The Don Con

by Richard Armstrong

  “Not as great as you,” I said. “You haven’t aged a bit.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t look too closely,” he said as he sat down and waved at the chair across from him to invite me to sit. “Don’t look at the crown of my head. You’ll find a patch of bare scalp where lovely tresses of rich, red hair once flowed.”

  “‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,’” I said.

  I liked to work Shakespearean quotes into my everyday conversation. It was an annoying habit of mine. That particular one came from Henry IV, Part Two, Act III, Scene One.

  “Nowadays the makeup girls have to spray my head with the paint that Ron Popiel used to sell on those infomercials.”

  “Speaking of makeup,” I said, “I never could understand why the producers of Star Trek hired a handsome guy like you and then covered your face with all that Klingon shit. How long did it take to put that stuff on every morning?”

  “About three hours. That’s how long it took at first, anyway. By the end of the series, the girls had gotten so good at it they cut down to about ninety minutes.”

  “What did you do the whole time?”

  “Learn lines, what else? I had two girls working on my face and one girl sitting next to me running lines. Once I had ’em down pat, I’d ask for a copy of The Wall Street Journal and another cup of coffee. It wasn’t so bad. The hard part was getting up three hours earlier than everybody else. The good part was that I never had to take any of my own time on weekends or evenings to memorize lines.”

  Jerry answered these questions in a rote sort of way that led me to believe he’d answered them a million times before. Of course he had, I realized. There were more personal questions I really wanted to ask, but they wouldn’t be appropriate. Questions like:

  How much money do you make in residual checks that show up in your mailbox every week? How much did they pay you to act in the big-screen Star Trek movie? How much do you get paid to do a panel discussion at a Fan-Con?

  They were paying me a piddling five-hundred dollars for the one I’d be doing after lunch.

  “How’s Caitlin doing?” he said.

  “She’s fine.”

  “And the baby. What’s her name again, Becky?”

  “Bianca. She’s not a baby anymore. She’s walking and talking.”

  “Holy shit! Time flies, man.”

  I wanted to return the favor and ask him about his wife and kids, but I couldn’t remember any of the current details. He was on his third or fourth marriage, and each one had yielded an offspring or two. The only wife I’d ever met was the first one and she was long gone. The fact that he’d had so many divorces caused me to blurt out something I hadn’t intended to talk about.

  “Caitlin and I are … well, we’re having some trouble.”

  “Oh?”

  “She caught me dipping my wick where it didn’t belong, and she’s having a hard time getting over it.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Plus, money, you know, the usual problems.”

  He stiffened a bit, and I realized I was talking to someone for whom money was not a problem. I also realized I was talking to someone who got hit up for money by some “old friend” once a week. So I tried to segue out of the subject.

  “Hey, speaking of money, I wanted to thank you again for telling me about these Fan-Cons. I never even knew they existed until you told me about them. I didn’t even know about Comic-Con. When did you first find out about them?”

  “Hell, I was doing these conventions while the first series was still on the air. My agent told me about them. I said, ‘Why would I want to do something like that?’ He said, ‘Well, do you like money or are you some kind of Buddhist monk?’ He told me how much money I could make from signing autographs and getting my picture taken with fans. I couldn’t believe it until I came home from my first Star Trek convention with my pockets filled with cash.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “But at the same time, I’ve got to admit it’s a little demeaning, too. I mean here I was on television in a big role on a hit series, and I’m signing autographs for money. I couldn’t exactly picture Clark Gable or Cary Grant doing that. It didn’t fit with my self-image, you know what I mean? Plus, there were all sorts of little dings to my dignity.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like one time I was at a Fan-Con in Toronto and I saw a table where they were selling Star Trek action figures. They had Shatner. George Takei. Patrick Stewart. Michael Dorn. Jonathan Frakes. Everybody. Then I noticed a little sign in the corner of the table. It said, ‘Buy any three action figures and get one Jeremiah Pennington for free.’”

  I was sipping some water when he delivered the punch line, and I did a classic spit-take. I mopped up the water with a cocktail napkin.

  “True story,” he said, “I shit you not.”

  The waiter came and we ordered lunch. I asked for a cheeseburger and fries. While Jerry glanced at his menu, I looked for Rosetti. There he was. He stationed himself across the hallway a hundred feet away from where we were sitting and stared at me. He had a cup of coffee and a newspaper in his hands. He looked like he would wait as long as necessary.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions about how to handle some weird shit that’s been happening at these Fan-Cons, Jerry.”

  “Fire when ready, Gridley. I’m an expert.”

  “What do you do if a fan asks you to lunch or dinner?”

  “Fangirl or fanboy?”

  “Fanboy. An older man, actually. I know exactly how to handle the fangirls. That’s what got me in trouble with Caitlin.”

  “Yeah, it sounds like you did too much handling.”

  “Afraid so. Anyway, this old Italian guy was in the autograph line this morning. He invited me to lunch. He said he needed to talk to me. I told him I was having lunch with you. He said, well, what about a quick drink. I said I don’t drink much.”

  “In other words, you lied?”

  “Right. He said let me buy you an Italian Ice on the boardwalk. He called it wooder ice.”

  “Wooder ice? Ha! Native-born Philadelphian, eh?”

  “Exactly. I said I didn’t have time for that because I have a panel discussion after lunch, then another autograph session in the afternoon.”

  “So you blew him off. Good. That’s exactly what I’d advise you to do.”

  “Jerry, I blew and I blew and I blew. But his house did not fall down. He’s the most persistent asshole I’ve ever met in my life. I’m afraid he’s going to keep coming back. And there’s something else that scares me a little.”

  “What?”

  “He looks like a mobster. Talks like one, too.”

  “Oh, hell, that doesn’t mean anything. Half the people in my autograph line dress in Star Trek uniforms. Am I worried that the Romulans might be going to war with the Federation? Not a bit. Don’t you get a lot of people in your autograph lines dressed like gangsters? Zoot suits? Spats? Fedoras?”

  “Yes, I do. But that’s just it. This guy isn’t dressed like a movie gangster. He’s dressed like a real gangster.”

  “How the hell would you know what a real gangster dresses like, Joey? You’re a Yalie, for heaven’s sake.”

  “We had experts on Button Men who were paid to know that stuff. He just looks like the real deal to me. Sounds like it, too. Plus, I have a little volunteer nerd assigned to me like you do. He said he recognized this guy from some Mafia website.”

  “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, J-Fox. If he comes back this afternoon, blow him off again. If he comes back a third time, report it to the convention sponsors. They’ve got some real security guards here. Not like these volunteers who escort us around. I’m talking about guys with guns. They’ll talk to your Don Corleone and he’ll take a powder. Don’t worry about it. You’ve always been a worrier, Joey. What else are you worried about?”

  I didn’t want to tell Jerry that Rosetti was standing fifty feet away and staring us down at that moment. I didn’t w
ant to alarm him. Nor did I want to drag him into this. Maybe he was right, after all. Maybe all I had to do was tell the convention sponsors that a fan was hassling me and they’d scare Rosetti away.

  Meanwhile, our food arrived. I gobbled down my cheeseburger and fries like I hadn’t eaten for a day. (Because I hadn’t.) Jerry picked at his chef salad. When I came up for air from the plate, I answered his question.

  “Well, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about was these panel discussions.”

  “What about them?”

  “I like doing them. I love getting the extra five hundred dollars, but—”

  “Five hundred?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Never mind. Go on.”

  “I’m a little embarrassed when I do them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, you know, I just had a tiny part on The Sopranos after all.”

  “But your part on Button Men was much bigger. I saw every episode you were on. You did great.”

  I felt bad. Jerry had made a special effort to watch my show, but for all the hundreds of Star Trek episodes he was on I’d seen two or three of them. Every now and then I’d pass one of his shows when I was channel surfing and I’d stop and watch for a few minutes until he came on. I’m just not a big Star Trek fan. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a Klingon and a Romulan. I was surprised that Jerry was a hero on the show because I always thought Klingons were the bad guys. Maybe there was an intergalactic peace treaty and I didn’t get the memo.

  “Thanks, Jerry, but you were only one of three people in America who ever saw Button Men. The problem is that when I do these panel discussions I feel like I’m crashing the party. The other actors on the panel are well known. Maybe not their names, but their faces. The audience directs all their questions to them. So I wind up sitting there like an idiot with my thumb up my butt.”

  “Maybe you could do what I do. I like to go out into the audience and pretend I’m just one of the fans. I raise my hand and start asking the same stupid questions fans ask me all the time, like, “How does it feel when you’re beamed down in the transporter room? Does it tingle, or tickle, or what?”

  I laughed.

  “‘How do you talk with the Federation headquarters when the Enterprise is traveling at warp speed if the ship is going faster than radio waves?’”

  “I’ve never considered that problem.”

  “What’s the question you’re asked most often?”

  “‘What was James Gandolfini really like?’”

  “Okay. So you go out into the audience, you raise your hand, and you ask the actors on the panel, ‘What was James Gandolfini really like?’ What was he like, by the way?”

  “How the hell should I know? I only met him once and we talked for five seconds. You know, Jerry, I’m not sure that schtick would work for me. Because when you go out into the audience, people know you’re one of the stars of the show and they get a big kick out of it. In my case, they’d think I was the emcee or something.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Look, you don’t have to go out into the audience if you don’t want. All I’m saying is that if you feel like you’re the third wheel on the panel, start asking questions of the other actors. You can ask better questions than the fans can, and the actors will appreciate it.”

  “Okay, I’ll try that,” I said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone was approaching our table. Was it Rosetti?

  Thank God, no. It was the Nazi Youth Leaguer from the volunteer escort team. He saluted Jerry and held the salute with his body frozen at full attention.

  “At ease, Ensign,” said Jerry, shooting a wink in my direction.

  “Mr. Pennington, sir, it is my duty to inform you that your Star Trek panel discussion begins in five minutes. It would be my honor to escort you there myself.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Jerry. “Lunch is over. Let’s roll.” He tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table like it was a used cocktail napkin. I did a quick calculation in my head and realized he was leaving a 250 percent tip.

  “Thanks for lunch, Jerry,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it, J-Fox. It was great to see you again. Please say hello to Caitlin for me. I mean, if she’s speaking to you and everything. Bianca, too.”

  I looked around for Rosetti. He was still standing in the same place. But he could see we were getting ready to leave, so he started getting ready to pounce.

  “Jerry, could I ask you for a quick favor?”

  He stiffened again. As friendly as Hollywood stars could be with their fans—or even their old friends—the topics of money and favors were sensitive points with them. I could see Jerry’s shields go up. (No pun intended.)

  “What is it?”

  “Could you ask your … um, Ensign, if he could escort me to my panel discussion, too? I don’t want to run into that fan I was telling you about.”

  “No problem. Did you hear what Mr. Volpe said, Ensign?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make it so.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  So the three of us walked past Rosetti on the way to our panel discussions. The sight of a bona fide television star and a volunteer decorated with official-looking buttons and badges was intimidating enough to keep the gangster at bay.

  But not enough to keep him from following us.

  7

  Rosetti was twenty feet behind us and closing the gap when we reached the meeting room where Jerry and a half dozen other Star Trek actors from all different eras were going to hold their panel discussion.

  Steven Dubois, who had been in the cast of a Star Trek spin-off was standing outside the door. He was shaking hands with fans, and greeting passersby like he was running for office. Dubois was a flamboyant character. I can’t remember which role he played—or which series—but I think he was on a space station. He was the chief medical officer. Or the senior science officer. Or the head pastry chef. Like I said, I didn’t watch those shows so I can’t say for sure.

  Over the years, Dubois had become quite well known. In part because he was a militant gay activist who seemed to show up at every political rally in support of gay rights. But mostly because he had just been a bon vivant around Hollywood for years. He was in his late fifties when his show went off the air. He must’ve been pushing seventy-five by now. He didn’t work much as an actor after the network canceled the show. But he attended every cocktail party, supported every liberal cause, and showed up at every showbiz gathering to carry the flag for the Star Trek franchise. Plus he attended nearly every one of these Fan-Cons around the country, no matter how small or remote. The joke in Hollywood was that “Wherever two or more people are gathered in the name of Star Trek, Steven Dubois is there.”

  “Jeremiah Pennington, you handsome bastard!” said Dubois when he saw Jerry. “How the heck are you? You keep getting sexier and sexier. I could never understand why they covered your gorgeous face with all that Klingon goop.”

  “I was just saying the same thing myself,” I said.

  “Steven, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine,” said Jerry. “Joey Volpe, Steven Dubois. Joey and I worked together off-Broadway many years ago.”

  “One ‘off’ or two?” said Dubois, looking into my eyes.

  “Two, I’m afraid,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t be ashamed of that. It’s a lot better than working on Broadway as a stripper in a gay peep show.”

  “Did you do that?” I said and immediately regretted it. It was widely known that Dubois was gay, but how rude of me to mention it within two seconds of meeting him.

  “No, but I knew someone who did! Lovely young man. Tell me, Joey, where did someone named Volpe get such beautiful blue eyes?”

  “My mom, I guess.”

  Jerry glanced at his watch. “Well, Steven,” he said, “I think it’s time we went in and faced the music. J-Fox, it was great to see you again. Good luck with your stalker. Steven, let’s continue our fift
y-year mission to boldly go where no man has gone before.”

  “If there are no men there, Jerry, I’d rather not go at all!”

  They laughed and walked into the meeting room side by side, leaving me alone with Jerry’s volunteer escort.

  Rosetti was standing no more than ten feet away from us now. I’m sure he heard Jerry say “Good luck with your stalker.” I glanced at Rosetti. I could tell he was weighing the option of accosting me now or waiting until the volunteer was out of the way. Lucky for me, it looked as if he had decided upon the latter course of action.

  “Shall I escort you to your meeting room now, sir?”

  “Damn the torpedoes, Ensign, full speed ahead!”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  So we marched to the meeting room where the gangster panel discussion would be held. I glanced behind me once and saw that Rosetti was so close that a casual observer would consider us a threesome. The jig was just about up. I would have to confront Rosetti face-to-face—and without protection—within a matter of moments.

  Then something surprising happened.

  Instead of waltzing into the meeting room the way Pennington and Dubois had done, the volunteer brought me to a nearby door where there was a security guard posted. This guy was big and he had a gun, like the kind of armed security guards Jerry told me about. Plus, he was checking credentials.

  “This gentleman is Mr. Joseph Volpe,” said the volunteer. “He’s one of the special guests for the two o’clock gangster panel.”

  The security guard took a close look at the credentials on the lanyard hanging around my neck. He checked my name off his clipboard with a ballpoint pen.

  “Come in, Mr. Volpe, you’re the last to arrive. They’re almost ready to begin.”

  I turned to the volunteer and said, “Thanks for your help.”

  “Just doing my duty, sir.”

  I took one last look at Rosetti, who was standing no more than five feet away from me. But he was stymied and not too happy about it. I couldn’t resist giving him a little smile that said, Gotcha, asshole.