Tony Partly Cloudy (8 page)

The shouting diminished, then ended abruptly when the men realized that one person remained seated motionless at the table.

Jimmy.

“
Madonn
’!” Jimmy said when the room finally fell silent. He raised a hand to pick a potato chip off his sweater. His movements were slow and deliberate.

“This,” Jimmy said in a hiss, “is somebody’s house. This is not how we act, not when we are guests in somebody’s house.” Jimmy stood up. “Particularly in the house of a member of my family.”

Louie took a step away from Eric, to get an unobstructed view of Jimmy. Tony noticed Eric’s hand slowly reaching inside his leather coat.

“Last I heard,” Louie said, making a show of working his shoulders as if shrugging off the indignities he’d suffered, “I was a member of this family, too. And I bring a hell of a lot more to the party than beer and goddamn pretzels.” Now Louie turned his gaze to Tony, eyeing him with open contempt.

Jimmy said, “Go home, Louie.”

“That’s fine with me,” Louie said. “Who the hell wants to hang around some punk kid’s shithole apartment anyway? Lemme just get one for the road.” Defiantly, Louie opened Tony’s refrigerator and fished out a beer. He opened the bottle, and flicked the bottle cap expertly at Tony, hitting him on the forehead.

“Sorry ‘bout that, kid,” Louie said with a leer as he walked slowly past Tony. He took a swig of his beer, draining half of it in two swallows. The floor crunched as Louie walked, causing him to look down at the mess he had created.

“You really ought to clean up this dump, Tony,” he said, finishing his beer. “It’s a like a pigsty in here.”

Louie cut a wide berth around the men surrounding the trashed poker table, his path taking him into Tony’s living room, where he paused to take in the tiny apartment in a glance.

“Goddamn pigsty,” he announced, and hurled his beer bottle at Tony’s old black and white TV, shattering its screen.

The other men’s shouts were quelled by a raised hand from Jimmy, who turned to face Louie. “Go home,” he repeated quietly.

Eric was at the front door, working the deadbolts free.

“I’m going,” Louie said, and he did. Eric closed and locked the door behind him.

In the ensuing silence, Jimmy surveyed the wreckage, then caught Tony’s eye.

“Tony,” he said, “I’m sorry about all this.”

This didn’t seem like a good time to complain, so Tony simply said, “It’s not a problem. I’ll get things cleaned up. Forget about it.” Gazing hopefully at Jimmy, he said, “But maybe you guys might want to call it a night? You know, since I’m out of chips and all?”

This got a halfhearted laugh from the group, and Jimmy quickly agreed.

“He’s right, boys. Let’s take off, and let the college boy get some rest – what do you say?”

Everybody voiced overly enthusiastic agreement with Jimmy’s idea, and the group made an exodus for the door. Moments later, only Big Al remained, looking coldly upward at Jimmy.

“This ain’t over,” he stated simply.

Jimmy nodded. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

The two men exchanged a polite hug, then Eric let the tiny man out of the apartment, leaving only Jimmy remaining.

Tony busied himself picking up bottles and cigarette butts off the floor, squatting down and avoiding Jimmy’s gaze until he felt Jimmy’s hand on his shoulder.

“Tony, hold up a minute.”

Tony stood up, careful to keep his face neutral.

“Listen,” Jimmy said. “I’m real sorry about how things turned out tonight.”

“It’s okay. It’s not a big deal, really. Sometimes a guy’s gotta blow off some steam, is what I figure.”

Jimmy smiled, appreciating Tony’s effort to minimize the situation. “No, Tony. It is a big deal. And I’m sorry about all the mess. I can send, you know, a cleaning lady or something.”

“Forget about it,” Tony said again. “It’s not a big thing.” He forced a smile, and gestured around the room. “I mean, isn’t this about what an average college dorm room looks like, anyway?”

This got a laugh out of Jimmy. He clapped Tony on the cheek, and said, “You’re a good kid. It’s nice to see a guy who knows how to stay cool. Seems to be a dying art.”

Jimmy walked toward the door, prompting Eric to begin unlocking it yet again. Turning one last time to face Tony, he said, “See you next week?”

Tony nodded. “Same time, same station.”

Tony locked the door behind them, and turned to survey what had started out the evening as a cozy little bachelor apartment. Normally it took only minutes to straighten the place up. Now, he didn’t even know where to begin.

He crunched his way across the apartment to his refrigerator, and opened the door. Thank God for small favors: there were still three beers left.

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, TONY WAS AWAKENED by the sound of a heavy fist pounding on his door. He shuffled toward the noise, and stared warily through the peephole. He didn’t recognize the black-clad man he saw. This couldn’t be good.

“Who is it?” Tony yelled, trying to sound far more confident and tough than he felt.

“You Tony something-or-other? Tony Clouds, maybe?” The voice coming through the door was doing a better job of sounding tough than he was, Tony decided.

“Who wants to know?”

“Got a delivery for you,” the voice answered. Tony reflected that this didn’t really answer his question.

“From who?”

“Jimmy sent us.”

“Jimmy who?” Tony asked, wondering who
us
was – he only saw one man.

“I ain’t yelling his name in your hallway for every goddamn civilian to hear. Jesus, do you want this freakin’ TV or not?”

“What TV?”

“We got a TV we’re supposed to deliver. I just wanted to make sure you’re home first, we don’t bust our balls schlepping this thing up the stairs for nothing.”

“It’s seven o’clock in the morning,” Tony protested.

“Jimmy said you was in school or some shit on weekdays. Said this would be the best time to catch you. We’ll be up in a minute.” With that, the man turned and walked away, his image distorting in the peephole as it disappeared.

Tony hurriedly threw on some jeans and a t-shirt, then waited by the door. Eventually he heard grunting and swearing, and assumed that his uninvited guests were approaching, a notion the peephole confirmed.

“Yo, Tony,” the voice said. “You gonna let us in with this thing or what?”

The peephole now revealed two men standing in front of what appeared to be a huge cardboard carton. Not knowing what else to do, Tony opened the door.

The two men were young, not much older than Tony. Young guys probably working their way into the family business, Tony realized. The one who had apparently been doing the talking was tall and thin, with a shock of thick black hair, and a black leather sport coat. The other was heavier, and wore jeans and a sleeveless undershirt that revealed numerous gold chains around his bulging neck. Both men were panting, leaning on a box nearly the size of a refrigerator set on its side.

The one in the black leather jacket spoke. “Tony Clouds, right?”

“That’s close,” Tony said. “My real name is Bartolicotti, but they call me Tony Partly Cloudy.” Instinctively he chuckled, expecting a similar reaction from his guests. Neither man even smiled.

The one in black said, “So where do you want this?”

“What is this thing?”

“A freakin’ TV, like I said.”

Tony stared. “This thing’s as big as a Buick.”

“You’re telling me this? We’re the ones just carried the freakin’ thing up your stairs. So where do you want it?”

Tony stepped backwards. “I don’t know – I guess in here, in the living room.”

The men stooped to lift the massive box, grunting with their effort. They set it down heavily in the middle of Tony’s living room, the huge carton dwarfing its surroundings.

Tony stared at it in disbelief. “So you say Jimmy sent you guys? Which Jimmy are we talking about?”

“Who the hell you think?” said the same man, his heavyset partner apparently being the strong silent type. “Jimmy Carbone – who else? The guy must really like you.” The man nodded toward the box. “That’s one sweet fucking TV.”

“State of the art,” the heavier man said, finally breaking his silence. He stared at the box with unmasked admiration.

“32-inch Mitsu-fucking-bishi,” the first man said, patting the top of the box appreciatively.

“State of the fuckin’ art,” the second man elaborated.

“Wow,” Tony said.

“Fuckin’ A,” the second man concluded.

Their conversation having reached its zenith, the three stood gazing at the box for a long moment. Then the tall one spoke.

“Listen, we gotta get going. We got another stop to make.”

“Dropping off another TV?” Tony asked.

“No,” the heavier one said. “We just gotta bust some guy’s thumbs.”

“Hell of a lot easier than hauling TV’s,” the thin man said to his partner, “am I right?”

“Fuckin’ A,” the man repeated, and the two headed for the door, leaving Tony alone with his new Mitsu-fucking-bishi.

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

The following Wednesday Jimmy called, his language letting Tony know there would be no poker game the next night. That was fine with Tony – he had tons of homework to do.

“Listen, Jimmy,” Tony said. “I gotta thank you for that amazing TV you sent me. It’s freakin’ huge – those guys nearly had a heart attack bringing it up my stairs.”

“It’s nothing, Tony. I felt bad about the thing last week, you know, with Louie. He was way out of line.”

“Yeah, well, this thing is amazing. You never saw a picture this clear. I mean, it’s freaking beautiful. Thank you very, very much. Seriously.”

“Forget about it,” Jimmy said. “Anyway, we’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sounds great, Jimmy. Thanks again.”

The next night Tony was surprised to see Louie the Leg was among the group of men who followed Jimmy into his apartment. Louie brushed past Tony without a word, but paused in front of Tony’s new TV. Louie glowered at the massive device for a long moment, then made for the refrigerator, where he helped himself to a beer.

“Anybody else want a drink?” Tony asked. He now made a habit of keeping his refrigerator stocked, having learned that even on non-poker-playing nights, sometimes Jimmy’s associates liked to have a quick drink before heading down into the trapdoor.

“No thanks, Tony,” Jimmy said. “We got work to do.” Jimmy adjusted the collar of his overcoat, prompting Tony to notice that all the men wore overcoats and carried umbrellas.

“What’s with all the coats and umbrellas?” Tony asked.

Jimmy said, “You seen the sky out there? It’s supposed to rain something awful. Said so on the news.”

Tony snorted softly. Jimmy froze, eying him sternly. “What? You don’t think it’s going to rain? You got another...
feeling
you want to talk about?”

Tony shook his head. “No, I got no feeling.” Jimmy started to say something, but Tony continued. “That’s why I don’t think it’s gonna rain. I can usually feel it when it’s going to.”

“Usually?” Jimmy asked, his voice skeptical.

“Pretty much always,” Tony said, shrugging.

Big Al, one of the few men in the group who Tony recognized, said, “Would you maybe like to put a little money on that prediction?”

Tony laughed. “No, I don’t bet on this stuff. But I will say this – you won’t need your raincoats.”

Jimmy looked at Tony appraisingly. He saw that the young man was simply stating what he believed to be true, without a trace of arrogance or defiance.

“That’s good enough for me,” Jimmy said finally. “Boys, let’s leave the raincoats here.” He began to unbutton his overcoat.

Looking around the room, Tony could tell that this suggestion was not being well received. But in a display of cautious deference to their leader, the other men reluctantly began to take off their overcoats. Louie the Leg was the last to remove his, arranging it with exaggerated care over the back of a kitchen chair.

Once Louie finished his beer, Jimmy clapped his hands together and said, “Okay, boys – let’s get going.” Seeing a couple of the men reaching for their coats, Jimmy said, “What did I tell you? We’re going to take Tony’s word for it. No rain – right, Tony?”

Tony smiled. “No rain.”

The men left their coats draped over Tony’s furniture, looking none too pleased about it. As they filed toward the trapdoor Louie muttered something to Tony. It took Tony a moment to realize what he had said:
This suit gets ruined by the rain, I’ll cut your balls off
.

Nervously Tony watched as one by one the men disappeared into the opening in his floor. When Eric, visible only from the shoulders up, reached to pull the trapdoor shut behind him, he turned and caught Tony’s eye.

“This won’t take long,” he said.

Less than an hour later, the group returned. They were completely dry, not a drop of rain darkening a stitch of their clothing. But Tony found them surprisingly unresponsive to the jokes he tried to make about his own weather forecasting. The men were all strangely silent and cheerless. Picking up on this, Tony fell silent. Then he realized somebody was missing.

“Where’s Louie?” he asked.

Silence.

Finally Jimmy spoke. “Louie, uh... he went home another way.”

This statement was followed by more silence, so Tony chose not to pursue the issue.

The group quickly disbanded, excusing themselves and tersely declining Tony’s offer of a nightcap. Soon only Tony, Jimmy, and Eric remained.

Tony noticed the lone raincoat draped over a chair. “Hey, Jimmy,” he said, “what do you want me to do with Louie’s coat? You want I should hang on to it for next time he’s here? Or will you see him before I do?”

Jimmy frowned. He stood unmoving for a long time, then he spoke, choosing his words carefully. “There’s not going to be a next time, Tony. I mean, not for Louie. We, uh, won’t be seeing him anymore. Ever.” Jimmy let the words sink in.

Suddenly Tony felt sick. “Jesus, Jimmy. This isn’t about last week, is it? With the TV and all? I mean, just ‘cause he got a little out of line with me, you didn’t... ?”

To Tony’s surprise, Jimmy laughed. “No, Tony, no! That’s not it! I mean, I love you and all, but you don’t make a decision like this on account of a busted TV. No, this had nothing to do with you.”

Seeing the relief washing over Tony’s face, Jimmy elaborated. “That thing last week was just the tip of the iceberg. That was just one of many problems Louie was causing me. Causing everybody. It just got to the point where Louie was... a problem.”

Tony remained silent, thinking about how Jimmy had told him he felt about problems. Thinking about what this said about how Jimmy resolved his problems. Thinking that he’d never want Jimmy to consider
him
a problem. Ever.

Jimmy broke the silence. “Listen, kid – we gotta get going. Things will get back to normal next week, you’ll see. This thing tonight – forget about it,
capisce
?” Jimmy looked Tony in the eye, waiting for an answer.

“Sure, Jimmy. I
capisce
.” As the two men walked toward the door, Tony said, “What should I do with this coat?” He gestured at Louie’s unclaimed raincoat.

Jimmy turned and smiled grimly. “Louie was a big guy, like you. Try it on – it’ll probably fit you.”

Reluctantly, Tony lifted the coat from the chair. It was surprisingly heavy, and something clunked against a table leg.

“Hang on,” Eric said, his high, gentle voice insistent. He approached Tony quickly and reached inside the coat that Tony held in front of him. The coat grew much lighter when Eric withdrew the sawed-off shotgun it had contained.

Without batting an eye, Jimmy said, “We’ll take that off your hands. You keep the coat. It’s a nice one – Louie never bought cheap stuff. Should come in handy on nights when you
do
think it’s going to rain.”

Jimmy smiled, as if it were the end of just another pleasant evening of poker. The shotgun disappeared into the depths of Eric’s long coat, and the two men once again turned to leave. Eric unlocked the door and checked the hallway, signaling to Jimmy when satisfied with what he saw.

“Take care, kid,” Jimmy said. Then he was gone.

Before closing the door, Eric took a long look at Tony, who stood frozen, still clutching the inherited overcoat. “I’m pretty sure it’s a Burberry,” Eric said, nodding toward the coat. “Those are nice.” Then he followed his boss into the hallway, closing the door behind him.