankie B seem like Mister Rogers by comparison. Then again, Louie didn’t treat anybody particularly well, no matter how many beers he used to placate his apparently constant state of rage. Most of the card games Tony hosted went off without a hitch, but whenever Louie was one of the guests, things could get iffy.

“I don’t know why I even play with you assholes,” Louie said one night, throwing his cards down in disgust. “It ain’t like I can afford it. Not like some of you pricks.”

“Whaddaya talkin’ about?” said Big Al. Tony was always amazed that such a tiny man had such a deep voice. “Back when I had the action in that neighborhood, I never had no problems making ends meet. But maybe I was just a better businessman.”

Louie bristled. “That, or maybe you’re just a goddamn dinosaur.”

“What did you say?” Big Al’s voice seemed to drop another octave.

“That was a different time,” Louie said. “Before the neighborhood went to hell. It’s all freakin’ crackheads now – nobody’s got any real money. You had it easy.”

“So I’m a dinosaur? You’re calling me a goddamn dinosaur?”

Louie waved a dismissive hand. “Dinosaur, midget – have it your way.”

Nobody saw the move. But everybody heard the smooth metallic click of the revolver being cocked. The revolver Big Al was now pointing at Louie.

“What the hell?” Louie cried, instinctively pushing his chair back from the table.

“You don’t talk to me that way,” Big Al said. “Nobody talks to me that way.” The gun – a stainless .38 snubnose – seemed huge in Al’s tiny hand. But he held it steady, unwavering.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody breathed.

Finally Jimmy broke the silence, his voice calm, his tone fatherly.

“Boys. Let’s relax. Seriously.”

Big Al remained frozen, his gun trained on Louie. “Nobody talks to me that way,” he repeated.

“You’re absolutely right about that,” Jimmy said. “We all know that.” Jimmy caught Louie’s eye. “
All
of us know that, don’t we? So why don’t you put that thing down and let Louie here apologize?”

Again nobody moved. All eyes were on Al’s gun, which continued to point at Louie’s torso.

“Alberto,” Jimmy said softly. “
Per favore.
”

Finally Big Al withdrew the gun, uncocking the hammer with a tiny thumb.

“
Grazie
,” Jimmy said, almost in a whisper. Then he faced Louie, and his voice grew more stern. “Well?”

Louie held his hands out in a shrug. “What do you want me to say? I’m freakin’ sorry, okay? I shouldn’ta said what I said.” His eyes showed barely contained anger that belied his words as he addressed the smaller man. “Please accept my apologies.”

Big Al said nothing.

“You see?” Jimmy said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Louie apologized. Just like I knew he would.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t mean it,” Al mumbled.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Louie bellowed, rising from his chair. “I can’t win with you assholes! I come here to unwind, play some cards, maybe drink a few beers, and instead I gotta take a ration of shit from all of you? I don’t fucking think so!” With that he swept a massive arm across the table, propelling bottles and plates toward Tony’s side of the table in a rain of beer and potato chips. Instantly every man was on his feet, shouting and swearing. Tony stepped back, brushing debris off his shirt and feeling food crunch under his feet on the carpet. A tall man Tony knew only as Icepick held Big Al’s arms at his sides, while Eric materialized out of nowhere to crowd Louie into a corner of the kitchen.