The Don Con
Page 6
He didn’t smile back.
Dear Lord, how many times have I thought how much better my life would’ve turned out if the situation had been reversed. If only the security guard had let Rosetti go through the door and turned me away instead, my life would’ve been completely different. Rosetti’s, too. The actors inside would’ve loved Tony Rosetti. He would’ve regaled them with real-life Mafia stories and they would’ve sat at his feet listening to him. The audience would’ve loved him, too. Imagine having a real-life mobster on the panel to talk about where the television shows got it right and where they didn’t. They would’ve eaten it up! Best of all, Rosetti would’ve met another actor whom he could enlist in his evil scheme, and he would’ve forgotten all about me.
I could’ve returned to New York City that afternoon—it was two and a half hours away from Atlantic City—and tried to rescue my marriage. I could’ve thrown myself at Caitlin’s feet and said, “I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry for everything. I love you with all of my heart. I’m going to stop cheating on you. I’m going to get a real job and take care of you and Bianca. We’ll focus on your acting career from now on. You’re going to be a big star. We’re going to live happily ever after.”
But it was not to be. I went through the door, but Tony Rosetti did not.
And I had two long years in federal prison to think about how wonderful my life would’ve been if the situation were reversed.
8
The security guard led me down a long hall to a little anteroom, or greenroom, so we could make our entrance from the front of the meeting hall.
Walking into that little room was like walking into the room where they kept suspects before they paraded them out in a lineup. The faces of famous criminals filled the room. Of course, they weren’t real criminals. They were actors. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
I’d rather not use the real names of these actors for reasons that will become obvious. There was one chubby guy from The Sopranos whom I’ll call The Fatman. He had a major recurring role in the show. You’d recognize his face in a heartbeat but not his name.
There was another actor from The Sopranos whom I’ll call The Heckler. He had played the capo di tutti capi of one of the rival New York families who were at war with the Soprano family. Plus, he’d played dozens of both large and small roles in other gangster films and TV shows over the years. With his bald head, bushy eyebrows, and hooked nose he was the very picture of an ugly Mafia boss. His most prominent feature was his upper lip. His mouth curled into a permanent snarl, and it made every word that came out seem angry and cruel.
I’m calling him The Heckler because he had a mean-spirited laugh that sounded like a short burst from a machine gun: “Heh-heh-heh.” He laughed like that after making a cruel joke at someone else’s expense. The laugh was supposed to say, Hey, I’m just teasing you. But it usually came after a vicious, ugly, vulgar remark, such as, “Guess what? I just fucked your grandmother and she let me stick it up her ass—heh, heh, heh.”
I never figured out who the hell the third actor was, although his face was familiar. He’d been in the movie Goodfellas. Do you remember the scene in the Hawaiian restaurant where they introduced all the mobsters in the gang? He was one of them. I couldn’t remember if he was Jimmy Two Times, so-named because he always said everything two times (“I’m going to go get the papers, get the papers.”) Or Frankie Carbone. Or Freddie No Nose. This guy had a pretty big nose, so I didn’t think he was Freddie No Nose, but I couldn’t say for sure. Maybe the moniker was supposed to be ironic.
So I’ll refer to him as The Goodfella.
“This is Mr. Joseph Volpe,” said the security guard, who turned on his heels and left.
“Mr. Volpe has arrived,” said a pale, skinny young man who was obviously another convention volunteer. “We’re almost ready to begin. Let’s wait a few more minutes for the audience to get seated. Then I’ll lead you out and introduce you.”
It looked like the role of emcee was already taken. Jerry’s idea of playing the master of ceremonies during the panel discussion wouldn’t work after all.
“Mr. Volpe has arrived,” said The Heckler, imitating the volunteer. “The fox is here. The fox is in the henhouse—heh, heh, heh.”
He reached to shake my hand. “Which mobster show were you in, kid?”
“The Sopranos.”
“Fuck you were.”
“Well, it was a very small—”
“The fuck you were on The Sopranos. I was on that set for years. I never saw you. And I wouldn’t forget. I got a fucking photographical memory.” He touched his finger to his temple. “With them blue eyes, you woulda stood out like a wart on a dick—heh, heh, heh.”
“… a very small role.” I tried to finish my sentence. “Then later I was on Button Men.”
“Button Men? What was that, a sewing show? A sewing show on cable television? What channel was it on—nine hundred and ninety-eight? Heh-heh-heh. Look, Mom, I’m sewing a pretty little bow on my panties—heh, heh, heh. I’m making a tea cozy for my balls. Hey, I’m just teasing you, kid. I’m breaking your balls. I’m having some fun with you.”
“I know you are,” I said and tried to smile.
“But you weren’t on no Sopranos,” he said like he was going to throw me against the wall and choke me until I admitted I was lying.
“Like I said, it was a small—”
“Like I said, you weren’t on no Sopranos. So don’t say you was. That insults my intelligence, and it makes me very angry. Do you understand? Capisci?”
“It was a small—” I tried to say for the third time without finishing.
“Fuck that. Listen to me, kid. The Sopranos was a close-knit cast. We were like a family. Jimmy Gandolfini, buon anima, was like a father to me.” He crossed himself at the mention of Gandolfini, as if he’d invoked the patron saint of cable-television actors. “So if you’re messing with The Sopranos, then you’re messing with my family. Nobody messes with my family. Got it?”
“It was a small—”
“It’s time for us to go out,” said the emcee. “Follow me.”
9
Rosetti was sitting in the front row staring at me. The Heckler ridiculed and insulted me the entire time. I had a real-life gangster threatening me and a make-believe gangster humiliating me for ninety minutes without a break.
To say that I was the low man on the totem pole in this group would be putting it mildly. The emcee ignored me. The audience didn’t even look at me—except for Rosetti who kept his eyes fixed on me the entire time. The other panelists paid no attention to me whatsoever, except for The Heckler who made a point of taunting me now and then.
After being silent for about forty-five minutes, I decided to follow Jerry Pennington’s advice and ask a question of my own:
“There’s something I always wondered about The Sopranos …” I began.
“I thought you said you were on the show,” said The Heckler.
“Well, I was, but it was a small part,” I said to The Heckler for the umpteenth time. “And I’m wondering—”
“I’m wondering what the fuck you’re doing up here, kid—heh, heh, heh.”
“Well, I—”
“If you want to ask questions about The Sopranos, why don’t you go down into the audience and wait your turn until the microphone comes around?”
The audience giggled uncomfortably.
“I’m just having a little fun with you, kid,” said The Heckler, realizing he’d gone too far. “I’m just breaking your balls. What’s your question, young man?” he asked like a kindly grandfather.
“Never mind,” I said.
“Let’s go back to the audience,” said the emcee. “Yes, you in the third row with the blue shirt. What’s your question?”
A short guy in chinos and a blue golf shirt stood up and said, “I heard somewhere that Tony Sirico, the guy who played Paulie Walnuts in The Sopranos, was in the Mafia in real life. Is that true?”
I glanced at Rosetti, who rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say, “Trust me, there are no actors in the Mafia.” What a weird moment. It was as if Rosetti and I were starting to become friends.
Another weird moment. Somebody else in the audience asked a question of The Fatman and Goodfella. “Am I mistaken, or weren’t both of you in that scene in Goodfellas in the Hawaiian restaurant where all the mobsters were introduced?”
The Fatman and Goodfella looked each other over and started laughing.
“I think we were,” said The Fatman.
“Yeah, we were both in it,” said Goodfella. “I didn’t realize it until now. But both of us were in it. That’s funny.”
“Every Italian actor in New York was in that scene,” said The Heckler. “Even my grandmother was in that scene. Well, Mr. Volpe wasn’t in it. Even if he says he was.”
“No, I wasn’t in it,” I managed to say.
I should’ve said, “I wasn’t born yet.” But the line didn’t occur to me until ten seconds too late. Don’t you hate when that happens?
I was so humiliated I was giving some serious thought to standing up and walking out of the room. Then something bizarre happened.
Tony Rosetti raised his hand and asked for the microphone.
“My question is for Mr. Joey Volpe,” he said.
“The fox is about to speak,” said The Heckler. “Everybody be real quiet. This is going to be interesting. Tell us about the time you starred in Gone with the Wind, Mr. Volpe.”
Rosetti ignored him.
“My question is about your role in Button Men,” said Rosetti.
“Oh, we have a question about sewing,” said The Heckler. “How do you sew a button on your brassiere?”
The audience laughed.
“Is it knit one or purl two? Heh-heh-heh. I don’t know whether to sew it by hand or use my Singer sewing machine? Heh-heh-heh.”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE!”
There was a sharp, collective intake of breath from the audience. Followed by utter and complete silence. Did that really happen? Did a member of the audience tell a celebrity on the dais to shut the fuck up?
“If I hear one more word out of you,” said Rosetti, “I’m going to come up there and rip your balls off with my bare hands. Then I’m going to stuff them down your fucking throat. Do you understand me? Capisci?”
I glanced at The Heckler. He looked like he was melting in his chair. Rosetti waited for a moment to see if he would dare to talk back. He continued in a more measured tone. “Joey, I was a big fan of Button Men. I liked it better than The Sopranos. It was more—what’s the word?—authentic. Every week they’d tell the story of a different soldier, a different button man. I liked your character a lot. So how come they never told your story? I wondered why you never got the big part.”
“You and me both!” I said.
There was a nervous titter from the audience.
“No, actually, the producers told me my big episode would come in the second season. But we never got to the second season because our ratings were too low. We got canceled. I’m just sorry there weren’t more fans like you out there.”
I glanced at The Heckler to see if he had some sarcastic remark to add. There was nothing in his chair but a pool of urine and protoplasm.
“Well, I told everybody I knew to watch the show,” said Rosetti. “But the bastards don’t always do what I say.”
“On that note,” said the emcee, “we should wrap this up. Please join me in thanking our gangster panel with a big round of applause.”
The Heckler was the first one out the door. He ran into the greenroom like a gazelle that’d caught the scent of a cheetah. The other two actors, bless their hearts, took their time to pat me on the back, shake my hand, and say goodbye. They knew I’d had a rough time of it.
For a moment, I was alone on the dais and wondering what to do next. Although the audience was filing out the door, Rosetti stayed in his seat. He smiled at me.
He had me cornered.
If I tried to go through the main doors of the meeting room, he could block my path. If I tried to go through the greenroom and out the side door, he could intercept me there. The security guard would be long gone.
At that moment, he didn’t seem so threatening anymore. He was the only one who came to my defense during the panel discussion, after all. I decided I no longer had a choice. I was postponing the inevitable. Besides, he told me there might be some acting work and some money in it for me. Lord knows, I needed both. So I stepped off the dais and walked up to where he was sitting in the front row.
“Mr. Rosetti,” I said. “You wanted to speak with me?”
10
“This is my treat, by the way,” said Rosetti, “so feel free to have anything you want. Steak, lobster, whatever.”
“Well, it is a steak house,” I said. “So you pretty much covered all the choices.”
We had decided to meet for dinner at the Taj Mahal’s steak house restaurant. Well, he decided. I wanted to get the conversation over and done with in the meeting room after the panel discussion. He said he needed more time to talk to me. I had another autograph session in the afternoon, so we agreed to meet in the steak house at eight o’clock. The Taj Mahal decorated their steak house in an African safari theme. I found it appropriate since the lion was sitting down to eat with the antelope. I didn’t know if I was eating dinner with him or if I was dinner.
“I want to thank you for all the nice things you said about Button Men in the panel discussion,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“To tell you the truth, I never saw it.”
That left me speechless. The waiter chose that moment to come up to our table with a bottle of Dom Perignon in one hand and a wine bucket filled with ice in the other.
“Our executive manager, Mr. Brookstein, would be honored if you gentlemen would accept this bottle of champagne as a personal gift from him,” said the waiter.
“That’s nice of him,” said Rosetti. “Tell him I said thanks. Better yet, tell him to stop by later so I can thank him in person.”
After the waiter went through the ritual of opening and pouring the champagne, I had recovered enough to ask about Rosetti’s last statement.
“You never saw Button Men?”
“No, I’m not a big TV watcher. Except for sports. And that’s mostly for business. I like to play cards in the evening. Listen to music. Go to bed early.”
“But you seemed to know about the show. You knew that each episode focused on a different button man. You knew I never got my big episode. How could you know all that without seeing the show?”
“An associate briefed me,” said Rosetti.
“Oh, I see. Well, it was nice of you to say those things anyway. As you could tell, I was having a hard time up there until you stood up for me.”
“That other little prick was treating you with disrespect. If I was you, I would’ve grabbed the microphone and stuck it in his eyeball.”
Rosetti said this like a father handing out practical advice to his son.
“So you never saw The Sopranos either?”
“A few times. The guys who work with me loved it. I thought it was like a soap opera. The main character was a pussy. Going to a psychiatrist. Crying and whining all the time like a girl. It gave a bad name to the business.”
“And what business is that?” I said with a straight face.
“It’s complicated. I have a variety of business interests throughout the Philadelphia and Atlantic City area. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“How could I possibly help? I’m just an actor.”
“Mr. Volpe. Joey. Can I call you Joey?”
“Of course.”
“Joey, in my business, we have an interest in cash. We especially like situations where there’s a lot
of cash and not much security guarding that cash. Brinks Trucks, for example, have a lot of cash. But they also have bulletproof windows, steel-plated doors, and armed guards with automatic weapons. So we tend to steer clear of them.”
“Makes sense.”
“But every now and then we find situations where there’s a lot of cash sitting around, but not too many people guarding that cash. We consider those situations to be good business opportunities. Do you know what I mean, Joey?”
“I think I do.”
“Well, a few weeks ago, one of my associates told me about this convention coming to the Taj Mahal in Atlantic City.”
He pronounced it, “Lannick See.”
“He told me that this was one of hundreds of these, uh, these, what’s the word?”
“Fan-Cons.”
“Yeah, that’s right. He said this was just one of hundreds of these Fan-Cons around the country. Some of them are bigger than others. But all of them are cash businesses. The fans pay cash to get in the door. Some of them use credit cards, but mostly cash. Once they get inside the convention center, they’re paying cash for old comic books and, uh, what do you call those little statuette things of Superman or Batman?”
“Action figures.”
“Yeah, they pay cash for action figures. They pay cash for other souvenirs. But mostly they pay cash to get autographs from television stars like you.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not really a st—”
“I know. But my associates said you were the guy we should talk to.”
“Why me?”
“They said most of the other actors are too famous. They’re too rich. They think their shit don’t stink. They would never work with us. Some of my associates watched Button Men on television. They said you were a guy we could reason with. We did a little research and we found out you’ve been having some money problems. Some marriage problems. Maybe you fucked around a little bit. I’m not judging you, Joey. I’m no saint myself in that department.”
“You researched me?”
“You’ve got a young daughter. If your marriage broke up, you’d lose custody of her. Plus, like everybody who lives in New York, you’ve got to worry about where the kid is going to school when she’s ready. You want to put her in public school with a bunch of animali? Or do you want to put her in a nice private school with the rich Manhattan kids, give her a good education?”