Tony Partly Cloudy (27 page)

“Figures,” Sarah said. “Count on Marketing for cheesy ideas.”

“You got that right,” Tony said. “Hell, last month I had to talk them out of a couple doozies. Get this: they wanted me to give my forecast sitting at a table with a red checkered tablecloth – like I was in a freakin’ Italian restaurant!”

“You have
got
to be kidding me.”

“I wish. They were actually serious. And Trask – that’s the GM – he’s always on me to say stuff like
freakin’
or
bada bing
more often. Like I’m some kind of, you know, carrot catcher.”

“Carrot catcher?” Sarah said, enunciating slowly.

“You know, like a cartoon. A carrot catcher.”

“I think you mean
caricature
, Tony.”

“That’s what I said. Anyways, I gotta tell you, sometimes I wonder if all this fame and money is worth it, when I look at the stuff they want me to do. I mean, it’s great being on TV and all, but I really don’t think the people I work for take me seriously. In their eyes, I’m just some kind of gimmick.”

“A gimmick who’s making them a lot of money,” Sarah added, her voice accompanied by the rustle of tortilla chips being fished from a plastic bag.

“Yeah, the money they take seriously. But me?” Tony sighed dramatically. “To them I’m nothing but a pretty face.”

Tony heard the sound of Doritos being sprayed across Sarah’s kitchen, and smiled. He loved making her laugh, even when it got messy. Hell, especially when it got messy.

When Sarah was once again breathing normally, she said, “So how long are they going to keep this batting average thing going?”

“They’re talking about doing it from now on. Which means whenever I get a forecast right, it looks like I’m bragging about it, and whenever I get it wrong, there’ll be this big sign telling the whole world I screwed up. This sucks.”

“I’m sorry, baby. Maybe they’ll get bored with this idea, and come up with some other gimmick. Maybe one that’s not as cheesy.”

“I doubt it. Things keep getting more cheesy, not less cheesy. And man, all this talk about cheese is making me want a pizza!”

“Tony, everything makes you want a pizza.” This much was true. Tony had finally been convinced to try Chicago’s version of this Italian delicacy, and to his surprise, it had passed muster. Since then, pizza makers in the neighborhood had been reaping the rewards of Tony’s discovery on a frequent basis.

“Anyways,” Tony said, “there’s times when I miss my old job back at the NWS. There they only cared about the weather. Not about the way I talk.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t really like Key West. Didn’t you say it was sort of weird down there?”

Tony smiled. “Well, yeah, it can get kinda weird. But it can also be kinda fun. I just always thought it would be a lot more fun if I had somebody to, you know, share it with. But it never happened – I never found anybody there. So after a few years, I was... well, I was lonely.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Sarah said. “But you’re not lonely now, are you?”

“No,” Tony said. “I’m pretty freakin’ happy. Of course, I’d be even happier if I got to see more of you. You know, like on a daily basis.”

This was a recent development in their late-night talks: the notion of perhaps moving in together. But Tony didn’t want to ask Sarah to give up her job, and he couldn’t really see giving his up when things were going so well, so these conversations were relegated to careful verbal tiptoeing.

“That would be nice,” Sarah agreed. “We’ll have to see if we can figure something out.”

And that was how these talks usually ended. But that was okay; Tony liked the direction they were heading.

“WELL, THE CUBS MAY HAVE LOST AGAIN TONIGHT, but when it comes to the weather, here’s somebody who almost never strikes out. Isn’t that right, Brock?”

“That’s right, Tiffany. Our very own Tony Partly Cloudy has been on a winning streak even the Yankees would envy. It’s been twenty days since Tony’s had a swing and a miss. For a look at the weather in the windy city, here’s our own all-star chief meteorologist, Tony Partly Cloudy.”

Flashing his trademark smile, Brock Hastings swung an imaginary bat, and the camera panned over to Tony.

“Thanks, Brock,” Tony said with a forced smile. Turning to face the camera, he said, “I’m Tony Partly Cloudy – how ya doin’?”

Tony launched into his forecast, mindful of the new logo occupying the upper left-hand corner of the screen: a pale gray cloud emblazoned with the number 20, indicating how many days had elapsed since the last time Tony had gotten a forecast wrong. He said nothing about this during his forecast, ignoring the number and focusing on the weather patterns he was predicting. But at the close of his segment, Tiffany Stone chimed in, saying, “I bet we’ll be looking at number 21 tomorrow, eh, Brock?”

Brock chuckled and said, “I wouldn’t bet against it, that’s for sure. Now the Cubs – that’s another story.”

“Ouch! Too true,” Tiffany said. “And with more on the team that can sometimes catch a ball, but can never catch a break, here’s Skip Tracy with tonight’s sports wrap-up...”

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

Tony’s cloud logo made it up to 26 before a sudden hailstorm that Tony hadn’t seen coming forced WGX to reset the cloud logo to zero. Just before airtime, a corporate decision was made that a cloud with a zero on it was too humiliating, so the cloud was simply left blank. The next night a number 1 was added. Tony made it to 22 this time, his streak stopped by an unexpected 20-degree temperature drop that left the city shivering. The Gift was good, Tony thought bitterly, but it wasn’t infallible. Made him wonder how the Pope did it.

By day 17 of Tony’s next streak, the statistic was being tracked by half a dozen casinos in Las Vegas, adding his forecasts to the seemingly endless list of events on which gamblers were willing to wager money.

By day 28, every major casino in the United States had added Tony’s forecasts to their betting boards. Most of the newly burgeoning Internet betting sites followed suit, listing Tony’s forecasts next to horse races, dog races, jai alai matches, prize fights, tennis tournaments, and the number of days a pair of pop-star newlyweds were expected to remain together in marital bliss.

On day 32, an estimated two million dollars changed hands in casinos across the country, when the rain clouds Tony had predicted would deluge Chicago instead hovered several miles offshore, affecting only a few boaters on Lake Michigan.

A week later, Tony got home from work at his usual time, just after midnight. As he hung his coat on the hook inside his front door, he suddenly realized he smelled smoke. Cigarette smoke. As Tony whirled around, a voice said, “Welcome home, Tony.”

Two men stood in his living room. One held a cigarette in his hand. The other held a gun.

The man with the cigarette said, “Stay calm, and go slow. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to talk. So why don’t you have yourself a seat right there?” The man indicated Tony’s favorite recliner.

“Go ahead,” the man said, “sit down.”

Tony did as he was told, taking a hard look at his unexpected guests. The guy with the cigarette was a tall man, wearing a shiny silver-gray suit that had a cartoonish gaudiness to it; its lapels too wide, its creases too sharp. The gunman next to him was dressed in a black satin warm-up suit, garnished with gold chains around his neck.

“What’s going on?” Tony asked. “Who are you guys, and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

The smoker turned to the man with the gun, and said, “Talks like a tough guy, doesn’t he?”

The second man replied by racking a round into the chamber of his gun. It was a simultaneously dramatic and stupid move, Tony realized. Intended to intimidate Tony, it meant the gunman had waited for him with a gun that wasn’t ready to shoot. Not a smart approach for a home invasion.

The smoker said, “We’re with the Outfit.”

The Outfit?
Madonn’
, Tony thought, who was cheesy enough to talk like that? Then he remembered.

“You’re from Vegas?” Tony asked.

“No, we’re from Des Moines, Iowa, you putz,” the smoker said. “Yeah, we’re from Vegas. Like I said, we’re with the Outfit.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Tony said, beginning to see why Frankie B had always spoken so contemptuously about the Vegas mob.

“You got an ashtray in this dump?” the smoker asked.

“I don’t smoke,” Tony said. “I got a couple put away somewhere. I can find them if you want.” He started to get up. The guy in the warm-up suit sighted his gun on Tony, and Tony sat back down.

“You stay where you are,” the smoker said. “I don’t need an ashtray.” He dropped his cigarette on the floor, grinding it into Tony’s pale beige carpet.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Tony yelled. “What is this?”

With the gunman close behind, the smoker approached Tony, speaking in a harsh whisper. “Keep your voice down, asshole. Or I’ll have Bugsy here wrap your mouth in duct tape.”

“Bugsy?” Tony couldn’t help himself. “You actually have a guy in your crew named
Bugsy
? What is this, the roaring freakin’ twenties? So what’s your name? No wait, let me guess. Machine Gun Kelly?”

The man with the gun – Bugsy, apparently – said, “This asshole’s got a real smart mouth.” Bugsy continued to point his gun at Tony.

The smoker said, “Yeah, he does. But we’re here to talk to him, not shoot him.” Pausing for effect, he said, “At least not tonight.”

Speaking in a carefully measured monotone, Tony said, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“That’s more like it,” the smoker said. “I’m Eddie Marconi – people call me Eddie Macaroni. And this is Bugsy LaRocca. We’re with the Outfit.”

“You told me that three times now,” Tony said. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

Eddie and Bugsy exchanged a look. Then Eddie spoke.

“We came here with a business proposition for you, from the people who run things in Vegas. Something that we think you’ll agree is...
mutually beneficial
.”

Eddie seemed to be the one charged with doing the talking, Tony decided. So he looked at Eddie and said, “I listen a lot better when I don’t have a gun pointed at me.”

Eddie held Tony’s stare for a moment, then turned and nodded to Bugsy. Bugsy reluctantly lowered the gun, but did not put it away. The unspoken message was
I can still shoot you if you make a move
.

“Okay,” Tony said, trying to hide his relief. “Go on.”

Eddie said, “I assume you know that your weather forecasts are getting to be what you’d call a hot item in Vegas. People are betting a lot of money on your forecasts. More every day.”

Tony said, “Yeah, I’ve heard some talk about that.”

Eddie said, “So, with more and more people betting on you, the pots people are winning are getting bigger and bigger. Some serious money is changing hands.” Eddie smiled. It was not an attractive sight.

“So?” said Tony.

“So, we want a taste. You got a good racket going, and we want a piece of it.”

Tony shook his head. “What racket? What the hell are you talking about?”

Eddie pointed at the television at one end of the living room. “Those freakin’ weather forecasts you do on the TV, you moron. The way you get it right so much. You got some system or something, some way of beating the house.”

“Beating the house?” Tony was baffled.

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I mean, nobody gets it right as often as you do – believe me, we been watching, and we been keeping score. You got some kind of system figured out. Some angle nobody else has figured out yet. It’s like you’re counting cards or something. Only maybe in your case you’re counting
clouds
, or some shit like that.”

“Counting clouds?” Tony rubbed his face in exasperation. “That’s not what I’m doing,” he said. “There’s no system – it’s
science
. I’m trained in this stuff, you know? I use lots of instruments and computers and stuff, and I come up with these forecasts using
science
– that’s what meteorology is.”

Eddie was nodding, waving his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah – whatever you want to call it. Meteorology, masturbationology – we don’t give a shit. Whatever you’re doing, bottom line is, you’re better at guessing the weather than anybody else out there right now. That makes you one of the hottest tickets in Vegas – we’re talking major action here. So we want a taste.”

“What taste?” Tony said. “So I’m pretty good at figuring out weather forecasts. So bet on me. Make some money on me. I got no problem with that. There’s your
taste
.”

Again Eddie looked at Bugsy. A bemused, tolerant look. Turning back to Tony, Eddie said, “Tony, you don’t seem to get it. You know where the real money is in Vegas?” Tony shrugged.

“I’ll tell you where it is,” Eddie continued. “It’s on the long shot – the
rare event
. The one-in-a-million thing that nobody thinks is gonna happen. That’s when the odds really stack up.” Again pointing to the television, Eddie said, “You, you’re right most of the time. So when you’re right about the weather, it’s not a rare event. The rare event is when you’re
wrong
.”

Tony squinted at Eddie. “So what are you getting at?”

Eddie shook his head, disappointed it was taking Tony so long to get it. “Tony, when people bet on you to get your forecast right, it’s a safe bet. People do it all the time. And they win. But they don’t win much, because of the odds.” Leaning forward, Eddie said, “The people who make the real money on you are the people who bet
against
you – the people who bet on your forecast to be
wrong
. Because most of the time you’re
not
wrong. So when you are wrong, the payoff is bigger. A lot bigger. But only for the people who had the balls to make that long-shot bet.” Eddie smiled, sure that by now he’d gotten through to Tony.

“So go ahead,” Tony said, “bet on me to be wrong. I’m bound to be wrong every now and then, and there you go – you’ll make your big score.”

Eddie laughed. “You’re freakin’ kidding me, right? I mean, that’s how freaking
civilians
gamble, those stupid suckers.”

Gesturing at himself and Bugsy, Eddie said, “Tony, this is the Outfit you’re dealing with, not some chump civilians. You think when the Outfit gambles, they just
hope
they’ll get lucky? Tony, the Outfit makes its own luck.”

Tony closed his eyes and sighed. “So what you’re saying...”

“What we’re saying is that we’re going to bet on you being wrong. When we do that, we will let you know, and it will be your job to make sure your forecast is wrong. We bet heavy against big odds, you play ball, and we all score big. It’s a beautiful fucking thing.”

Eddie and Bugsy smiled at each other, being men who appreciated beautiful fucking things.

Tony opened his eyes, speaking in a low voice. “You want me to throw a forecast. Like it was a goddamn prize fight or something.”

“Bingo!” Eddie said, delighted that Tony finally understood. “It’s exactly like a goddamn prize fight. We tell you what round, we place our bets, and then you take a dive.”

“Un-freakin’-believable,” Tony said, closing his eyes again.

“I know,” Eddie said, “it’s freakin’ genius, ain’t it? I mean, you keep your act up, being right most of the time, keeping the odds inflated. Then every now and then, we give you the nod, you tank a forecast, and we all get a piece of a very big pie.” Turning to Bugsy, Eddie concluded, “I fucking love Las Vegas.” Bugsy smiled, apparently equally enamored of his Nevada home.

Tony cleared his throat, and said, “I won’t do it.”

Eddie’s smile vanished. “What are you talking about? You’ll do it, ‘cause that’s what the Outfit tells you to do.”

“Fuck the Outfit,” Tony said. The look on Eddie’s face suggested that Tony had spoken about Eddie’s mother, not his employer.

Tony continued. “I’m not in the freakin’ Outfit. I’m not even in the family business back East. I’m not a made guy – hell, I’m not even mobbed up.”

Eddie seemed to be choking. A vein bulged threateningly on his forehead, and his hands wrenched at his collar, loosening his shiny necktie. Bugsy took advantage of the silence to address Tony.

“Not mobbed up? That’s not what I hear.”

Tony shifted in his chair, careful not to make any sudden or threatening moves, as Bugsy still held a gun in his hand.

“What do you mean?” Tony asked. “What do you hear?”

Bugsy smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth. Jeez, Tony thought, was everything about these goons a cliché?

Bugsy said, “I hear you did some work for one of the East Coast crews, both you and your old man. Hell, I heard one of the guys you worked for set you up with your first job on TV. If that ain’t mobbed up, you tell me what is.”

Tony blinked. “Yeah, so maybe I did some errands and stuff for the family, back when I was a kid. But that was years ago. I haven’t done anything with anybody back home in, I don’t know, maybe ten years. And nobody back there got me my first TV job – I got that job myself. Hell, I was already working there. I just got a promotion, is all.”