Tony Partly Cloudy (20 page)

Sarah looked concerned. “Won’t Eric be joining us?” she asked Jimmy.

Jimmy gave a slight shake of his head. “He already ate.”

Tony gave Sarah what he hoped was a
don’t ask
look. Whether it was successfully interpreted or not, Sarah dropped the subject.

“So Jimmy,” she said, “you said you’re in Chicago on business. What sort of work do you do?”

Without batting an eye, Jimmy said, “I’m in the electrical business.”

Tony nearly choked on the water he was sipping, then regained his composure.

Suddenly there was a waiter beside their table, toting a silver stand containing a large bottle of champagne on ice. “Compliments of the house,” the waiter said, nodding to Jimmy. Jimmy looked up to see the maitre de standing at the entrance to the dining room, saluting in Jimmy’s direction. Jimmy nodded his head toward the man, acknowledging the gesture, while the waiter bustled about with opening the massive bottle and pouring each of them a glass.

Sarah held up her glass, admiring the delicacy of its crystalline stem. “This is so nice, Jimmy – thank you.” Extending her glass in a toast, she said, “To family.”

Jimmy beamed, raising his glass in kind. “An excellent toast,” he said. “To family.”

The three clinked their glasses, and enjoyed the crisp, bubbling wine, flowing from their glasses like liquid gold.

Dinner went well. Tony finally began to relax, and realized that he was actually enjoying himself. So was Sarah, it was obvious. Jimmy was a charming host, regaling her with stories that surprised Tony with their humor (and relieving him with their lack of obscenities). But he was also a rapt listener, engaging Sarah and prompting her to talk about herself, her upbringing, what she did for a living, and more. Tony watched, in awe of the man’s ability to charm absolutely anybody. While he watched, he also devoured a huge amount of food, which lived up to the restaurant’s reputation.

“Uncle Jimmy,” he said between forkfuls, “I gotta tell you, this is terrific. The food here is excellent.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Jimmy said. “I guess a few genuine Italians
did
make it all the way over to the Midwest.” Jimmy beckoned to a waiter, who nearly sprinted over to assist. Jimmy whispered in his ear, and the man took off for the kitchen, soon reemerging with a man wearing a tall chef’s hat.

“
Signore
,” the waiter said to Jimmy, “this is Chef Vincent, the man you asked to see.”

“Ah, Vincenzo,” Jimmy said as the chef leaned down to shake his hand. “
Molto grazie
.” Jimmy gestured to the table in front of him, then to Tony and Sarah, all the while smiling and speaking in rapid-fire Italian.

“What’s he saying?” Sarah asked, leaning in close to Tony.

Tony shrugged. “I never really learned much Italian, other than the really good swear words. But I gather he’s telling the chef we liked our meal.”

The chef was smiling and bowing repeatedly, responding in equally unintelligible Italian. Jimmy shook his hand one more time, a lingering handshake that probably lightened Jimmy’s bankroll by a few hundred, and the chef hurried back to the kitchen, smiling all the way.

Another waiter soon cleared their dishes, and brought strong, dark coffee in tiny cups. Tony stood, putting his napkin on the table. “If you two will excuse me, I need to make a brief visit to the facilities.”

“Go, go,” said Jimmy, smiling and easing back in his chair. “Just don’t be gone too long – a mere mortal such as myself cannot be counted on to control his passion around such a desirable woman.” Jimmy gestured at Sarah, who glowed at the over-the-top compliment.

Tony smiled at Sarah. “Are you sure you feel safe being left alone with this man?”

“Jimmy?” Sarah said, still grinning. “He’s a pussycat.”

Tony marveled at that statement, thinking
if you only knew
. But they were getting along so well, he wasn’t worried. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and walked away in search of a restroom.

Watching Tony walk away, Jimmy said, “He’s a great kid, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” said Sarah, also watching Tony, “he is.” She turned her attention to Jimmy. “And he’s got a pretty terrific uncle. This was so nice of you – we’re both having a great time. I know he really needed a night like this.”

Jimmy leaned forward in his chair, concerned. “How do you mean? Is Tony doing okay?”

“Oh, he’s doing fine. He does great work at the station, and everybody loves him. I mean, he
is
pretty lovable...” Changing course, she said, “But I know he’s getting kind of frustrated at work.”

“How so?”

“Well, the chief meteorologist – that’s the station’s main weatherman – he’s leaving the station. And Tony wants to apply for the job. Or maybe move into one of the other meteorologist’s position, in case one of them takes the top spot.”

“So what’s the problem?” Jimmy asked.

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Try me,” Jimmy said. “I’m pretty good at understanding things.”

“Yes, you are, aren’t you?” Sarah said. “I mean, you were the one who pointed out to Tony that guys who talk like him are very popular on TV and in the movies, right?”

Jimmy winced. “Is that what this is about? People are giving him grief over how he talks?”

“No, it’s not so much that. It’s just that he’s hitting a brick wall. He’s got this opportunity right in front of him, and the GM – that’s the general manager – won’t even let him audition.”

“
Madonn
’!” Jimmy said. “That’s rough. I mean, Tony’s not dumb. He knows that he doesn’t exactly fit the mold for being on the news. But this guy – this GM – he won’t even let Tony take a shot at it?”

“Not from what Tony says. I mean, I understand that his chances of getting the job are not as good as somebody who is more... more...”

“Vanilla?” Jimmy offered.

Sarah nodded. “Exactly. Tony’s definitely not vanilla.” She was starting to smile as she thought about him.

“No, I’d say he’s more of a spicy marinara,” Jimmy said.

Sarah laughed. It was a nice laugh, Jimmy noted. Tony had some good taste.

“Well, it’s a shame,” Jimmy said. “There’s a lot of prejudice, and a lot of double standards, am I right?”

“I guess so,” Sarah said. “This is just one of the first times I’ve seen it first-hand. Well, second-hand – Tony’s the one who has to deal with it. It’s just a shame, given how much he loves the weather. I mean, I think it would be adorable to see a guy like him giving the forecast on TV.” Sarah blushed, suddenly aware of how much champagne she’d had. “But I might be prejudiced,” she said shyly.

“Still have your virtue intact?” Tony said, surprising her from behind.

Sarah laughed. “Yes, Tony, never fear. Your uncle was a perfect gentleman.”

Jimmy spoke in a stage whisper. “Please – not so loud! I’ve got a reputation as a scoundrel to maintain!”

Later that night, Eric stopped the car next to where Sarah had parked, and was out of the car and opening her door before she could reach for the handle. Tony got out on the other side, while Eric opened Jimmy’s door.

“Sarah, it was a pleasure to spend such a lovely evening with you,” Jimmy said, drawing her in for another double-cheeked Italian kiss. Then he turned to Tony and repeated the maneuver. “Tony, sorry for the short notice. I hope to see you –
both
of you – again soon.” As Jimmy let go of him, Tony saw Eric bidding Sarah farewell in a similar manner. Eric then gave Tony a nod, which Tony knew was as close they’d ever get, with any luck.

Tony and Sarah continued to thank Jimmy and Eric as the two once again settled into the town car. Then the car drove off into the night, its engine purring almost silently.

Sarah leaned against her car, while Tony shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“I had a really great time,” Sarah said. “Your uncle is a sweetie. And Eric seems very nice, too.”

“Yeah, Jimmy’s great,” Tony said. “Eric’s a stand-up guy, too – we just never talk much.” Changing the subject, he said, “So, you’re okay to drive?”

Sarah nodded. “Yeah. An hour ago, I probably wasn’t, but I started chugging water and coffee when I realized it. So yeah, I’m fine.”

“I had a really good time, too,” Tony said. “I’m sorry that our plans got changed, and that it wasn’t just the two of us.”

“We’ve always got date number three,” Sarah said.

“Do we?”

“Oh yeah,” Sarah said, leaning forward to kiss Tony. Sarah could kiss, Tony soon decided.

Sarah gently pulled away, her eyes dreamy. “There will
definitely
be a date number three,” she said. She unlocked her car door and got in. Before she closed the door, Tony leaned in for one more kiss.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Tony said. Then he gently closed her car door, and patted his hand audibly on the roof of the car two times, the gesture a holdover from his trucking days. Sarah smiled at him through the window, then started the car and drove away.

AS THE DATE OF CHIP’S DEPARTURE APPROACHED, the auditions began. Applicants flew in from Texas, Pennsylvania, Nebraska; even one from Hawaii. Tony worked with each of them, preparing maps and graphics, collating the data from which each applicant would develop a forecast, creating charts and diagrams in accordance with each applicant’s wishes. Some of the applicants were better than others, some were nicer than others, and – damn it – all of them seemed completely at ease in front of the camera.

Tony couldn’t get a straight answer from Fletcher. Every time he asked about auditioning, Fletcher would say they were “still in the screening process,” but not to worry, he’d keep Tony “in the loop.”

Tony began to sense that he was crossing the fine line between being persistent and being an irritant, so he backed off, resigned to being passed over.

That disappointment was made much easier to bear by how well things were going with Sarah. Date number three had gone very well. Ditto for date number four, during which both Tony and Sarah had agreed that for now they would keep their relationship a secret at work. That was the plan; however, as so often is the case with young lovers, their attraction for each other was so blatantly obvious that the entire station was clued in by date number five at the latest.

They were now up to date number eleven, although it could be argued that numbers nine and ten were really just one date, since number nine had culminated in breakfast on the morning of date number ten. Yes, things in that area were going very well.

In addition to looking for a replacement for Chip, Fletcher was facing a new problem: Chip had developed a chronic case of Short Timer’s disease. He was on his way out, and he knew it, so he was cutting corners, easing up on his own work, and letting others shoulder the burden. He would give Fletcher no feedback on any of the applicants’ auditions – in fact, he didn’t even watch some of them.

Fletcher was having a hard time making a choice. There were no standouts. Every audition had been fairly good, but nobody had come in and just
grabbed
the position and made it their own, the way he had been hoping somebody would.

No, that would have made his life too simple, Fletcher mused, as he went over a stack of phone messages Claudette had left on his desk.

Pulling one slip of paper from the stack, Fletcher frowned. This was a new name, but familiar. He’d seen it somewhere, maybe even on the news. Picking up the phone, he dialed the extension of one of his editors.

“Curtis?” he said into the phone, “Fletch here. Tell me, do you recognize the name
James Carbone
?”

After a pause, Fletcher said, “No, that can’t be the same guy. Okay, never mind. Sorry to bother you. Oh, hey – while I’ve got you – do you know where area code 718 is? New York? Okay, thanks.”

Claudette bustled into Fletcher’s office, laden with paperwork that required his attention. Seeing his expression, she asked, “Is something wrong, Mr. Fletcher?”

Fletcher held up the message slip. “This message,” he said, “from a Mr. Carbone – did he say what he was calling about? Or mention what company he was with?”

“No, he just said it was important that you return his call.”

“What did he sound like?” Fletcher asked.

Claudette frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I mean, was he friendly? Was he polite? Well spoken? Or did he sound – I don’t know – maybe a bit...
unsophisticated
?”

“I don’t really recall, but he was certainly very polite,” Claudette said. “Unsophisticated? Mr. Fletcher, I’m afraid I’m a bit confused.”

“So am I, Claudette. The reason I’m asking is because I don’t know a James Carbone, but I have heard of a man by that name.”

Fletcher shook his head, his frown deepening.

“What is it?” Claudette asked.

“Well, the number he left is a New York area code. And the James Carbone I’ve heard of is some big New York mob boss.”

“Mob? As in... Mafia?” Claudette looked genuinely shocked.

“
Allegedly
,” Fletcher said, his twenty-odd years of journalistic self-preservation instincts kicking in.

“Would you like me to call this person back and get more information?” Claudette asked.

“No, I’ll talk to him. Go ahead and get him on the line. Who knows? Maybe he’ll make me an offer I can’t refuse.” Fletcher smiled, but the joke was lost on Claudette, who went back out to her desk without another word. Tough crowd, Fletcher thought.

A moment later, Claudette’s voice sounded on the speakerphone. “Mr. Fletcher, I have Mr. Carbone on two.”

“Thank you, Claudette,” Fletcher said, keying his phone.

Several minutes later, Claudette heard Fletcher slam his phone down, cursing loudly. She hurried into his office, to find Fletcher pacing angrily behind his desk.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

Fletcher continued pacing. “I don’t believe this,” he kept saying.

“Believe what, Mr. Fletcher? What’s wrong?”

Continuing to pace, Fletcher pointed an accusing finger at the telephone on his desk.

“Do you know who that was?” he asked, gesturing at the phone.

“Well, I assume it was Mr. Carbone,” she said. “I mean, that
is
who you had me call.”

Fletcher stopped pacing, but continued to point at the phone. Then he began tapping the receiver with his extended index finger, punctuating his words.

“Yes, that
was
Mr. Carbone. Mr.
Jimmy
Carbone. Mr. Jimmy
the Electrician
Carbone. Mr. Jimmy
Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes
Carbone.”

Claudette shook her head. “I don’t understand...”

Exasperated, Fletcher yelled, “He’s in the goddamn Mafia!”

“Mr. Fletcher!” Claudette was not the sort of woman who condoned such language.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Fletcher continued, in a more controlled voice. “This guy is a major Mafia boss. You know, like John Gotti? Meyer Lansky? I mean, this guy is up there.”

Claudette looked appalled, either by this news or by Fletcher’s language – it was hard to say. In an icy voice, she said, “And why would such a man want to talk with you?”

Fletcher surprised her by actually smiling. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

“Believe what?”

“The reason he called.” Fletcher collapsed into his chair, and looked up at Claudette. “He called... how shall I say this? He called on behalf of one of our employees.”

“Who on earth...” Claudette began,

“Think about it,” Fletcher said. “Who do we have working here who looks and talks like, well, like an East Coast gangster?”

Claudette’s expression was blank.

“Come on,” Fletcher said. “Think. Big tough-looking guy, New York accent, dresses like he’s going to a funeral. Ring any bells?”

Claudette was shaking her head. “You can’t mean Anthony...”

“
Anthony
? Is that what you call him? I’ve only ever heard him called Tony.”

Claudette looked flummoxed. Without asking, she sat down in a chair across from Fletcher. “So you’re saying this... this
gangster
called you about a matter that concerns Tony Bartolicotti?”

“AKA Tony Partly Cloudy,” Fletcher said, nodding.

“What on earth could that man want with Tony?”

“It’s not what he wants with Tony,” Fletcher said, “it’s what he wants from
me
. What he wants me to do
for
Tony.”

“And what’s that?”

Fletcher sighed. “This guy – this Mafia goon – he called me because he wants me to give the chief meteorologist spot to Tony.”

“Our Tony? But how could this man even know Tony?” Claudette asked. “Tony is such a nice boy.”

Fletcher laughed. “Oh, I doubt a man like Carbone actually
knows
Tony. I mean, I’ve seen The Godfather. I know how this stuff works. It’s all that old-world family crap. Somebody probably made some calls, somebody else is calling in a favor, and lo and behold, a friend of a friend of a friend helps somebody get a job.”

“So you think Tony actually asked the Mafia to help him get a job?” Claudette’s face was alternating between confusion and horror.

“Well, whatever he did, I now have Jimmy Carbone pressuring me to hire the guy. Unbelievable.”

Claudette drew back in her chair. “What do you mean, pressuring you? Did he threaten you in any way?”

“No, no, nothing like that. He was very careful how he worded everything. These guys always are,” Fletcher said, finding himself talking about Mafia tactics as if he’d ever had any experience with them outside of the movies he had seen. “What he said was that he really wants to meet with me to discuss some career opportunities for Tony. That was the term he used –
career opportunities
.”

“So what did you tell him?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I tried to tell him how busy I was, how I really didn’t see what we had to discuss, but he was very insistent. And while we were talking, it slowly sank in just who I was talking to. So what could I do?”

Claudette stood up, now in full schoolmarm mode. In her huffiest of voices, she said, “Well, I think you should call the police!”

Fletcher shook his head. “I don’t think so. At least not yet. Like I said, this guy was really careful about what he said. There was nothing he said that I could claim was a threat. Actually, he was surprisingly polite, when you consider this guy’s background.”

Claudette said, “Does this mean you agreed to meet him?”

Fletcher nodded. “What could I do? He’s coming in day after tomorrow. Two o’clock. Unbelievable.”

Fletcher slumped back in his chair for a long moment, staring angrily at the phone as if blaming it for his troubles. Then he was up again, his voice rising as he resumed pacing back and forth.

“Unbelievable. I’m trying to run a TV station, and I’ve got to deal with some two-bit dago thug who thinks he’s Al Capone!”

Sensing there was nothing she could do to console her boss, Claudette stepped gingerly away from his desk and tiptoed out of the office, leaving Fletcher to brood over his first encounter with organized crime.
Alleged
organized crime, that is.