Tony Partly Cloudy (6 page)

As Tony nodded in response, he saw Jimmy begin to chuckle quietly.

“What is it?” Tony asked.

Jimmy got his laughter under control, but his smile was still mischievous. “Sorry,” Jimmy said, “but that name just kills me – Tony Partly Cloudy. I never heard that before – I can’t believe we Italians never came up with that.”

Tony smiled in return. “Yeah, some kids at school – college, I mean – they started calling me that. Hey, I don’t mind. I think it’s kinda funny. But I never heard it before, either. I mean, they sure don’t call my old man that.”

Jimmy laughed again. “No, I don’t suppose they do. Somehow I don’t see Frankie B finding it amusing. But you, it suits. And you’re studying the weather, if I’m not mistaken, so it’s doubly appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Tony said, thinking that Jimmy seemed to know everything about everybody. Tony decided that was probably a fact worth remembering.

Sensing that Jimmy was about to leave, Tony stood and walked over to him, offering his hand. He thought he saw a brief glimmer of recognition in Jimmy’s face, an indication that this show of manners and respect had been observed and noted.

Jimmy shook hands with Tony, then said, “I’ll talk to you.” Then he walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Tony locked all his deadbolts, then grabbed his chemistry book and plopped down on his couch for some last-minute cramming. As he did, he felt the crinkling of paper beneath him. He sat up, finding the money Jimmy had left on the couch. He had forgotten all about that. Picking up the bills, he counted them. Then he counted them again.

“Holy shit,” he said for the second time that evening.

It was five hundred dollars.

THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY NIGHT, Tony received another phone call from Jimmy Carbone, again at precisely seven o’clock. It was the same drill: Jimmy was bringing “a few of the boys” over for some poker tomorrow, around eight o’clock. Tony cheerfully agreed, and decided to try to play along with the conversation a little more actively this time.

“Sounds great, Uncle Jimmy. Hey – is it my turn to get the chips and beer?”

Without a pause Jimmy said, “That’d be terrific, Tony. But you better get a lot of beer – these boys get mighty thirsty. Especially Louie the Leg.”

Tony laughed. This playacting stuff was fun – he was getting the hang of it now. “Louie the Leg?” he said, raising his voice in feigned astonishment. “Why didn’t you tell me the Leg was coming? Hell, I’m gonna need a freakin’
keg
, am I right?”

Jimmy laughed, too. “Sure, Tony. A keg for the Leg. Hey, that rhymes!”

“Uncle Jimmy, you’re a freakin’ Longfellow goodfella!” Tony said, caught up in the joviality of the moment.

Now Jimmy paused. “Yeah, Tony. Whatever,” he finally said, his voice conspicuously less enthused. “Anyway,” Jimmy went on, “me and the boys will see you around eight, all right?”

“Sounds good, Jimmy,” Tony said. “See you guys then.”

Tony heard the click of Jimmy breaking the connection, then heard two or three more clicks before the dial tone resumed. That was kind of strange. And so was Jimmy’s reaction to the whole Longfellow bit. But then, maybe that had been pushing it. Tony resolved to use a bit more restraint in future phone conversations with Jimmy, particularly if they were going to be a weekly event.

At precisely eight o’clock the next evening, Tony heard somebody knocking on his door. Checking his peephole, he saw the now familiar solar eclipse known as Eric.

Tony opened the door to face the towering figure in the long black leather coat. “Eric,” he said, “good to see you.” He remembered not to extend his hand for a shake. Stepping backwards, Tony said, “Come on in.”

Eric said nothing, ducking his head under the doorframe to follow Tony into the apartment. Eric’s eyes scanned the room quickly, then he turned to face the door. “Okay,” he said quietly, again the almost feminine voice giving Tony a quick chill.

Immediately Jimmy Carbone entered the room, followed by four other men, all of whom were utterly silent.

Tony began to say something, but Jimmy caught his eye and shook his head. The last man to enter closed the door behind him, and began setting the deadbolts on the door. Meanwhile, Eric worked his way quickly through the apartment, looking under tables and chairs, checking the telephone, examining light fixtures, and then looking out the window before drawing the blinds shut. Finally he nodded to Jimmy, who broke into a smile.

“Tony Partly Cloudy,” he said in a loud voice. “Give your uncle a hug!” Tony felt himself drawn into an awkward embrace with the man, who whispered, “Sorry, just needed to check for bugs,” then broke off the hug.

Turning to face the others, Jimmy said, “Boys, this is Frankie Bartolicotti’s boy, Tony. They call him Tony Partly Cloudy.” This drew a chuckle, while Jimmy continued. “Tony, these are the boys.”

Leading Tony to each of the men, Jimmy made introductions. A couple of them were guys Tony had heard of, East Coast hoods who controlled certain neighborhoods. There was Mickey Lips, a former trumpet player. Next was Johnny Camminatore, a red-haired guy they all called Johnny Walker Red. A scowling bruiser introduced as Louie the Leg brushed past Tony without shaking his hand. Finally there was a wispy little man Jimmy introduced only as Big Al, whose tiny, doll-like hand disappeared into Tony’s when they shook. Tony began to entertain himself trying to figure out the meanings behind these last two nicknames, when he was interrupted by a man yelling, “Hey! Where’s the goddamn beer?”

Tony turned to see the man who had been introduced as Louie the Leg standing in front of Tony’s open refrigerator. He did not look happy.

“There should be a couple of six-packs in there,” Tony said, blushing. He’d been treating himself to a beer or two each night since his shopping trip last week, planning to restock eventually.

Louie scowled. “Well that may be enough for me, but what are the rest of you guys gonna drink?”

Tony started to laugh, but stopped when the look on Louie’s face made it clear he wasn’t joking. Louie turned and began opening Tony’s cupboards one by one. “Cereal. Soup. Instant coffee. Jesus, don’t you even got any chips or nothin’?”

Tony’s blush deepened. Being a large healthy 19-year-old on a college student’s diet, the chips and pretzels he had bought last week were long gone.

Jimmy frowned. “Tony – didn’t you say you were going to buy the chips and beer? I coulda swore that’s what you said when we talked last night.”

Tony backpedaled, trying to explain. “But I didn’t think you really... I mean, I thought you guys would just...” Tony pointed toward the couch. “You know—”

Jimmy held up a hand, cutting Tony short. “Tony, come here,” he said beckoning as he walked toward the couch. When Tony drew near, Jimmy put his arm around Tony’s shoulder, guiding him to turn his back on the others, so they could speak confidentially.

In a harsh whisper Jimmy said, “Tony – what the hell are you doing? You’re killing me here. No food? No beer? Where’s all the cards and poker chips?”

“But Jimmy,” Tony protested, “I thought that was just stuff we said on the phone. I figured you guys would go out, you know, the
back door
just as soon as you got here. You know, like you did last time.”

Jimmy sighed. “Tony, Tony, Tony. I forget that you’re still new at this. Sometimes when we come over to play poker, it’s just to play freakin’ poker,
capisce
? We’re gonna be doing this every week, remember? What we’re doing is what you call
establishing a pattern
– you follow me?” Jimmy shook his head. “I guess I should have explained this better. Anyway, we gotta take care of this right now. That guy Louie – you know why they call him Louie the Leg?”

Tony shook his head.

“Because the guy drinks like he’s got a goddamn hollow leg. You never seen a guy that can drink like this. And the thing is, he keeps his shit together. I’ve never seen him so drunk that he couldn’t drive a car, or...” Jimmy paused. “Or use a shotgun. The only time this guys loses it is when he doesn’t have enough to drink. So you gotta get on this, okay?” Tony nodded eagerly.

“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Now I’ll calm him down, but you need to get your ass downstairs ASAP and buy some freakin’ beer, you got me?” Again Tony nodded.

Jimmy looked him up and down. “Tony, you’re what – eighteen, nineteen?”

“I’m nineteen. Nineteen and a half, really,” Tony said, immediately feeling like an idiot. Nine-year-olds said shit like that, not nineteen-year-olds.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jimmy said, making Tony feel even more childish. “The question is, can you buy beer? Or do I need to send Eric?”

That was too humiliating a prospect to even consider. Tony indignantly said, “Of course I can buy beer. It’s not a problem.”

Jimmy slapped him on the back, saying, “That’s what I wanted to hear. I don’t like problems, Tony. I like solutions.”

Tony didn’t like the way that sounded, but Jimmy was guiding him around again, to face the others.

“Listen, boys,” Jimmy said. “Tony here is a college boy, like I was telling you. And today he had a big, uh,
astronomy
exam, didn’t you, Tony?”

Tony wasn’t enrolled in any astronomy courses, but he wasn’t stupid. Well, that could be argued, he thought. But he nodded vigorously, saying, “Yeah, Uncle Jimmy. That astronomy test was a bitch. Really kicked my ass.”

Jimmy nodded approvingly. He said, “So the upshot is Tony got so beat up in class today that he forgot to stop at the store. But he’s gonna run out right now and grab us some beers, and some chips and shit. So everybody relax, and he’ll be back in what – five minutes?” Jimmy looked at Tony expectantly.

“Yeah, sure,” said Tony. “Five minutes. No problem. You guys make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll be right back.”

Tony grabbed his coat and hurried toward the door, which Eric was already unlocking. As Tony walked past him, Eric said, “Get those chips with the ridges. I like those.”

Tony turned, looking up at the man. “You got it,” Tony said, then he sprinted down the hall to the stairwell, where he took the stairs three at a time.

At the all-night grocery, Tony frantically stacked his items on the counter next to the cash register. A case of Miller, chips – with ridges, he made sure – and pretzels. Then he thought about Louie the Leg. He ran back to the beer section and grabbed a case of Michelob. No way he wanted Louie’s mouth getting dry. As he stacked the Michelob on top of the other case of beer, he heard a stern female voice say, “You got ID?”

Tony looked over the stacked beer to see that instead of the chain-smoking male clerk he had encountered last time, the person behind the counter tonight was a tiny old Korean woman. Looking at her wizened face, he estimated her age as somewhere between fifty and two hundred. “You got ID?” she asked again.

Tony shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “Uh, no – I left it, uh, at my apartment,” he said. “Up the street. Yeah, it’s back in my apartment.” He smiled encouragingly. “But I’ve bought beer here before. I shop here all the time, you know, ‘cause I live just up the street.”

“Then you go get ID,” she said. “I wait here. You live just up street, should only take five minutes, right?”

Tony felt sick. His evening – hell, maybe his whole life – was going to be ruined by some little old woman who weighed maybe eighty pounds?

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m in a big hurry. It’s real important that I get this stuff back to my apartment right away. It really can’t wait.”

The woman nodded, giving Tony hope. Then she said, “I see. Medical emergency?” There was the slightest smirk in her wrinkled face, as her eyes went from the beer to the chips, to the pretzels. Great, an eighty-pound woman with a sarcastic streak.

“Lady, if I don’t get back with this stuff soon,
I’m
gonna be the one with a medical emergency. Please? Can you help me? That other guy – the guy who smokes? He always sells me beer.”

At this her eyes narrowed, something Tony would have thought impossible given the structure of her face. He had the feeling that he might have just gotten the smoking clerk into a lot of trouble.

Desperate, Tony tried his best Frankie B imitation. He loomed over the counter with what he hoped was a daunting scowl, a look that when properly executed turned most men’s knees into jelly. It had no effect on the woman.

Abandoning that tactic, Tony groped in his pocket for his money, thinking maybe an extra five bucks might change her mind. Pulling the money out, several bills fell onto the counter. He was shocked to see that they were all hundred-dollar bills, then he remembered the money Jimmy had left him last week.

Picking them up, he held them in front of the woman’s face.

“Look,” he said, “I’ll give you three hundred dollars for the stuff I got here.
Three hundred dollars
,” he said, stressing each syllable while shaking the bills in front of her.

The woman deftly snatched the bills from his hand. “Paper or plastic?” she asked, with a triumphant smile. She kept smiling while she bagged Tony’s purchases.

As he hurried back to his apartment laden with the World’s Most Expensive Beer, Tony hoped Louie the Leg wouldn’t give him any shit about his choice of beers. Wouldn’t that just figure, Tony thought – watch me bring this guy a case of Miller and a case of Mick, and Louie turns out to be a Bud man. God give me strength, he murmured, the way his mother often did. If his hands hadn’t been full, he would have crossed himself.

When Tony got back to the apartment, he found that Louie the Leg was on his fourth beer, and had been magnanimous enough to allow Jimmy and his other three friends to open one beer each.

“Made it in the nick of time,” Jimmy told Tony as he bustled in with the twelve-ounce reinforcements. Eyeing the two cases of beer, Jimmy said, “That should probably get us through the next couple hours.”

And it did, but just barely. There were only two beers left in the fridge when Jimmy rose from the kitchen table, saying, “Boys, it’s time to call it a night.”

This drew loud but good-natured protests, and the men began to stack their chips and count their money. Tony was relieved – he’d been losing consistently, distracted by the challenge of keeping tabs on the number of beers left. He was in survival mode, intent on avoiding a potential Louie meltdown.

But he had to admit, it had been fun. Thanks to Jimmy’s coaxing, the men had included him in their card game, and in their conversation, during which they had called him
kid
, but hadn’t talked to him like one. That meant a lot to Tony – he rarely got that sort of treatment from Frankie.

After Eric had declared the hallway to be clear, the men filed out in a haze of tobacco smoke, most of them pausing to thank Tony for his hospitality. The last one was Jimmy, who clapped Tony on the cheek and said, “Nice job, Tony. The boys liked you.”