Tony Partly Cloudy (22 page)

“Discrimination?” Fletcher said, at once realizing that this man, this not-very-stupid-after-all mobster probably knew exactly what words he was looking for, and was manipulating Fletcher into saying them for him. For the first time, Fletcher began to be afraid. Not of violence, but of facing obvious intellectual superiority.

“Discrimination,” Jimmy said. “That’s the word. Some bleeding-heart type could really be a pain in your ass if they hit you with claim like that, am I right?”

Fletcher said, “Now look here. WEFQ is an equal opportunity employer. We actively promote ethnic diversity, and we’re very careful not to discriminate. We have people of all races and creeds here, along with some who are handicapped. Our top sportscaster is African American, our weekend co-anchor is of Asian descent, and our primary anchor is Hispanic. So don’t even think you can start trying to play the discrimination card on me!” Fletcher’s voice had unintentionally grown louder, delivering those last words in a shout.

Jimmy held his hands up. “Mr. Fletcher, you misunderstand me. I’m not talking about playing that card. I’m talking about helping you to deal with somebody
else
who would play that card. I’m on your side here, okay?”

Fletcher frowned. “This isn’t making sense. What are you getting at?”

“I’m on your side,” Jimmy repeated. “What I’m getting at is a way to deal with those whiny little PC rat bastards who
would
play that card. And the only way to do that is to take a look at where you stand.”

Fletcher started to speak, but Jimmy stopped him with a gesture. “Let’s take a look at what you’ve got here; at your
ethnic diversity
. Now, correct me if I’m wrong on any of this. Your Hispanic anchor was born in Michigan and doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. Your Asian co-anchor is from Iowa, has an Americanized name, and no discernible accent. And your black – pardon me –
African American
sportscaster went to Yale. Did I miss anything, or is that all on target?”

Fletcher fidgeted in his seat. “I’m not sure whether Paul Sanchez speaks any Spanish or not, but yes, I suppose that information is accurate.”

Jimmy went on. “So basically, even though you have people who may
look
a little different, all of them basically act and talk like some white Midwestern generic WASP ideal, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fletcher’s voice began another crescendo. “I don’t know if I’d agree with that. Yes, these people are all well educated, and all speak clear, unaccented English, but—”

“Bottom line,” Jimmy said, “if you were to listen to your sportscaster – James Griffin, I believe his name is – if you listened to him with your eyes closed, would you know he was black?”

“African American,” Fletcher said instinctively, immediately regretting the move.

Now it was Jimmy’s voice that was raised. “With your eyes closed, can you tell he’s African American? Or that Sanchez is Hispanic? Or that Sunny Thomas – whose ancestral name is Toyama, if I’m not mistaken – is
of Asian descent,
as you so poetically put it?”

Fletcher was dumbfounded. But he was also following through on the question, imagining the voices of each of the three. And realizing Jimmy was right.

Quietly, Fletcher said, “So what’s your point?”

Jimmy’s face was all business. “My point is, suppose some PC asshole lawyer gets wind of your reasons for not giving Tony a shot, and maybe takes a hard look at your so-called
ethnic diversity
. Something like that happens, I think your station is looking at some major lawsuits. Not to mention a pretty nasty black eye as far as the station’s image is concerned.”

Fletcher couldn’t believe it. Here he had been worried about some goon breaking his knees, and instead he got threatened with a lawsuit over political correctness? He almost laughed at the absurdity. This was the kind of hardball today’s gangsters played? Boy, times really had changed.

Sighing with exasperation, Fletcher said, “So how can you help? What’s your solution?”

Jimmy stood up and began to pace in front of Fletcher’s desk as he spoke. “The way I see it, this game is all about appearances. So the important thing to do is to give the
appearance
of promoting ethnic diversity. And how do you do that? By making it appear as if the game is fair. We both know it’s not, but you gotta act like it is. You follow me?”

Fletcher shook his head. “I’m not sure I do.”

“What I’m saying is, for the sake of appearances, you give certain people a shot at the job, even though you know they got no chance in hell of actually getting the gig. That way, they got nothing to complain about. You gave them a shot, but hey, it’s a competitive business, and they just didn’t make the cut. You did your part, they don’t have a leg to stand on, and you end up hiring another white-bread pretty boy, just like you always knew you would.”

“So what you’re saying is—”

“Give Tony his shot. What’s the worst that can happen? Hell, people might even like him – I mean, look at all the shows that have people who look and talk like him. You got the Sopranos, all those Godfather movies – hell, half the stars of the big sitcoms right now are big dumb palookas from the boroughs, always married to a woman who’s smarter than them. Am I right?”

Jimmy’s analysis was frighteningly accurate, Fletcher thought. But he didn’t like the bottom line. “So you
are
here to ask me to give Tony a shot,” he said, trying to sound as if he’d known it all along.

“Yes,” Jimmy said, “but only
ostensibly
. Not because I think you should give him the job. But because I think it’s in your best interest to give him a chance – to be
seen
giving him a chance.”

Jimmy stopped pacing, and leaned forward, his hands on Fletcher’s desk. “Look,” he said, “give him a shot. Maybe at some obscure hour of the night or something. Let him try, and let him fail.” Jimmy leaned even closer. “Because you and I both know he will fail. But then at least he’ll finally know this isn’t the life for him.”

Fletcher was stunned. None of this had gone the way he expected, and the gangster’s grasp of the situation was amazing both in its accuracy and in its pragmatism.

Speaking haltingly, Fletcher said, “So you know... you understand that we can’t give Tony the job... that he’ll fail if we let him try.”

Jimmy nodded sadly. “I think it’s for the best, don’t you?”

Fletcher exhaled deeply. “I must say, Mr. Car – er, Jimmy, that this comes as both a surprise and a relief. You show a remarkably clear understanding of the...
complexity
of the situation we’re facing. And I’m pleased to see that you don’t harbor any unrealistic expectations.”

Jimmy shrugged in acknowledgment. “We’re both businessmen, like you said, Mr. Fletcher. We both need to view the situation realistically.”

“Exactly,” Fletcher said, “and I’m glad to see you can do that. As I said, I’m truly relieved. I mean, believe it or not, when you first contacted me, I thought you might try to pressure me into giving Tony the job. Maybe even threaten me.” Fletcher chuckled, to emphasize how silly such a notion was.

Jimmy shook his head, smiling. “We’re both reasonable men, Mr. Fletcher. And reasonable men don’t resort to threats, am I right?”

Fletcher smiled, nodding in agreement.

Jimmy said, “I mean, it’s not like I’m some two-bit dago thug who thinks he’s Al Capone, or anything.”

Fletcher froze. Jimmy’s smile was unreadable. Was this remark a coincidence? Or had Jimmy somehow overheard him complaining about meeting with him?

Jimmy stood, offering his hand. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Fletcher. I think we’ve reached an understanding, don’t you?”

Fletcher stood hurriedly to shake Jimmy’s hand. “Absolutely. I’m glad we were both able to reason this out.”

Jimmy’s smile was reptilian. “Hey, we’re reasonable men, like I said.” He turned to go, but then stopped halfway to the door, turning back to face Fletcher.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Jimmy said. “You weren’t planning on doing any, you know,
driving
in the next ten, fifteen minutes, were you, Mr. Fletcher?”

Fletcher shook his head uncomprehendingly. “No, I’ll be here the rest of the day, I guess.”

Jimmy nodded. “Perfect. Just a sec.” He pulled a cell phone out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and tapped two buttons, then held it up to his ear. “Yeah, it’s Jimmy. Tell the boys outside to remove the – uh –
device
from Mr. Fletcher’s Mercedes. No. Yeah. Turns out it won’t be necessary.”

Jimmy flipped his phone shut and flashed Fletcher a smile. “A pleasure meeting you,” he said, as the giant Eric came back to life and opened the door for him. At the doorway, Jimmy turned one last time to say, “Mr. Fletcher, I hope you and your lovely wife Estelle have a wonderful holiday season.” Then he was gone, trailed by Eric, who closed the door behind him.

Fletcher sagged into his chair, feeling flushed and nauseous. There were no photos of his wife in his office, nothing that indicated her name. He wondered how close to death he and his family had just come. He stood and walked shakily to his liquor cabinet, and poured himself a very tall bourbon.

Outside as Jimmy and Eric walked to the car, Eric said, “Who did you call just then?”

Jimmy smiled. “Time and temperature back home. Can you believe it’s fifty-four degrees in Manhattan? This time of year, I’d have guessed high forties at the most.”

Eric made a sound that Jimmy was pretty sure was a laugh. But it was hard to tell with Eric – it wasn’t a sound he made often.

THE AUDITION WAS SCHEDULED FOR THURSDAY NIGHT. Fletcher initially wanted to have Tony do a morning slot, or maybe a Sunday night, when less viewers might see Tony. But then he thought of his conversation with Jimmy Carbone, and arranged for Tony to do a weeknight weather spot on the Ten O’Clock News, the time slot that historically enjoyed the highest viewership of any of WEFQ’s news broadcasts. Nobody was going to be able to say Tony hadn’t been given a fair chance.

Word leaked quickly around the station that Tony would be auditioning, generating mixed responses. Most of the station’s on-air talent quietly scoffed, joking about it among themselves. But they were careful to do so out of earshot of the naïve but imposing weather producer. Nobody in their right mind wanted to piss off a guy that big.

But Tony was well-liked among his off-camera coworkers, many of whom stopped by his desk during the week to voice their good wishes and encouragement.

Deena seemed a bit aloof upon hearing about Tony’s audition, but still managed to maintain her perma-smile. Ron, the weekend weather anchor, was indifferent to the news, but then, he was indifferent to pretty much everything.

Chip was another story. On Tuesday he pulled Tony aside to talk.

“Okay, Tony – now you’ve caught
me
off guard.”

“How do you mean, Chip?”

“Your audition. Everybody’s talking about it.”

Tony shrugged. “Yeah, I’m as surprised as you. I mean, I didn’t think Fletch would ever give me a shot.”

Chip looked around, making sure nobody could overhear their conversation. “Tony, you do realize it’s a real long shot, don’t you?”

Tony nodded. “Oh, sure. I mean, I know I’m not the typical weatherman. I been working on my diction and stuff, but to tell you the truth, I don’t think it’s made much of a difference. But I’m happy to get the shot. Hell, I think Fletch only gave it to me so I’d quit bugging him about it.”

Chip laughed. “You may be right. Anyway, I just hope you won’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t work out.”

“No, I’m good,” Tony said. “I don’t have my hopes up. Well, I do, kind of, but I’m staying realistic about things. I mean, some of the people they’ve auditioned so far have been pretty good.”

Chip shrugged. “Really? I quit watching after the first couple. I mean, Fletcher never listens to my advice anyway, so I don’t know why he even bothers to ask me for my input.”

Tony frowned. “Are you gonna watch
my
audition?”

“Tony,” Chip said, clapping him on the shoulder, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

Tony spent every spare moment in front of a mirror, practicing. He worked on his smile, his eye contact, his opening line.

“Good evening. I’m Anthony Bartolicotti, with the WEFQ Weather Watch...”

“Hello, I’m Anthony Bartolicotti, and this is the WEFQ Weather Watch...”

“This is the WEFQ Weather Watch, and I’m Tony Bartolicotti...”

“Tony Bartolicotti here, with tonight’s Weather Watch...”

He kept vacillating between Anthony and Tony. Anthony sounded more dignified, he thought. But after so many years of being a Tony, it was hard to think of himself as an Anthony – the name always evoked memories of being chastised by his mother.

“What do you think?” he asked Sarah, during a late-night phone conversation. “Tony or Anthony?”

“Well, you know
I
call you Tony. You know, when I’m calling out your name in the heat of passion.”

Tony smiled. “Well, I don’t think I’ll have quite the same effect on the audience when I do the weather,” he said.

Sarah laughed. “You better not. But yeah, I think Tony is the way to go. I mean, I also call you Tony when you start snoring too loud.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Yeah, right. And I’m a good driver.”

“Okay, so maybe I snore a little. But it’s on account of me getting my nose broken when I was a kid. I got a deviant spectrum or something.”

Sarah’s laughter crackled in the telephone’s earpiece. “That’s
deviated septum
,” she managed to say between spasms of giggling. “Although in your case, I think
deviant
might be more appropriate.”

“Not me,” Tony said, smiling. “I’m no deviant. I’m just Italian. We got healthy appetites.”

“I’ll say,” Sarah said, “and I’m glad you do. Vive la Italia. Wait, that’s vive la France, isn’t it? What do they say about Italy?”

Tony laughed. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe
bada bing
?
”

“My, aren’t you the cultured one?” Sarah said. But Tony heard the smile in her voice, and smiled himself.

“Anyways,” he said, “I guess I’ll just go with Tony, then. Yeah, definitely Tony.”

Sarah said, “I’m glad we resolved that.” Hearing no response from Tony, she said, “We
did
just resolve that, didn’t we?”

“Absolutely,” Tony said. “It’s resolved. Or at least ninety percent resolved.”

“Oy vey,” Sarah said.

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

Thursday night finally came. After Chip’s six o’clock slot, Tony began preparing the charts and maps he would use for his audition, and began making notes about what he wanted to say during his forecast. He lost himself in his work, and was surprised when Chip dropped a few sheets of papers on his desk around eight-thirty.

“What’s this?” Tony said, looking up. His gaze shifted to a nearby clock, and he made a note of the time. At nine he was supposed to report to the station’s makeup and wardrobe staff.

“It’s tonight’s forecast,” Chip said. “Nothing too exciting.”

Tony eyes swung back to Chip, who shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“But that’s what
I’m
working on,” Tony said. “My forecast. You know, for my audition?”

Chip wouldn’t meet his gaze, continuing to fidget and shift.

Tony said, “I mean, it is
my
audition. And the way I understand it, the person making the forecast decides what that forecast is.”

Chip still wasn’t saying anything.

Tony said, “Everybody else who’s auditioned so far has done their own forecast. I mean, I helped them, and pointed out some of the quirky weather we get being so close to Lake Michigan and all. But every one of them did their own forecasts. So what’s the deal?”

Finally Chip spoke. “Tony, this isn’t my call. Of course I know how things are done in TV weather. Hell, I’m the one who taught you the rules of the game. But this is another one of those rules – the rule that says you do what your boss tells you. And that’s what I’m doing – what my boss told me.”

Tony stared. “Fletcher?” he asked.

Chip nodded.

“But what’s the freakin’ deal?” Tony said, his voice rising in pitch. “He knows I know what I’m doing. I mean, only weather balloons give somebody else’s forecasts, and I’m sure as hell no freakin’ weather balloon.”

Chip shrugged. “I don’t know, Tony. I guess he’s concerned about how you... how you come across on TV. He wants to make sure that we play it safe in terms of our forecast, being as you’ve never been on TV before.”

“This is bullshit,” Tony said. “Pardon my language. But just because I never been on TV before don’t mean I’m gonna forget everything I know about the weather. I mean, what the hell is that all about?”

Chip held up his hands in an effort to calm Tony. “I know, I know,” he said. “But hey, this is probably a non-issue. I mean, the weather’s pretty straightforward tonight. So I doubt your forecast would be any different than mine.” Before Tony could protest, Chip said, “I know – it’s the principle. And I agree. I’m just doing what I was told. Between you and me, I’m not going to miss working for our pal Mr. Fletcher.”

Tony forced himself to take a deep breath. Lowering his voice, he said, “You’re damn right it’s the principle. But you got a point – it’s not like I’m going to forecast anything much different than you, am I? I mean, we’re usually pretty much in synch about how we think things will go, weather-wise.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Chip said. “Hell, we’ve probably spent the last hour drawing the same conclusions. Just take a look at what I’ve got, and let me know if you have any questions – I know my notes can get kind of sloppy.”

Tony lifted the thin stack of papers Chip had deposited on his desk.

“Okay, Chip. And you’re right – in reality it’s no biggie. Still, it pisses me off that they won’t let me do my own thing, when everybody else got to. It doesn’t seem fair.”

Chip smiled sadly. “I’m with you, Tony. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about life, and particularly about this business, it’s that there’s nothing fair about it. You just have to make the best of things.”

Tony nodded. “I know, you’re right.”

“No hard feelings?”

Tony waved his hand. “No, you’re just doing what you gotta do – I understand that. So I’ll do what
I
gotta do, too. I mean, that’s showbiz, isn’t it?”

Chip said, “No business like it,” and gave Tony a rueful smile before walking away.

Sighing, Tony went back to his computer screen. He made a final tweak on one of the maps he was generating, then checked the rest of his notes. Finally he picked up Chip’s notes, a task he had been putting off. He browsed them casually for a minute or two, then his brow furrowed, and he flipped back a page and re-read a notation that he’d only skimmed before. Then he was on his feet, working his way around the instruments and screens mounted on the wall in the meteorology department, ultimately ending up seated at his desk again, scrolling madly through the maps and readings on his computer.

“Oh shit,” he said, to nobody in particular.

His phone rang, startling him.

“Tony, it’s Maggie in Wardrobe. It’s five after nine – are you coming, or am I going to have to come over there and drag you? We need to get you in makeup, remember?”

Flustered, Tony said, “Oh – sorry, Maggie. I lost track of the time. But I’ll be right there. Sorry ‘bout that, okay?” Tony hung up before Maggie could respond, then he grabbed both his notes and Chip’s notes, and hurried off toward Wardrobe.

Moments later he was seated in the makeup chair, with Maggie gently patting his face with some sort of powder-laden sponge.

“Have you seen Chip anywhere?” Tony asked.

“Hold still,” Maggie said, “you’re smudging. There – that’s better. No, I haven’t seen Chip. Since he’s not going on the air tonight, he hasn’t needed to come by here. Now close your eyes for a second.”

Tony found the process of having makeup applied to his face oddly soothing. Not because the makeup felt good, but due to Maggie’s gentle touch. There was something intimate about the experience. Not sexual, just intimate. He began to calm down, as Maggie spoke softly to him, telling him when to close his eyes, daubing at his face and then brushing and spraying his hair. He came close to dozing off, when a voice behind him said, “Don’t you look handsome?”

Tony opened his eyes to see Sarah in the mirror. She stood behind him, smiling.

“You’re a miracle worker, Maggie,” Sarah said. “Tony looks downright presentable.”

Maggie smiled. “He’s a good patient. Hell, I think he actually likes this stuff – for a minute there I think he was falling asleep.”

Tony shifted uncomfortably. “Aw, I don’t know. It’s just kind of...
relaxing
, you know? I mean, is that why you girls like to do all that frou-frou spa stuff? You know, like when they put the mud on your face and all?”

Both women laughed. “Damn, the secret’s out,” Maggie said. “Before you know it, we’ll be competing with men for facial appointments!”

Tony shook his head. “Nah, that mud stuff – I don’t think it’s for me. But this felt nice. And I – holy crap!”

“What’s wrong?” Maggie was startled by the way Tony froze in his chair. He was looking at his reflection.

“Wow, Maggie. I never looked so... so...”

“Good?” Sarah asked, smiling.

“Well, yeah,” Tony said. Maggie really had worked wonders – he looked like a young Robert DeNiro. If DeNiro had been, say, an offensive lineman for the Giants. Suddenly self-conscious, Tony tried to recover his poise with a joke. “I mean, it’s no secret how handsome I am.” The women giggled. “But
this
...” he said, gesturing toward the mirror.

“Makes a big difference, doesn’t it?” Maggie said, her smile reflecting her pride in her work.

“It sure as hell does,” Tony said. “I had no idea. Jeez, I wish somebody had a camera, so I could get a picture of this, to send to my mama.”

Now both women were laughing uproariously.

“What’s so freakin’ funny?” Tony demanded.

Sarah regained her composure, then said, “Um, Tony, you do realize there will be not one but
three
cameras recording your current handsomeness for posterity? You know, during your audition?”

Now Tony laughed. “Oh yeah. I guess I wasn’t thinking. So I can send her a videotape. I mean, if I don’t totally blow it tonight.”

“What are you talking about?” Sarah said. “You’re going to do great. What is it you say? Fuggedaboudit!”

Maggie said, “Sarah, honey – you’ve been hanging around this guy too long.” Smiling at Tony, Maggie said, “Now go put your suit jacket on. But be careful – you don’t want to get any makeup on it, okay?”