The Don Con

by Richard Armstrong

  “We can’t afford private school.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “What are you driving at, Mr. Rosetti?”

  “Call me Tony, please. It’s only fair, since I’m calling you Joey.”

  “All right, Tony, what the heck are you driving at?”

  “Joey, let me answer that question with a question. How much cash do you have on you right now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  I wasn’t lying. I had no idea how much cash I had on me after two autograph sessions. But I knew it was a lot.

  “Well, let’s find out, why don’t we? Empty your right pocket.”

  I glanced around me.

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a chuckle. “Nobody is going to rob you here.”

  I pulled a huge wad of bills out of my right pocket and put it on the table.

  “Do you mind if I count it?” said Rosetti. “You can trust me.”

  I nodded and he started counting.

  “Three hundred and forty-two dollars,” he said. “Is your left pocket about the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you put that out on the table, too.”

  While I was emptying my left pocket and putting the cash on the table, the waiter arrived with two porterhouse steaks with baked potatoes and set the plates down in front of us. I could see the pupils of his eyes widen. He must’ve thought he was on the verge of getting the biggest tip of his life.

  “What about your back pockets, are they full, too?” said Rosetti.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I can tell you’ve got some cash in your shirt pocket, too, because I can see it bulging. Either that or you’re in the middle of a sex change operation and it’s not going well. What about your underpants? Did you stuff some cash down there?”

  “Don’t make me pull down my pants in the restaurant, Mr. Rosetti.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to see you do that. What about your shoes?”

  “Yeah, I got some in there, too.”

  “So how much altogether, do you think?”

  “Somewhere around a thousand.”

  “Maybe a little more than that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you’re not even a big star. You had one line on The Sopranos. And Button Men got canceled before you had your big show.”

  “Don’t rub it in, Mr. Rosetti.”

  “Call me Tony, please. What about that little queer who worked on the outer space show?”

  “Steven Dubois? What about him?”

  “I saw you shake hands with him this afternoon. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I know him, but not well. Jerry Pennington introduced him to me.”

  Notice how I didn’t exactly deny knowing Steven Dubois, even though I’d just met him a few hours earlier. That’s an actor thing. If you’ve shaken hands with a Hollywood star you can count him among your inner circle of intimate friends if you ever need to drop his name somewhere. It was a hard habit to break, even when it didn’t work in your favor. You’ll notice I managed to drop the names of two stars in one sentence. It’s the actor’s equivalent of a double-word score in Scrabble.

  “Pennington was the guy you had lunch with? He’s a big star, too, right? I didn’t recognize his face.”

  “Well, they covered his face with a ton of makeup when he was in Star Trek.”

  “He was in Star Trek, too? I don’t remember him at all.”

  “He was in one of the spin-offs. He was in several of them, as a matter of fact.”

  “So these bigger stars, like this Pennington guy, how much cash do you think they carry on them?”

  “I don’t think they carry any cash at all, Mr. Rosetti … er, Tony. They have assistants to do that for them.”

  “You had an assistant, too, but you’ve got enough cash on you to open up your own bank.”

  “My assistant is a convention volunteer. I don’t trust him with the cash. Most of the big stars bring their own assistants with them. The assistant handles all the money. The stars never get their hands dirty.”

  “So how much cash do the assistants have on them?”

  “After two autograph sessions?”

  “There are four autograph sessions over the whole weekend, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So how much cash is a star’s assistant carrying after all four autograph sessions?”

  “I don’t know. Ten thousand. Twenty thousand. In the case of someone like William Shatner or Patrick Stewart or even George Takei, it could be even more.”

  “So, for the sake of argument, let’s say they’re each carrying up to twenty grand and there are—what would you say?—fifty actors at these things.”

  “At a big convention, yes.”

  “So that’s a million bucks in cash. You can see why my associates and I would find this interesting. Can I ask another question?”

  I almost said fire away, but thought better of it. “Sure.”

  “How come you guys don’t take credit cards?”

  “Well some do. But for most of us, it’s just another expense and hassle. As the technology improves, I suppose more actors will start doing it. Five years from now, maybe everyone will take credit cards. But for now it’s easier to ask for cash.”

  “All that cash walking around with no security in sight.”

  “But there are security guards around here, Mr. Rosetti. Don’t you remember the one who stopped you from following me into the panel discussion?”

  “Oh, yeah, I know. I’ve checked them out. There are a couple of dozen of them. Most of them look like low-wage melanzane who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. If they ever had to draw their guns, they’d shoot themselves in the balls.”

  Melanzane was the Italian word for eggplant. You can figure out what he meant. I won’t dignify it with an explanation.

  “The biggest problem is the checkpoint outside the exhibit hall,” he said. They’ve got a big security station there like at an airport. Metal detectors. X-ray machines. Conveyor belts.”

  “Not only that,” I said, “they go over every ‘weapon’ with a fine-tooth comb. These fans come in with swords, light sabers, sci-fi laser guns, and all sorts of shit. There are a bunch of experts who check out each of them to make sure it can’t fire real bullets. Or real lasers. Those rent-a-cop security guards may be nothing to worry about, like you said. But I get the impression the guys who examine the weaponry know their stuff. I bet they’re ex-cops or firearms experts of one kind or another.”

  I couldn’t believe I was participating in this conversation!

  “That’s my take on it exactly,” said Rosetti. “That’s where you come in, my friend.”

  He glanced at the waiter and, using nothing more than his eyes, indicated my champagne glass needed filling. The waiter scurried over to our table and started pouring champagne in a heartbeat.

  “Wait, Mr. Rosetti, Tony, I’m just an actor. I don’t know what the heck you have in mind, but I don’t want any part of it. This whole conversation is making me feel uncomfortable. I should be going now.”

  I tossed my napkin on the table and started to stand up.

  “No, no, no, sit down. Finish your steak. Then we’ll order some dessert. Gotta polish off this bottle of champagne, too. Probably cost the manager three hundred bucks. It would be an insult if we didn’t finish it, and I can’t drink it by myself.”

  I sat down grudgingly. I reached for my champagne and guzzled it in one gulp. No sooner had I put it down on the table than the waiter appeared at my side and refilled it. So I guzzled it again. And the waiter filled it again.

  “You can’t drink it by yourself either,” said Rosetti.

  We were silent for a long time. But as the champagne went to my head, I felt myself getting braver.

  “Let me ask you a question, Don Rosetti.”

  “I said call me Tony, please.”

  “Okay, Don Tony, let me ask you a questio
n.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Isn’t this kind of crime a little, I don’t know, demeaning for the Maf … er, for a member of your organization? I mean this is basically a rip-and-run you’re talking about. I thought you guys were more sophisticated than that.”

  “Times being what they are,” said Rosetti, “we’re willing to make money using any illegitimate means available to us.”

  I’d heard the Philadelphia mob was like the gang that couldn’t shoot straight compared to New York, New Jersey, and Chicago—even in the glory days of organized crime. Still, it was hard to imagine they would stoop to stealing from geeky girls dressed like Wonder Woman.

  “What exactly does your business consist of nowadays, Tony?”

  “Between the government and the internet, there’s hardly anything left of our traditional businesses.”

  “The government?”

  “Legalized casinos. Legalized loansharking companies. They’re killing us.”

  “The government legalized loansharking?”

  “I’m talking about those so-called payday loan companies Nowadays, the government lets them charge more vigorish on a loan than we ever did. And if you don’t pay them back, they take your house. Disgusting.”

  “And the internet?”

  “Completely killed the prostitution business. There are no more whorehouses anymore. The girls don’t need them. They put up a web page. They set up a video camera on their computer. Then they sit on their bed all day hawking business from guys who are surfing the web looking for porn. They say, ‘Give me your credit card number, honey, and you can jack off while I strip for you. Or, better yet, you can come on over to my house and we’ll fuck.’ They don’t need us anymore. All they need is a good computer guy.”

  “What about sports betting?” I said. “Casinos aren’t allowed to take bets on sports except in Las Vegas.”

  “For the time being. That may change soon. Meanwhile, the offshore internet casinos can take bets on sports. Fortunately for us, the big punters don’t trust their hundred-grand bet with some computer casino in Cameroon. So we hang on to some of the big-money sports betting.”

  He cut off a piece of steak and chewed on it for a moment, staring off into space—as if he could see the future of his industry and didn’t like what he saw. “But it’s a risky business,” he finally said. “There are easier ways to make a living.”

  “Like ripping off geeks and nerds in Spiderman outfits?”

  “I’m not as interested in the geeks and nerds as I am in the stars. They’re the ones who are carrying around all the cash. What did we say it was? A million bucks? That’s a lot of money for ten minutes work and three guys to pull it off. Plus, my guys tell me there are Fan-Cons all around the country. All around the world. They say that every weekend someone is holding one of these silly conventions. You do the math.”

  “I’m not good at math.”

  “Let’s just say it could be a lucrative enterprise. But we need to try it out first. A test case. What do they call it in business school? Put it into the beta phase. That’s it.”

  The dinner was confirming what I suspected from the start. Despite his rough edges and thick Philadelphia accent Tony Rosetti was no one’s fool.

  “Well, Tony, it all sounds interesting. But you can count me out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a crook, that’s why. No offense intended. I’m just an actor.”

  “It’s your acting skills I need. Think of it as an acting job. Non-union, of course.”

  “What do you want me to do? Point a gun at my fellow actors while you empty their pockets?”

  “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I just need you to help us with the security problem, that’s all.”

  “No, Mr. Rosetti. I won’t do it. I’m not a robber. I’m just an actor. My no is final. That’s my final answer.”

  The waiter filled our champagne flutes and water glasses. Then he tidied up a bit. Meanwhile, Rosetti and I stared at each other in silence.

  Although he had struck me as being surprisingly genteel and well-mannered throughout the dinner, he suddenly did something rather crude. He picked up the bone of his porterhouse steak in his hands and began to rip and tear the remaining flesh off it with his teeth like a dog. Or a wolf. After he had picked the bone clean, he dabbed his chin with a napkin and smiled at me. “I’m not sure you understand how we work in our business.”

  “You just explained it to me.”

  “I didn’t explain it enough, obviously. You’re an actor. So you must like movies, right? Have you ever seen The Godfather, Joey?”

  “Of course. But have you? You said you never watch television or go to the movies.”

  “Come on, Joey. Do you think someone like me has never seen The Godfather?”

  “Whatever.” Having tried reluctance, righteousness, and anger to no effect, I thought I’d give petulance a whirl.

  “Do you remember when Don Corleone said, ‘I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse?’”

  “He never actually said that. Michael said it when he was telling his fiancée a story about his father.”

  “Whatever,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, my offer is sorta like that,” said Rosetti.

  “You mean I can’t refuse it?”

  He made a typical Italian gesture with his hands that meant just so. In fact, it was the kind of gesture Marlon Brando himself would make as Vito Corleone.

  “Well, you’re wrong about that, Mr. Rosetti. I can refuse. And I do refuse. I want no part of it.”

  “Joey, let me be frank with you. When a person in my position makes a business proposition to someone, it’s not a yes-or-no deal. It’s just a yes deal, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I do not know what you mean. And I don’t want to talk about it any further. Thank you for the steak. Thanks for the champagne. Or maybe I should say please thank the manager for the champagne. But I have to be going now.”

  “What about my business proposition? Can I count you in?”

  “No, you cannot. Look, Mr. Rosetti, congratulations on your new business. I wish you well with it. It doesn’t bother me what a man does for a living. Just so long as your interests don’t conflict with mine, I’ve got no problem with it. But I want no part of it.” (I didn’t realize it until later, but I’d just quoted The Godfather myself.)

  “I’m just an actor,” I continued. “I’m not a common thie … I mean, I’ve never been involved in illegal activities. Thanks again for dinner. And good night.”

  I stood up and walked away, half expecting to be shot in the back as I did.

  But no shots were fired, and the convention ended without me running into Rosetti again. In fact, I didn’t hear another word from him.

  Until a few days later when he had his goons mug me on the street and kidnap my dog. Then he called to threaten me and my family over the telephone.

  11

  I opened the door. On the other side was the same son of a bitch who mugged me on the street and stole my dog.

  “I found your dog, ma’am,” he said to Caitlin as he handed Gizmo over to her.

  Caitlin was so overcome with gratitude, she wanted to give the bastard a reward.

  “No reward necessary, ma’am, I’m doing what any decent person would do,” he said, while shooting me a nasty grin on the sly.

  “No, I insist,” said Caitlin. “We don’t have much cash in this house, I’m afraid, but I want to give you something. Stay there and I’ll be right back.”

  She left the mugger and me standing at the doorway while she went to look for some money, presumably under the sofa cushions.

  “Here’s your wallet and your watch, man.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Take a look inside the wallet later. Mr. Rosetti put a thousand bucks in there for you. He wants you to come meet him in Philadelphia tomorrow morning. He said to take the Acela train, business class. There’s also a
card in there with his telephone number and his address. He says buy yourself a decent watch, too.”

  My wife returned with a fifty-dollar bill in her hands. I have no idea where she found it. Maybe she kept a secret stash somewhere. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  “It’s not very much, but it’s all we have, and I want you to keep it. We’re so grateful to you for finding our dog.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said and he took the bill.

  Wouldn’t it have been more gracious of him to refuse it, I wondered? Gizmo may have wondered the same thing. He was watching this scene from a safe distance and growling.

  We gave the mugger fifty dollars and he gave us a thousand, making it one of the weirdest muggings in history. Caitlin was so happy to have Gizmo back she didn’t think to question his quick return. It made it the weirdest dognapping in history, too.

  The next morning, with Rosetti’s address in my pocket, I took the high-speed Acela train to Philadelphia. An hour and a half later I was in a cab heading through the familiar Philly streets to the Little Italy neighborhood.

  That’s all I knew. I had no idea if I was going to Rosetti’s home. Or his office. Or an old-fashioned Italian restaurant with checkered tablecloths and Chianti bottles covered in candle wax. It turned out to be none of the above. Instead, the cab pulled up to a plain storefront on the ground floor of an ordinary brick building. The sign out front said, “Santa Lucia Hunting & Fishing Club.”

  I knocked on the door.

  Rosetti himself opened it. “Joey, good to see you. I’m glad you came. Come on in.”

  If you’re Catholic, you’ll know what I mean when I say the place looked like a Knights of Columbus hall. If you’re not Catholic, maybe you can picture it if I told you it looked like an Eagles Club, or an American Legion hall, or a Moose Club. But much smaller. There was one spacious room I’ll call a social area with two or three private rooms off to the side, including a tiny kitchen. Faded, dirty linoleum covered the floors. The walls had wood paneling made of knotty pine, probably fake. The furniture looked like the kind of cheap metallic tables and chairs you might see in a small-town diner or tavern. Vinyl cushions padded the backs of the chairs and seats, but they were cracking in several spots. You could see the foam rubber seeping out.