Tony Partly Cloudy (10 page)

Frankie stopped himself. “Ah, what the hell do I care? You know how to handle yourself, right? You’re not getting shitfaced with these guys, are you? I mean if you are, and you’re still pulling down all those A’s and B’s – whatever you’re doing is working. I’ll see you Thursday.”

Without waiting for his son to reply, Frankie hung up.

JIMMY CALLED TO CONFIRM ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, so on Thursday Tony went to the all-night grocery after school, where he stocked up on chips and beer. The clerks there had long since stopped asking for Tony’s ID – apparently a three-hundred-dollar beer run was the going price for indifference to the legal technicalities of selling alcohol.

Jimmy surprised Tony by arriving ten minutes earlier than usual on Thursday night. Tony welcomed Jimmy and Eric into his apartment, surprised to see not one but two other men with them: Danny Mouthwash and Bobby Six Months. After a panicked moment of wondering whether he had enough refreshments to go around, Tony relaxed when he remembered that Bobby barely ever ate or drank a thing.

“Hey, you guys,” Tony said cheerfully. “You’re a little early. My pop isn’t here yet.”

“Yeah, we know,” Jimmy said, surprising Tony again. He wondered how Jimmy would know that.

“It’s not a problem, Tony,” Jimmy said, sensing Tony’s uneasiness. “We’ll wait to start the game until Frankie B gets here. Oh, and I know I told you it would just be me and Danny, but at the last minute, Bobby here found out he could come.”

“That’s great, Bobby,” Tony said, turning to face his unexpected guest. “Glad to have you. I think we got enough beer and stuff, but if I need to, I’ll run out for more.”

“Don’t bother,” Bobby said, coughing and then clearing his throat with a sound like an airplane toilet flushing. “In my condition, I’ll be lucky if I make it through the first hand.”

Tony nodded respectfully. It was well known that Bobby Six Months was dying. His doctor had given him six months to live.

That was in 1967.

Bobby had gone out and done what any sensible middle-aged man who was dying would do: married a twenty-year-old stripper. But despite looking – as Jimmy had put it – “like he died and somebody forgot to tell him,” Bobby kept on living, his heart stubbornly refusing to stop beating. He had actually outlived the stripper, who drank herself to death fifteen years into the marriage, after realizing she’d probably never see any money from Bobby’s estate.

Tony got everybody set up at his kitchen table, distributing beer, snacks, and ashtrays. Then there was a knock on his door. Eric stooped to look through the peephole, then beckoned Tony over to the door.

“Is that him?” Eric asked.

Taking Eric’s place at the peephole, Tony saw his father standing outside the door. “Yeah, it’s him,” Tony said, reaching for the doorknob.

But Eric stopped him, placing a huge hand on the door. “I’ll get it,” he said. Taking his cue, Tony quickly stepped aside.

Eric opened the door, and quietly said, “Mr. Bartolicotti?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Frankie said, automatically extending his hand. As his eyes took in one of the few men he had ever met who was actually bigger than him, Frankie quickly retracted his hand, trying to disguise the gesture by running his hand through his hair.

“Come in,” Eric said, stepping back far enough to allow Frankie into the apartment. Pointing at a spot on the floor, he said, “Stand there for a minute.” Frankie did as he was told.

Eric said, “Arms.” Frankie raised his arms up, forming a letter T with his body. Eric began patting him down.

“You carrying?” Eric asked.

“Nah,” said Frankie. Tony was shocked by this unexpected frisking – they had never done that to him. But Frankie didn’t seem surprised, and calmly allowed Eric to continue his search, which was very thorough. When Eric was done, he looked at Jimmy and nodded.

It was like flicking a switch.

“Frankie B!” Jimmy shouted, as if greeting a long-lost friend. Tony was not entirely sure the two men had ever even met. Jimmy shook Frankie’s hand – a two-handed politician’s handshake, which Frankie returned enthusiastically.

“Jimmy,” Frankie said, “it’s good to see you. I really appreciate the invite.”

“Glad to have you. Your boy’s a good kid – you raised him right.”

“Thanks, Jimmy – I appreciate that. I’ve tried to raise him good, you know?”

Tony had never seen his father – the legendary Frankie B – being so... so...
nice
to anybody. Frankie was usually a blustery take-no-prisoners guy, and suddenly he was all humility and manners. It was weird to watch, but it also reminded Tony of exactly who he’d been playing poker with for the last few years.

Jimmy went on to introduce Frankie to the others. Danny scowled as he shook Frankie’s hand, while Bobby declined to shake, saying, “You’re better off not touching me – you don’t want to catch what I got. I could go any minute. Just like this.” Bobby snapped his finger for emphasis, a gesture that prompted Jimmy to roll his eyes.

“Hey, Pops,” Tony finally said, when he felt he wouldn’t be interrupting.

“Hey, Tony – how you doin’? You ready to play some cards?”

Tony smiled, still getting accustomed to the concept of actually liking his father. He had always loved him. But this
liking
– this was new.

“Bring it on,” said Tony. “Have a seat, and I’ll get you a beer.”

It was a good night. Frankie hit it off well with Jimmy, and told some of his classic dirty jokes during the game. One of these jokes launched Bobby Six Months into a bout of combined laughter and coughing so severe that for a moment it looked like maybe his six months was finally up. But he came up for air, and was soon finding something or other to complain about.

At the end of the evening, Frankie stayed after the others left, lounging on the couch and smoking while Tony straightened up.

“Tony, that was a good time,” he said. “Thanks for calling me.”

“Hey, no problem, Pops. I’m glad you could make it. So, what did you think? I mean, they’re okay guys, aren’t they?”

Frankie smiled. “Well, I think Jimmy is. Those other two I don’t know about. That Bobby guy – Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy so freakin’ unhealthy-looking.”

Tony laughed. “Yeah, well, a man in his condition – he could go any minute. Just like
this
.” Tony’s finger-snap punctuated the word, drawing a smoky chuckle from his father

After a long but not uncomfortable silence, Frankie said, “Tony, listen. I gotta tell you, I was impressed by how you handled yourself tonight.”

Tony stopped washing beer mugs, and turned to face his father.

“Those guys,” Frankie continued, “it’s obvious they like you. They don’t just tolerate you – they actually like you.” Frankie shrugged and said, “Well, maybe not Danny Mouthwash. I don’t think he likes anything! I mean, Jesus – what did he call you when you beat him with those two pairs?”

Tony thought for a second. “I think he said I was a goat-sucking cocknipple.”

Frankie laughed. “Was that before or after he told Bobby Six Months to go blow a pregnant Doberman?”

Joining in the laughter, Tony said, “And how about you? You were what – a douche-witted pus-knuckle? What the hell is that? I thought for sure you were going to tear his head off.”

Frankie shook his head, his smile fading. “Nah – you just gotta remember who these guys are. I mean, you know that, don’t you, Tony? You gotta
never
forget who these guys are. Never.”

“I know, Pops,” Tony said, thinking of the Burberry overcoat that hung in his closet. “I know.”

Nearly finished with the cleanup, Tony joined his father on the couch, bringing with him two bottles of beer. He set one on the coffee table in front of Frankie.

Taking the proffered beer, Frankie said, “Anyways, like I was saying, you’re doing good here. You know how to handle yourself.”

Tony was shocked to be receiving so much praise. Coming from a guy like Frankie, this was about a two-year supply, all delivered in the space of five minutes.

“Thanks, Pops. I appreciate that.”

Frankie got a fresh cigarette going, then asked, “So what’s next? I mean, this is your last year of school, am I right?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, “I should be getting out at the end of May, beginning of June.”

“Then what?”

Tony shrugged. “Then I look for a job. Well, actually I’ll start looking a few months before I graduate. Sometimes the people at Kean can help you line up a job in advance.”

“But they’ll pay you, right? I mean, it won’t be like this freebie stuff you’re doing? That – what do you call it –
internal
thing?”

“That’s
interning
,” Tony said, smiling. “No, Pops, they’ll pay me. Probably not a whole hell of a lot, but they’ll pay me.

Frankie frowned. “So the money’s not so good at first? I guess you gotta get some experience, right? Then you start making the bucks?”

Tony shifted on the couch to face his father. “Well, this isn’t really a big-bucks line of work. But it’s enough to get by, and I’d be doing what I love, you know? And I’ll be getting to do a lot of stuff I don’t get to do now. You know, real forecasting, not just the grunt work. Man, I can’t wait!”

Frankie stubbed out his cigarette. “I gotta be honest, Tony. I don’t get it. I mean, first you gotta go to school for years, then when you come out, you don’t make any money. So what’s the attraction?”

Tony thought for a moment. “Pops, you remember all the different airports you took me to when I was a kid? The air museums and stuff? How we even went back a few years later to that one the tornado wiped out?” Frankie nodded.

“And you remember how we’d go at night, and you’d park on the frontage road by the airport, and we’d just watch the planes taking off and landing, for hours?” Frankie’s face was broadening into a smile.

“And how you told me how you always wanted to be a pilot, but when you went into the Air Force, they wouldn’t let you, on account of your eyesight?” Frankie was still nodding, but the smile was gone.

“I mean, Pops – have you ever flown a plane?”

Frankie looked annoyed. “What the hell are you asking me? You know I never—”

“Pops, what I’m getting at – you never flew a plane, but still you know – you just
know
– that you’d love it, am I right? You just know you’d love it more than anything, wouldn’t you?”

Frankie sighed. “You bet your ass I would.”

Tony slapped his thigh. “That’s how I feel about weather forecasting. I’ve never done it – well, not for real doing it – but I know I’ll love it. I just know I’m gonna fucking love it.”

Frankie was looking at Tony very intently now – Tony couldn’t tell what he was thinking. The look on his face was very serious.

Self-conscious about the lull in the conversation, Tony said, “The way you feel about airplanes, Pops – that’s the way I feel about the weather.”

Frankie sat back on the couch with a heavy sigh.

“Okay, then,” he said. “That I can understand.”

They sat for a long time in silence, finishing their beers and thinking of dreams, old and new.

“KEY WEST? You mean as in Florida – that Key West?” Rosa couldn’t believe what her son was telling her.

“Yeah, Mama,” Tony said. “It’s way down at the end of Florida.”

“Hell, it’s almost in freakin’ Cuba,” Frankie said.

Tony had gone home to give his parents the news in person: the placement office at Kean had found him what sounded like a great job. “They got a topnotch weather facility there. I mean, that’s where they track hurricanes from, you know? And I’ll be starting just before hurricane season starts!”

“They have hurricanes?” Rosa asked, her voice beginning to shake. “They have entire
seasons
of hurricanes?”

“Rosa, it
is
Florida,” Frankie said. “Of course they got freakin’ hurricanes.”

Rosa was shaking her head. “But couldn’t you get a job here? You know, somewhere nearby? Somewhere that doesn’t have...” she paused, as if unable to say the word, “hurricanes?”

“But Mama – this is the National Weather Service. And the Key West forecast office has some of the best equipment in the country. I mean it’s
the
best hurricane tracking equipment there is!”

Rosa did not seem impressed, at least not favorably. “So where is this Key West?” she asked. “It’s near Miami, right? Please tell me it’s inland from Miami, so you’ll be safe from these hurricanes.”

Tony and Frankie exchanged a look.

“Uh, Mama – Key West is an
island
. It’s about sixty miles south of the tip of Florida. Well, technically it
is
Florida, but it’s not part of, you know, the mainland.”

“You’re going to go live on a desert island in the middle of the ocean in a place that has an entire season of hurricanes. This is what you’re telling me?”

“Mama...” Tony said, stretching her name out with what he hoped was a soothing tone. “It’s not like that. It’s not a desert island, and it’s not in the middle of the ocean. It’s the Florida Keys – keys are like islands, and they’re all connected by bridges. It’s just like going from Brooklyn to Manhattan.”

Frankie shot Tony a
don’t push your luck
look.

Tony switched gears. “Mama, you gotta understand. The National Weather Service, that’s the bigtime as far as meteorology goes. And it’s one of their top locations – this is a dream job, and I’m real lucky to get it. This is a good thing, Mama. A good thing.”

“But you’ve never been to Florida,” Rosa protested. “You’ve got fair skin – you’ll burn.”

“Jesus Christ, Rosa,” Frankie said. “First he’s getting bad weather, now he’s getting too much sun. What’s next, earthquakes?”

Tony tried to regain control of the conversation, if he’d ever really had it. “Mama, it’s going to be fine. This is a great opportunity. And come on, we all know how many New Yorkers move down to Florida. Don’t worry – I’m gonna get down there, and it’s going to be just like I was in New York.”

“Sure,” Rosa said sullenly, “New York with hurricanes.”

“Mama, it’ll be fine – trust me. The people I been talking to on the phone have been real nice. Everybody down there is supposed to be real nice. I mean, people are people, am I right? They’re the same all over.”

After two weeks in Key West, Tony never again said those words. People were
not
the same in Key West. Nothing was.

It started when he got off the plane – if you could call that a plane. Only very small aircraft could land on Key West’s tiny airstrip, so in Atlanta Tony had boarded a minuscule prop-driven vehicle that was more carnival ride than airplane.

Thrilled to have survived the flight, Tony stepped off the plane to face a sudden rush of hot air. It was like opening one of the pizza ovens at Mario’s, but with a different smell – a
sea
smell. Clad in his nicest black suit, he immediately began to sweat.

Tony walked across the tarmac to the terminal, which was the smallest excuse for an airport he had ever seen. Inside, he found a restroom, then reunited with his suitcase in Baggage Claim. Then he went out to find a cab.

There were several cabs parked outside, and Tony approached the one closest to him and caught the driver’s eye through his open window. Leaning down to talk to the man, Tony pointed to the cabs in front of them and said, “Can I get a ride with you, or do I need to go to the cab that’s at the front of the line?”

The driver, a thirty-something man with shaggy hair and a tan the color of Tony’s old baseball glove, shrugged and said, “Hey, it’s cool. You can ride with anybody you want. I mean, it’s not like it’s a competition or anything.”

“Great,” Tony said, speculating that this driver had never been a hack in New York, where the occupation most certainly
was
a competition, if not an all-out war.

“I got a suitcase,” Tony said. “Can you pop the trunk?”

The cabbie shook his head, smiling. “Sorry, man, no can do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, there’s some button or switch or something that does that, but man, for the life of me I can’t remember where it is. I had this old car – a Datsun, I think it was – that had a little lever next to the seat that would open the trunk. But I don’t know where it is on this thing. I keep meaning to ask.”

Tony looked at the man for a moment. He continued to smile at Tony. “Well,” Tony said, “why don’t you use the key?”

The driver shook his head again. “See, here’s the thing with that. I don’t have any keys. I lost the keys a couple months ago, but I don’t want to tell the dispatcher, ‘cause then he’ll get all in my face about it, and you know, I really don’t need the stress. I mean, stress is not good for you, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony said. “But wait a minute. How do you drive this thing if you don’t have the key? I mean, this
is
your cab, isn’t it?”

“Old Yeller?” the driver asked, patting the dashboard appreciatively. “Absolutely. I’ve been driving her for years.”

Tony noted that Old Yeller was blue and white, with a gray interior, but decided not to bring it up. Returning to his previous line of questioning, he said, “So how do you drive it?”

“Oh, I hotwire it,” the driver said, nodding his head cheerfully at the admission. “It’s a piece of cake with a Chevy. Way easier than a Ford.”

“I heard Plymouths were the easiest,” Tony said, thinking back to conversations he’d had with Paulie Wheels, a regular at the Partly Cloudy Poker Club who had done two stretches at Rikers for stealing cars. The fact that they were
police
cars had earned Paulie some notoriety with his fellow inmates.

The cab driver beamed. “Yeah, man! Like the old Fury? Dude – I could start one of those in like two seconds.” His expression turned more serious. “Now, the newer ones are a lot harder. They’ve got all this electronic ignition crap that gets real complicated, ‘specially if the car’s got an alarm.”

“Tell me about it,” Tony said, continuing to riff on his secondhand knowledge of the fine art of grand theft auto. “You get a newer Lincoln or Cadillac – forget about it, am I right?”

The driver looked puzzled. “I don’t know about those, man. I could never afford one of those. And even if I could, I probably wouldn’t get one, ‘cause when I lost my keys, I’d be screwed. That’s why I stick to simple cars. It’s gotta be easy to hotwire, or I won’t buy it.”

Tony paused, processing the cabbie’s words. “So, you never actually boosted any cars? You just learned to hotwire your own cars because you lose your keys a lot?”

The cabbie looked stunned. “Well,
yeah
, dude. I mean, boosting is
stealing
– that’s just...
harsh
, you know?”

Again Tony was becoming increasingly aware of the heat, while he stood outside the cab, agreeing that stealing was indeed harsh. Wiping sweat from his forehead, Tony said, “Look, can I put my suitcase in the back seat? I need to get to the Keyward Winds Motel.”

The cabbie’s smile grew. “I know where that is!” he announced, nodding his head proudly. “Sure, throw your stuff in the back and hop on in!”

Tony opened the back door and hefted his suitcase onto the car floor. Then he climbed into the car and closed the door. In front of him, the cabbie continued to smile and nod. This went on for quite some time, then Tony cleared his throat. The cabbie turned to face him, and asked, “So, when did you want to go there?”

Tony started to say something, then stopped himself. In as calm a voice as he could muster, he said, “Oh, I was thinking now would be good.”

“Right on,” said the cabbie. He then disappeared under the dashboard. After a few moments Tony heard the car’s engine turn over, then sputter to life. The cabbie’s head reemerged, his smile bigger than ever. “Old Yeller never lets me down,” he said, again patting the dash. “Now, where did you say we were going?”

Tony sighed. “The Keyward Winds Motel,” he said, enunciating slowly and deliberately.

“I know where that is!”

“That’s great,” Tony said. “Maybe we could go there, you know,
now
?”

“You got it,” the driver said, and the cab lurched forward.

They traveled a couple miles in silence along a road that looked out on what Tony assumed was the Gulf of Mexico, then turned into a grid of narrow streets lined with quaint, colorful shops. Stopping at one intersection, the cabbie turned around and said, “Hey, man – do you by any chance have a watch?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tony said. “It’s ten after eight.”

“Wow, really?” the cabbie said in a very serious tone, looking at his own bare wrist, as if to double-check Tony’s statement. “Hey, man,” he said again, “are you, like, in a real big hurry?”

Tony said, “Well, I’m pretty tired – I’ve been cooped up in airplanes most of the afternoon.”

“Well, do you think it would be okay if we made a quick stop at Mallory Square?”

“Look, buddy – I don’t know where that is, but can’t you just drop me off at the Keyward Winds? Then you can go to your Mallory Street or whatever—”

“Whoa – how did you know my name?” the cabbie asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“You called me Buddy – that’s my name. Do I know you?” The cabbie looked over his shoulder at Tony, studying his face. Tony frantically gestured toward the road in front of them, redirecting the cabbie’s gaze.

“No, no,” Tony said. “I was just calling you that, like calling you
pal
, or
bub
– you know, like that.”

“Oh, you mean like
dude
?” Buddy managed to coax approximately six syllables out of the word, suggesting some years spent on a surfboard.

“Yeah,” Tony said, “like that. Anyways, could you just take me to my hotel?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Buddy said. “But then we’d miss the sunset.”

“Say what?”

“Dude, you gotta check this out – it’s awesome.” With that, Buddy pulled the car over, reached under the dash and yanked at some wires, killing the engine. Then he was out the door, walking purposefully away from the cab.

In shock, Tony jumped out of the car and followed the cabbie, who moved surprisingly fast. Tony had to scramble to keep up as Buddy wove his way intently through an increasingly thick crowd of pedestrians.

“Hey, Buddy!” Tony called, but the cabbie ignored him. Just as Tony caught up with him, Buddy came to an abrupt halt.

“Perfect timing,” Buddy said.

“Perfect for what? What the hell’s going on?”

“Check it out,” Buddy said, pointing.

They were standing in the midst of a waterfront street crowded with people. In front of them, the ocean reflected the reds and pinks of the sky in a shimmering display of color. As Tony watched, the sun began to dip into the watery horizon. And all around him, people began to applaud. Buddy stood in front of him now, clapping and whistling. Tony looked around, seeing probably two or three hundred people taking part in this ovation.

As quickly as it started, it was over. The applause stopped, and people went back to whatever they had been doing. Without a word, Buddy turned and headed back to where the cab was parked. Taking one last look around, Tony took off after him.

They both got into the cab at the same time. While Buddy fiddled with the wires under the dash, Tony said, “What the hell was that all about?”

“Oh, we always applaud the sunset at Mallory Square. I mean, it was a great sunset, didn’t you think?”

“Well, yeah, I guess as sunsets go, that was pretty good,” Tony said. “And this happens every night?”

“Well,
no
...” Buddy said, as if addressing a small child. “We don’t do it when it’s all cloudy and raining, you know?”

“Oh,” said Tony. “I guess I didn’t think of that.”

“All right, Old Yeller!” Buddy shouted, as the cab’s engine reluctantly came to life. Then he looked back at Tony and said, “So where did you say we were going?”

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

Tony finally got settled in at the Keyward Winds, a weather-beaten beachside motel where everything – the carpet, the tiled bathroom floor, even the bedspreads – seemed to be coated with an invisible layer of sand. Hungry and restless, Tony decided to do a little exploring. The motel was within walking distance of the shops and restaurants that peppered the island, and Tony was thrilled to spot a small pizza parlor. He went inside and ordered two slices of pepperoni and a Coke, then sat down at a wobbly table to devour his fare.