Tony Partly Cloudy (30 page)

Tony looked up at the sky, spinning slowly to take as much of it in as he could. He inhaled sharply through his nose. The feeling increased. And it wasn’t a good feeling.

The looming WGX building blocked much of his view, so Tony ventured further into the parking lot, first walking briskly, then breaking into a run. At the center of the lot he stopped, tilted his head upward, and closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing, and began to smell the air around him. He opened his eyes and scanned the clouds overhead, his body again spinning in a slow pirouette that must have looked ridiculous to any passers-by.

“Oh shit,” he said, and jogged back toward the WGX building.

Inside, Tony quickly found the six o’clock producer.

“Roland,” he said. “We need to bump the weather slot up if you can. Like first thing in the broadcast. We got a situation, and I need to warn people.”

Roland pushed his glasses up on top of his head, scowling at Tony. “What are you talking about? Tony, Christ – we’re on the air in like two minutes.”

“I know, I know,” Tony said. “Trust me on this. And tell the guys in the booth to get the tornado graphic ready.”

Roland knew Tony well enough to take him seriously. “Tornado? Was there a sighting? Hell, I didn’t even know there was a tornado watch going.”

“There isn’t,” Tony said. “But there needs to be. Look, it’s almost showtime. Can you bump up my slot? Or at least let me go on and make a quick announcement? Then I’ll have more information when my slot comes up.”

Roland sighed. “Okay. Right after the intros, I’ll have them cut over to you.”

“Thanks,” Tony yelled, already walking away. He needed to find Gerald, his weather producer, to get him to contact the Chicago forecast office of the National Weather Service.

The red lights came on the cameras, the urgent-sounding theme music played, and the WGX news anchors introduced themselves.

Skipping the spiel about Tony’s batting average, Brock Hastings said, “Folks, we’re going to go straight to Chief Meteorologist Tony Bartolicotti, who, we’re informed, has an important announcement. Tony?”

“Thanks, Brock.” Tony faced the camera, speaking from habit. “I’m Tony Partly Cloudy – how ya doin’?”

Catching himself, he said, “Listen, I gotta tell you something. I think we need to be on the lookout for a tornado. Maybe a few of them. Now, I don’t have any warnings or nothing from the National Weather Service, and this isn’t, you know,
official
. But I just went outside, and I gotta tell you – I think we’re going to get a tornado. I been in one before, and it felt and looked just like this. I’m talking right here, in downtown Chicago. I know, we haven’t had one here in the city in years, not since 1967 or something like that. And we don’t have any sightings or any funnel activity on the radar.”

Tony rubbed his face, forgetting his makeup. “Jeez, I hope I’m wrong. But with cloud cover like what we got, sometimes the radar can miss this kind of thing. So here’s what I want you to do. Stay inside, stay off the street, and stay tuned to WGX. I’m gonna be watching things, and I’ll keep you updated. We’ve called the National Weather Service – it’s up to them whether they want to make this an official warning or not. But I’m asking you to keep an eye out. Call us here at the station if you see any funnels.”

Tony stopped to point a finger at the camera. “But only do that after making sure you and your family are safe. So maybe grab a cell phone and a flashlight, and
then
keep an eye out, okay?”

Now Tony’s hand brushed nervously through his hair, but was stopped by the helmet-like structure created by the makeup girl’s hairspray.

“Folks, I could be wrong. I admit, this is just a gut feeling, but like I said, I’ve been in this kind of situation before. And I couldn’t live with myself if something happened and I didn’t warn you. So just stay on the lookout, and stay indoors until we know more,
capisce
? Oh, and if we do get any tornado activity, you guys know what to do, right?” Tony went on to recite the litany of safety instructions familiar to all Midwesterners who – unlike Dorothy and Toto – had grown up with the Emergency Broadcast System.

Checking his watch, Tony said, “Okay, everybody – I’ll come back with more information as soon as we get it. Back to you, Brock.” Tony walked off the soundstage while the camera operators frantically swung back to the main news anchors.

Tony spent the next fifteen minutes on the phone, talking to meteorologists at the National Weather Service while watching the Doppler radar readings for the area. Finally a harried looking intern tapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Mr. Partly Cloudy – I mean, Mr. Bartolicotti. You’re on.”

Tony hurried back to the soundstage to do his regular weather slot, and was still clipping the lavalier microphone to his lapel when the red light on the camera in front of him began to glow.

“Good evening again. I’m Tony Bartolicotti. Listen, I just got off the phone with the National Weather Service. They’re going to go ahead and issue a tornado watch for Cook County. You’ll probably start seeing a banner flashing that message across the bottom of the screen. You want to keep an eye on that banner – we’re gonna keep posting updates there. Now, here’s the deal. This is a tornado
watch
– that’s not the same as a tornado
warning
. A watch means we’re looking for a tornado, you know, keeping an eye out, like I told you to. It means we haven’t actually
seen
a tornado, but conditions are right for one to form, know what I’m saying? Now a warning, that’s even worse. That’s when somebody has actually reported
seeing
a tornado. We’re not there yet. And I hope we don’t get there. But like I said, I got this feeling, and it’s one I’ve had before, and it was one I was right about. Bottom line is, tornado or not, we’re looking at some nasty weather for the next few hours here in the downtown area. So please keep checking that flashing banner thing.”

Tony turned to his left. “Yo, Gerry! Do we got that banner thing going yet?” Offstage, a blushing Gerald gave Tony an awkward thumbs-up.

Tony turned back to the camera. “Sorry ‘bout that, but I don’t see the same thing you guys out there see on your TVs, and I wanted to make sure. Please,
please
keep your eye on that banner, and call us if you see something that looks like a funnel cloud. But more than anything, be careful, and take care of yourselves, okay? I’m gonna be here, keeping track of all this until this situation is over. So if anything goes down, I’ll let you guys know, chop-chop.” Tony almost smiled at his own unintentional Frankie B-ism.

Tony looked at his watch. “Now I only got a minute or so left, so we’re gonna have to kind of whip through the rest of the weather news.” Tony turned to point at a US map. “As you can see here, Tampa Florida was the hottest place in the country today...”

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

At 7:08 P.M. Central Standard Time, the National Weather Service issued a tornado warning for all of Cook County, after receiving numerous calls about a funnel cloud forming over Grant Park.

At 7:12 P.M. a tornado touched down for approximately 45 seconds on Madison Street, just eight blocks away from the WGX building. Power was interrupted briefly over an area of about forty square blocks, and two trains on the “L,” Chicago’s elevated railway, were shut down for about an hour. Several cars and trucks were destroyed, hundreds of windows were broken or blown out, and one small Episcopal church lost its steeple. Miraculously, there were no deaths and only minor reported injuries. A Cub Scout meeting scheduled for that night in the ruined church had been canceled, based on Tony’s warning.

As this news filtered into the WGX studio, Tony received congratulations from many of his coworkers.

“You saved lives tonight, Tony,” Roland said, clapping him on the back. “It’s not often we get to do that, but that’s what you did tonight.”

Tony shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention he was getting. “Thanks,” he said. “Now I better start getting ready for the ten o’clock, you know?” With that he shuffled off to the Meteorology department, looking a bit dazed.

The dazed look accompanied him onto the soundstage for his final weather slot of the night. Despite the efforts of the makeup girls, Tony looked haggard when the anchor introduced him.

“I’m Tony Partly Cloudy – how ya doin’?” Tony said, his voice noticeably hoarse. “It’s been a long night, but we’re through the worst of it. From everything we’re hearing, that was either an F-1 tornado, or maybe a small F-2. That means we had winds ranging somewhere between 73 and 157 miles per hour. But everybody’s okay, and from the property damage reports we’re getting, I think we got off easy, particularly if that was an F-2. Bottom line – it coulda been worse.”

Tony walked up to an area map. “As you can see, we still have heavy cloud cover, and probably will for another day or so. But I’m pretty sure we’ve seen the last of any, you know,
extreme
weather, at least from this system. A tornado on the streets of downtown Chicago is pretty freakin’ rare, so we probably won’t be seeing another one any time soon. And that’s okay with me.” Tony tugged at his collar. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in no hurry to see another tornado,
capisce
?”

Tony pointed at the cloud icons that littered the Illinois map. “We’re going to continue to have overcast skies and occasional showers for the rest of the night, and probably most of the day tomorrow. In other words, it will be just like it has been for the past couple days – kinda yucky out there.” Tony winked. “
Kinda yucky
– that’s professional meteorologist language, you know? Good thing I spent all that money on college, know what I’m sayin’?” Tony was feeling much better now. His pre-show trip to the parking lot had reassured him: the Gift was silent, the skies were back to normal now, and the weird,
wrong
feeling was gone.

He wrapped up his slot, and redirected his audience’s attention to the anchors. When the red camera light went out in front of him, he walked off the set, wondering where the nearest place was that he could find a beer. Preferably several beers.

It was after two in the morning when Tony got home. His answer machine was flashing, but he turned the volume down, turned off the ringer on his phone, and collapsed on his bed, only managing to kick off one of his shoes before falling asleep.

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

“You have thirty-two messages.”

It was just after ten in the morning. Tony woke up feeling like a herd of water buffalo had camped out in his mouth. A quick shower followed by half a pot of coffee got him feeling a bit more human, but the morning was halfway done before he finally remembered he had turned his phone off. Sighing, Tony sat down to listen to the answer machine’s robotic announcement.

Most of the calls were from local newspapers, requesting interviews. Three were actually from competing TV stations – hey, a story was a story, after all. Some calls were from individuals Tony didn’t know, who had apparently been resourceful enough to ferret out his unlisted number and wanted to either thank or congratulate him. Some calls were from his coworkers at WGX, including a congratulatory call from Trask, the GM.

Call #17 was from Sarah.

“My God, Tony – I just heard. First about the tornado, and then that you were the one who warned people about it. Honey, that’s incredible. I’m
so
proud of you. Listen, it’s three in the morning, so you’re probably asleep. But give me a call when you get this, okay? I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Oh, and I can’t wait to see you next weekend.” Before hanging up, Sarah had made a kissing sound that brought a smile to Tony’s lips.

Call #28 was a recorded announcement from a telemarketer, offering Tony “an unbelievable deal” on a satellite dish. Tony was urged to “act fast,” as this offer was “only good for the first ten callers.” But it was okay – apparently operators were standing by. Tony chose to let them keep standing.

Call #32 had come in just a half hour earlier. The caller didn’t introduce himself, but Tony immediately knew who it was. From the guy’s voice, but even more from what he said. It was Eddie Macaroni, and his message was succinct.

“You’re fucking dead.”

THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS WERE A WHIRLWIND of congratulations, interviews, and photo shoots. Chicago had a new hero, and everybody wanted a piece of him. There were even rumors that the Mayor might present Tony with the key to the city. It was almost enough to drive Tony’s other problems from his mind.

Almost.

But Tony knew that the number in the cloud logo that displayed when he gave his forecasts was now significantly higher than the number certain parties in Las Vegas wanted to see. And he knew that it was only a matter of time before those certain parties found a way to express their displeasure.

It happened on the third night. As usual, Tony was one of the last to leave the studio, so he was surprised to see an unfamiliar black minivan parked next to his car in the parking lot. Normally Andrea Finch’s blue Lexus occupied the spot. But she was out on vacation, so probably her assistant was taking advantage of this opportunity to park closer to the building.

As Tony approached, he noticed the odd way the pavement around the two cars seemed to sparkle. Drawing closer, he realized he was looking at broken glass. Lots of broken glass, in the form of the little pellets created when modern car windows are shattered.

While Tony was still trying to assimilate all this, he found himself suddenly illuminated in the glare of headlights. A car sped toward him from across the lot. Tony whirled instinctively, looking for the best course of escape. Looking for something to put between him and the car. The nearest candidate was a thick concrete pole that held the quartet of lights that illuminated this section of the parking lot. If he could get to it, the pole would keep the car from running him down. But it wouldn’t stop the car’s occupants from shooting him. Oh well, that would be the next problem he’d work on, if he made it that far.

Tony dashed for the light pole, relieved to hear the screech of braking tires as the car pulled up short. The car swung broadside next to the light pole, its passenger side facing Tony. Scanning the parking lot, Tony saw two WGX trucks parked together that might offer him shelter from bullets. He got ready to sprint toward the trucks when a familiar voice stopped him.

“Tony! Get in!”

The voice was high in pitch, almost feminine.

“Eric?” Tony gaped as he saw a massive arm beckon to him from the open back window of the black town car.

“Get in,” the voice said again. “We gotta get out of here.”

The front passenger window slid down, revealing a weasel-faced man Tony recognized instantly.

“Come on, you poodle-dicked bug-sucker,” said Danny Mouthwash. “Get in the goddamn car.”

Both windows slid up in unison, as the back door on the driver’s side swung open. Tony hurried around the back of the car and got in, finding himself sharing the back seat with the massive Eric.

“Hi, Tony,” the giant said, with the odd grimace Tony had learned to recognize as Eric’s version of a smile. “Close the door.”

The car lurched forward even as Tony was pulling the door shut. It sped toward the far end of the lot, bouncing over a speed bump that took the car airborne for a moment, landing with a thump that jarred Tony’s teeth. Without slowing, the car went into a controlled skid that swung it out in a ninety-degree turn onto the street.

“Holy shit,” Tony observed.

“You gotta love Michelins,” the driver said. Another voice Tony recognized. Leaning forward, Tony saw that Paulie Wheels was the man responsible for the centrifugal force he’d just endured.

“How ya doin’, kid?” Paulie asked, never taking his eyes off the road.

“I’m okay,” Tony said. “What the hell is this? What’s going on?”

Danny Mouthwash spoke. “Goddamn Vegas pricks.” It was probably the simplest obscenity the man had ever uttered.

“They was waiting for you,” Paulie said. “Parked next to you in that minivan.”

“Who was waiting for me?”

“Goddamn Vegas pricks,” Danny repeated. “Three of them. Two of them I didn’t know, but one of them was this prick Eddie something. Lasagna, spaghetti, some shit like that.”

“Eddie Macaroni?” Tony asked.

“That’s the one. What a dickfaced ass-mule,” Danny said, his vocabulary apparently restored.

“So what happened?” Tony asked, leaning forward to hear Danny better over the roaring engine and squealing tires.

“We handled it,” Eric said from behind Tony. His voice was calm, quiet. Final.

“Yeah,” Paulie said, whipping the steering wheel hard to the right, propelling Tony back into his seat and against the door. “It’s been handled.”

Danny was on a cell phone now, apparently getting directions from somebody, then relaying them to Paulie.

“But what are you guys all doing here?” Tony asked. “I didn’t even know you were in town.”

Paulie took advantage of a brief stretch of open road to turn and look over his shoulder at Tony.

“Kid,” he said, “in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war going on.”

Tony felt sick.

“You want to hang a left here,” Danny said.

Tony realized they were in a residential neighborhood, one he didn’t recognize.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“We gotta drop off Eric at this guy’s house. Then we’ll get you home.”

“I don’t know – you think it’s safe for me to go home?”

“We’re gonna put a couple of guys outside your place,” Danny said. “They’re pros. You should be fine.” Turning to Paulie, he added, “Hang a right. We’re looking for the fourth house on the left.”

Paulie pulled the car into the driveway of a large house. A light went on over the front door.

Eric opened his door and eased his bulk out of the car. He turned and leaned into the car, scowling at the seat he’d vacated.

“Paulie, you got a towel or something I can wipe this seat off with?”

Paulie surprised Tony by snapping at Eric. “Would you forget about the seat? We’ll take care of it. Now get inside, would you? We’ll come back and pick you up in a little while. Now, go. Go!”

Sullenly Eric closed the door with a thud that rocked the car. He trudged to the front door of the house, where a man half his size opened the door and escorted him in. As the front door closed, Paulie threw the car in reverse.

Tony had never heard anyone – not even Jimmy – speak to Eric in this way. Certainly not anyone who was still alive.

“What was that all about?” Tony asked. Looking down at the empty seat next to him, he saw a dark stain.

Paulie said, “Aw, Eric’s just worried about the upholstery. It’s a bitch getting blood off leather.”

Tony thought of Eddie Macaroni, and wondered how Eric had “handled” him. Apparently it had been messy.

“At least Eric was in a pretty good mood tonight,” Danny said. “Normally he hates getting shot.”

Tony gripped the seat in front of him. “Eric got shot? You mean, tonight? Just now?”

“Tony, relax,” Paulie said, steering the car toward an interstate on-ramp. “That doctor is supposed to be really good. Eric’ll be good to go in an hour or two. Which is more than I can say for that prick who shot him.”

Danny laughed, a truly unpleasant sound. “Yeah, it’s like Wheels said. Eric fucking
hates
getting shot. That was the worst mistake that ass-biting Vegas prick ever made.”

Tony had never before heard a man refer to being shot as an annoying rather than life-threatening prospect. Then again, this was Eric they were talking about.

Tony felt even sicker. “Jesus. I can’t believe Eric got shot because of me. How am I supposed to make this up to him?”

Danny leaned over his seat to address Tony, his voice uncharacteristically smooth, almost gentle. “Relax, kid. This is just business. It ain’t personal. I mean, yeah, we’re here because you’re family. That’s just what you do when somebody goes after your family. But the way we do it – and whatever happens while we’re doing it – that ain’t personal. That’s just business. We know that going in. Eric knows it, too.”

While Tony struggled to absorb the most rational, profanity-free utterance he had ever heard emerge from Danny Mouthwash’s mouth, Paulie spoke up.

“Yeah, it’s like he said. Eric knows it. You got nothin’ to make up for with him – he was just doin’ his job. Hell, that prick who shot him did all the making up for it that a guy could do, am I right, Danny?”

Danny laughed, his voice regaining its usual level of venom. “You got that right, Wheels. That little prick went from being Macaroni to goddamn Hamburger Helper.”

“Good one, Danny,” Paulie said.

“Shut up and drive,” Danny said, having apparently exhausted his weekly allocation of civility.

After a long silence, Tony said, “Hey, what about my car? I mean, they find my car all shot up next to a van full of dead gangsters, there’s gonna be some questions, am I right?”

Paulie said, “Nah, your car’s long gone by now. We phoned in a cleanup crew. First thing they had to do was get your car out of there. If they had time, they were told to take the van, too. If not, that’s okay, too. It sends a message to Vegas.”

“But where’s my car now?”

Paulie looked at his watch. “By now, probably in Lake Michigan. What you do is report it stolen tomorrow morning, but from your apartment complex, not from the station.”

Tony thought for a moment. “Won’t that seem weird? There’s a shootout right next to where I park my car at work, and the next day I report it stolen?”

“Nah, we’ll just boost a couple other cars from your complex tonight, so it looks like a whaddayacallit – a local crime wave or somethin’.”

“Great. Now I’m getting people’s cars stolen. I can’t believe the way this is snowballing.”

For the first time Paulie’s voice showed impatience. “Kid, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re playing with live ammo here. Just ask Eric.”

After giving Tony a moment to let that sink in, Paulie continued. “So a couple jamooks lose their freakin’ Toyotas – I can’t get all choked up about it. I mean, why not look at this as an opportunity?”

“How do you mean?”

Paulie looked over his shoulder at Tony, smiling. “I mean, you got any neighbors you don’t like?”

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

Shortly after noon, Tony pulled into his parking space in the WGX lot. Unfolding himself from the tiny rental car – a Dodge Neon was the only thing Avis had available – he was surprised to see that the surrounding pavement was pristine. No broken glass. No shell casings.

No blood.

Simultaneously chilled and impressed by the efficiency of the “cleanup crew” Paulie had dispatched, Tony hurried toward the employee entrance of the WGX building, wondering what surprises the day might bring.

It was a day of anticlimax. Not much in the way of news. Not much in the way of weather. And – to Tony’s immense relief – not much in the way of parking-lot shootouts, either. He made it home late that night without incident.

Arriving at his apartment, Tony saw no sign of the “couple of guys” Danny Mouthwash had promised to deploy. Then again, he figured, he probably shouldn’t be able to see them. They were, after all, supposed to be pros.

“You sound tense, baby” Sarah said during their late-night phone call. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s nothing,” Tony lied. “There’s just a lot of, you know, pressure on me. You know, what with all the extra attention I’m getting, on account of that whole tornado thing.”

“
That whole tornado thing
? Tony, you saved people’s lives that night! They’re right to be making a fuss over you. That was an amazing thing you did – it really changed people’s lives.”

“Yeah,” Tony sighed. “You could definitely say that.” He thought about Eric. Then he thought about Eddie Macaroni.

Sarah pressed on. “I just don’t understand why you don’t sound happy about it.”

Tony knew Sarah deserved an explanation. Maybe now would be the best time to finally tell her what was really going on – who his family really was. I mean, sooner or later, she had to find out, didn’t she?

“Tony?”

Tony sighed. He had to tell her. But he’d much rather tell her when things were good. You know, when nobody was getting shot at.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, resigned to procrastinate. “I’m just tired, is all. Forget about it.”

Normally Sarah laughed at the way he said that phrase. Tonight she just sighed.