– these boys get mighty thirsty. Especially Louie the Leg.”
Tony laughed. This playacting stuff was fun – he was getting the hang of it now. “Louie the Leg?” he said, raising his voice in feigned astonishment. “Why didn’t you tell me the Leg was coming? Hell, I’m gonna need a freakin’ keg , am I right?”
Jimmy laughed, too. “Sure, Tony. A keg for the Leg. Hey, that rhymes!”
“Uncle Jimmy, you’re a freakin’ Longfellow goodfella!” Tony said, caught up in the joviality of the moment.
Now Jimmy paused. “Yeah, Tony. Whatever,” he finally said, his voice conspicuously less enthused. “Anyway,” Jimmy went on, “me and the boys will see you around eight, all right?”
“Sounds good, Jimmy,” Tony said. “See you guys then.”
Tony heard the click of Jimmy breaking the connection, then heard two or three more clicks before the dial tone resumed. That was kind of strange. And so was Jimmy’s reaction to the whole Longfellow bit. But then, maybe that had been pushing it. Tony resolved to use a bit more restraint in future phone conversations with Jimmy, particularly if they were going to be a weekly event.
At precisely eight o’clock the next evening, Tony heard somebody knocking on his door. Checking his peephole, he saw the now familiar solar eclipse known as Eric.
Tony opened the door to face the towering figure in the long black leather coat. “Eric,” he said, “good to see you.” He remembered not to extend his hand for a shake. Stepping backwards, Tony said, “Come on in.”
Eric said nothing, ducking his head under the doorframe to follow Tony into the apartment. Eric’s eyes scanned the room quickly, then he turned to face the door. “Okay,” he said quietly, again the almost feminine voice giving Tony a quick chill.
Immediately Jimmy Carbone entered the room, followed by four other men, all of whom were utterly silent.
Tony began to say something, but Jimmy caught his eye and shook his head. The last man to enter closed the door behind him, and began setting the deadbolts on the door. Meanwhile, Eric worked his way quickly through the apartment, looking under tables and chairs, checking the telephone, examining light fixtures, and then looking out the window before drawing the blinds shut. Finally he nodded to Jimmy, who broke into a smile.
“Tony Partly Cloudy,” he said in a loud voice. “Give your uncle a hug!” Tony felt himself drawn into an awkward embrace with the man, who whispered, “Sorry, just needed to check for bugs,” then broke off the hug.
Turning to face the others, Jimmy said, “Boys, this is Frankie Bartolicotti’s boy, Tony. They call him Tony Partly Cloudy.” This drew a chuckle, while Jimmy continued. “Tony, these are the boys.”
Leading Tony to each of the men, Jimmy made introductions. A couple of them were guys Tony had heard of, East Coast hoods who controlled certain neighborhoods. There was Mickey Lips, a former trumpet player. Next was Johnny Camminatore, a red-haired guy they all called Johnny Walker Red. A scowling bruiser introduced as Louie the Leg brushed past Tony without shaking his hand. Finally there was a wispy little man Jimmy introduced only as Big Al, whose tiny, doll-like hand disappeared into Tony’s when they shook. Tony began to entertain himself trying to figure out the meanings behind these last two nicknames, when he was interrupted by a man yelling, “Hey! Where’s the goddamn beer?”
Tony turned to see the man who had been introduced as Louie the Leg standing in front of Tony’s open refrigerator. He did not look happy.
“There should be a couple of six-packs in there,” Tony said, blushing. He’d been treating himself to a beer or two each night since his shopping trip last week, planning to restock eventually.
Louie scowled. “Well that may be enough for me, but what are the rest of you guys gonna drink?”
Tony started to laugh, but stopped when the look on Louie’s face made it clear
Tony laughed. This playacting stuff was fun – he was getting the hang of it now. “Louie the Leg?” he said, raising his voice in feigned astonishment. “Why didn’t you tell me the Leg was coming? Hell, I’m gonna need a freakin’ keg , am I right?”
Jimmy laughed, too. “Sure, Tony. A keg for the Leg. Hey, that rhymes!”
“Uncle Jimmy, you’re a freakin’ Longfellow goodfella!” Tony said, caught up in the joviality of the moment.
Now Jimmy paused. “Yeah, Tony. Whatever,” he finally said, his voice conspicuously less enthused. “Anyway,” Jimmy went on, “me and the boys will see you around eight, all right?”
“Sounds good, Jimmy,” Tony said. “See you guys then.”
Tony heard the click of Jimmy breaking the connection, then heard two or three more clicks before the dial tone resumed. That was kind of strange. And so was Jimmy’s reaction to the whole Longfellow bit. But then, maybe that had been pushing it. Tony resolved to use a bit more restraint in future phone conversations with Jimmy, particularly if they were going to be a weekly event.
At precisely eight o’clock the next evening, Tony heard somebody knocking on his door. Checking his peephole, he saw the now familiar solar eclipse known as Eric.
Tony opened the door to face the towering figure in the long black leather coat. “Eric,” he said, “good to see you.” He remembered not to extend his hand for a shake. Stepping backwards, Tony said, “Come on in.”
Eric said nothing, ducking his head under the doorframe to follow Tony into the apartment. Eric’s eyes scanned the room quickly, then he turned to face the door. “Okay,” he said quietly, again the almost feminine voice giving Tony a quick chill.
Immediately Jimmy Carbone entered the room, followed by four other men, all of whom were utterly silent.
Tony began to say something, but Jimmy caught his eye and shook his head. The last man to enter closed the door behind him, and began setting the deadbolts on the door. Meanwhile, Eric worked his way quickly through the apartment, looking under tables and chairs, checking the telephone, examining light fixtures, and then looking out the window before drawing the blinds shut. Finally he nodded to Jimmy, who broke into a smile.
“Tony Partly Cloudy,” he said in a loud voice. “Give your uncle a hug!” Tony felt himself drawn into an awkward embrace with the man, who whispered, “Sorry, just needed to check for bugs,” then broke off the hug.
Turning to face the others, Jimmy said, “Boys, this is Frankie Bartolicotti’s boy, Tony. They call him Tony Partly Cloudy.” This drew a chuckle, while Jimmy continued. “Tony, these are the boys.”
Leading Tony to each of the men, Jimmy made introductions. A couple of them were guys Tony had heard of, East Coast hoods who controlled certain neighborhoods. There was Mickey Lips, a former trumpet player. Next was Johnny Camminatore, a red-haired guy they all called Johnny Walker Red. A scowling bruiser introduced as Louie the Leg brushed past Tony without shaking his hand. Finally there was a wispy little man Jimmy introduced only as Big Al, whose tiny, doll-like hand disappeared into Tony’s when they shook. Tony began to entertain himself trying to figure out the meanings behind these last two nicknames, when he was interrupted by a man yelling, “Hey! Where’s the goddamn beer?”
Tony turned to see the man who had been introduced as Louie the Leg standing in front of Tony’s open refrigerator. He did not look happy.
“There should be a couple of six-packs in there,” Tony said, blushing. He’d been treating himself to a beer or two each night since his shopping trip last week, planning to restock eventually.
Louie scowled. “Well that may be enough for me, but what are the rest of you guys gonna drink?”
Tony started to laugh, but stopped when the look on Louie’s face made it clear
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