The Don Con

by Richard Armstrong

“No, I don’t. I never saw a penny of it.”

  “What do you mean you never saw a penny? We sent you five grand by airmail.”

  “Yeah, well, the cops took that. They said it was evidence.”

  “Tough luck, kid. That’s the way the cannoli crumbles sometimes. You need to suck it up and get over it. Get on with your life.”

  “I think you just sent me that money to set me up.”

  “That’s what you think, huh?”

  “Yes, I do. If you sent me five thousand dollars to take the fall, that means you got away with a hell of a lot more than that.”

  “I’ll tell you how much we got, Joey, and it wasn’t much. After we fenced the jewelry, it came to a grand total of a hundred and seventeen large. I’ve never seen so many fake Rolexes in my life, by the way. Half the diamond rings and earrings were fake, too.”

  “It’s called costume jewelry. These are actors. What did you expect?”

  Ironically, knowing actors as well as I do, I’d be willing to bet some of them paid twenty-five thousand for those fake Rolexes. They got a “deal” from some con man that was too good to turn down. They probably bought the watch after signing their first big movie or television contract. But who was I to judge? I made a bigger financial mistake after signing my first big contract. I decided to have a baby.

  “What did I expect?” said Rosetti. “I expected a million bucks like you promised.”

  “Hold on a second, Mr. Rosetti. I didn’t promise you anything. I told you that if we hit a big national convention like Comic-Con in San Diego, we could make as much as a million. This was just a little spin-off convention in Columbus, Ohio. It doesn’t attract big stars who draw the big money.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I did tell you about it. I warned you about it when we talked in Philadelphia. I told you we should wait for a bigger convention. But you were raring to go.”

  “I don’t remember it that way.”

  “Still, a hundred thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at, Mr. Rosetti.”

  “That’s the gross. We had expenses, too. Plus, in our business, it’s customary to kick some up to your bosses. Carlo, Paulie, and me split the rest evenly. So I wound up with about twenty-five grand. Chump change. It wasn’t worth the effort.”

  “But a million would be worth the effort, wouldn’t it?”

  “What the fuck are you getting at, kid?”

  Long pause.

  “I want to do it again.”

  “You want to do it again?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re fuckin’ nuts.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You spent two years in prison, Joey. You’ve got a criminal record now. You didn’t make any money the first time. You’re out of jail for—what?—two or three months. Now you call me and say you want to try it again. You’re a glutton for punishment, kid.”

  “I think we can do it right this time. I think we can make some real money.”

  “What are you planning to do different?”

  “Well, we’ll hit a bigger convention for starters. Maybe even the biggest one, the Comic-Con in San Diego. We’ll take advantage of some of the things that worked last time. After all, Mr. Rosetti, some of our tactics were perfect. We’ll fix the things that didn’t work. Plus, I learned a few tricks in prison that might be helpful.”

  “Now that makes me sad,” said Rosetti. “It’s just like the newspapers always say. Our prison system doesn’t rehabilitate criminals. It just teaches them how to be better criminals when they get out.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Rosetti?”

  “I think you’re nuts. But I’m glad there are no hard feelings about what happened. We can take a meeting about it, if that’s what you want. I guess I owe you that much.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rosetti.”

  “Come to Philadelphia next Monday morning. You know the place.”

  27

  I hung up the phone. Then I picked up the receiver and dialed another number. A familiar voice answered.

  “Royal Bank of Luxembourg. Wealth Management Department. Beason speaking.”

  “Is that you, Nigel? It’s me, Joey.”

  “Don’t use that name,” he said.

  “What should I call you?”

  “Beason. Jonathan Beason.”

  He said it like Sean Connery as James Bond.

  “Okay, Jonathan. I’m just calling to say I want to put Plan B into effect.”

  “The plan we discussed in Arizona?”

  “Exactly. I was wondering if maybe we could get together and talk about it a bit. I have a meeting with Rosetti set up for next Monday.”

  “Why don’t you come to my office this afternoon at two o’clock? I’ve got a little acting job you could do for me if you’re interested. There might be some money in it for you.”

  “I’d be very interested in that. Where are you located?”

  “Our offices are at Fifty-five Wall Street, near the Stock Exchange.”

  “Fancy address.”

  “Don’t be too impressed, Joey. By tomorrow morning, this place will look like a barn. That’s why I need you to be on time. No later than two o’clock. The mark arrives at half past two and he’ll be gone in an hour. Then we can talk about your Plan B. But we’ve got to tear down the offices by no later than five o’clock. After that I have to go on the lam for a few days, as you mobsters say.”

  “Well, I’m really just an—” I stopped myself. I wasn’t an actor anymore. I didn’t know what I was at this point.

  I left the apartment before one o’clock and took the express subway on the West Side Line down to Wall Street. It took me twenty minutes to get down there. After all my years of living in New York City, I could count the number of times I’d been to the financial district on the fingers of one hand. When I climbed the stairs and got to the surface, I was a little lost. I had to ask for directions to Fifty-five Wall Street like a tourist. Some guy in a three-piece suit pointed me in the right direction. It turned out to be a few blocks from the subway stop. When I got to the building, I walked into the lobby and stopped at a security desk where visitors had to check in and get a badge.

  “What’s your name and who are you here to see?” said the security guard.

  “My name is Joseph Volpe and I’m here to see Jonathan Beason.”

  “Which company?”

  Oh, shit. What did Jonathan say? The Royal Bank of Somewhere. Someplace in Europe. Some small country. Monaco? Did Grace Kelly own a bank? Was she even still alive? No, it started with an L. Liechtenstein? Latvia? Finally, it came to me. “The Royal Bank of Luxembourg.”

  The guard punched some numbers on his telephone and said, “Mr. Joseph Volpe is here to see Jonathan Beason.” Pause. “Okay, he’ll be right up.”

  The guard prepared a visitor’s badge for me and said, “Wear this at all times. The office is on the thirty-seventh floor, suite number thirty-seven forty-one. Bring the badge back to me before you leave.”

  It was harder to get into this place than it was to break out of the Hoover Federal Correctional Complex.

  When I walked into the door of the Royal Bank of Luxembourg, something strange happened. In the first millisecond after I entered the offices, I could see a bunch of people lounging around, reading magazines, and chatting with each other. But as soon as they saw me, they sprang into action. They started answering phones, typing on keyboards, running fax machines, and in general, looking busy. It was as if the boss made a surprise visit after a long vacation.

  Then I saw Nigel.

  “Take it easy everyone,” he said. “False alarm. We’re still thirty minutes away from showtime. This is just a friend I made during my vacation at Club Fed. Joey’s going to help us out by playing a small role in our drama today. Joey Volpe, this is my little band of Merry Men. Merry women, too, of course.”

  “Hi, everybody,” I said.

  They said “Hi, Joey” in ragged unison, then resumed the relaxed
and casual postures they were in before I walked through the door.

  “I’ll introduce each of them to you later, Joey. But first, let’s you and I duck into my office and rehearse your line.”

  “My line?”

  “Yes, my dear boy. Did you think I’d give an actor of your stature a nonspeaking role? I’m afraid it’s just a cameo. You didn’t give me much notice.”

  Nigel led me into a gorgeous corner office with a 180-degree view of the Lower Manhattan skyline and the New York Harbor, including the Statue of Liberty and the Verrazano Bridge glittering in the sunlight.

  “Wow.”

  “I know. Breathtaking, isn’t it? It’s a pity I only have a few more hours to enjoy it.”

  “As great as the view is, Nigel, it’s just as good to see you again.”

  “And you, too, my dear boy. I’ve missed you. But you really must call me Mr. Beason from now on. Or Jonathan. We can’t afford to make a mistake. At this point in the con, the smallest gaff can ruin everything. The mark will be skittish and looking for any reason to call it off.”

  “Yes, Mr. Beason.”

  “That’s better. I’ve written your line on this piece of paper. Can you memorize it within the next half hour?” He handed me the paper. “Try reading it aloud for me once.”

  I read the line as Nigel had written it: “The strike price on the put option just fell to one hundred and twenty-three and three-eighths before the triple witching hour. We’ve got to move fast now.”

  “Excellent.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea, my dear boy, but it sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

  “The triple witching hour sounds like something from the Scottish Play.”

  “Macbeth was a clever guy, Joey, but he wouldn’t understand this. The triple witching hour is when three different types of security options expire on the same day. Let me hear you read it again.”

  “Let me try it off-book this time.”

  “Without the script? Already?”

  “I’ve always been a fast study. ‘The strike price on the put option just fell to one hundred and twenty-three and …”

  “Three-eighths.”

  “Right. ‘… just fell to one hundred and twenty-three and three-eighths before the triple witching hour. We’ve got to act fast now.’”

  “Bravo, dear boy, bravo!”

  “I’m still a little shaky,” I said, “but give me ten minutes with the script and I’ll have it down cold.”

  “Excellent. Now here’s what’s going to happen.” Beason glanced at his watch. “About twenty-five minutes from now, we’ll get word from downstairs that the mark is on his way up to the suite. My Merry Men are going to leap into action as you saw them do before. Three minutes later, the mark will walk through the front door of our suite and the receptionist will ask him to take a seat while she lets me know he’s here. I’ll make him cool his heels in the reception area for a few minutes—just to make sure he sees what a prosperous little firm we are. Then I’ll go out and greet him.”

  “Where will I be?”

  “You’ll be stationed behind the glass windows next to the receptionist staring at a computer screen. After I’ve made some small talk with the poor bastard, I want you to act like you’ve seen something surprising on your computer screen. I want you to leap out of your seat and dash into the waiting room. Interrupt my conversation and say your line as urgently as you can. Can you handle that, Mr. Barrymore?”

  “Of course, I can. It’s a classic ‘Hark, I hear the cannons roar!’ line.”

  “A what?”

  “Oh, it’s an old theater joke. An actor gets his first speaking role in a Broadway play. He’s only got one line. All he has to say is ‘Hark, I hear the cannons roar.’ He practices the line several hours every day: ‘Hark, I hear the cannons roar.’ For six weeks of rehearsal, he says the line perfectly: ‘Hark, I hear the cannons roar.’ Then finally it’s opening night. It’s the last act before the big battle scene and it’s time for him to say his line. The sound man cues the cannons, which make a loud roar. And the actor runs out on stage and says, ‘What the hell was that racket?’”

  “Yes,” said Beason, chuckling. “That’s exactly the kind of line it is. Just remember. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”

  “You can count on me, Mr. Beason.”

  “Okay, take your place out front. You’ve got twenty minutes to study your line. After you’ve said it, I’m going to bring the mark back to my office. He’s going to leave here with a briefcase filled with cash. Then we’re going to strike the set, as you actors say. You and I will have a few minutes to discuss how we’re going to handle your Italian friend in Philadelphia before I leave. Okay?”

  “One last question,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Who would’ve said this line if I hadn’t called you this morning?”

  “One of the other guys, I guess.”

  “In other words, I’m indispensable?”

  “Utterly indispensable, my dear boy, and you’ll be compensated accordingly.”

  I left Beason’s office and took my seat in front of a computer screen behind a glass window near the reception area.

  The con went down exactly as Beason said it would. At twenty-eight minutes past two o’clock, the pretty girl playing the role of receptionist received a phone call from downstairs saying the mark was on his way upstairs. Everyone started shouting into telephones, printing documents, typing on computer keyboards. I was staring intently at my computer screen when the mark walked in the door.

  “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Wilson,” said the receptionist. “I’ll let Mr. Beason know you’re here. Meanwhile, please have a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait?”

  The mark declined the coffee and sat down in a plush chair in the waiting room. He picked up a Forbes magazine from the coffee table, but immediately put it down again. He seemed nervous.

  After a few minutes, Nigel … er, I mean Mr. Beason came out and greeted the mark warmly. They started making some small talk. I could hear Beason ask him about his flight from Nebraska and the cab ride from LaGuardia. That was my cue.

  I pretended to see something on the computer screen that surprised me. I jumped out of my seat, ran into the waiting room, and grabbed Beason by the sleeve.

  “Mr. Beason, sir. The strike price on the put option fell to one hundred twenty-three and three eighths before the triple witching hour. We’ve got to act fast.”

  “You’re right, Volpe, there’s no time to waste. Mr. Wilson, if you’ll just follow me into my office, I’ll show you how our system works. If we place our order in time, you’re going to walk out of here with a significant profit today.”

  Beason took the mark into his office and shut the door. Immediately, everyone in the office relaxed and stopped pretending to be so busy. I resumed my seat behind the glass windows. I turned to the cute receptionist and said, “How do we know when the client is ready to come out of Beason’s office so we can start acting busy again?”

  “Mr. Beason has a button on his desk that triggers a red light on mine. When that light starts flashing, we leap into action.” She flashed me a big smile and said, “I’m Jennifer, by the way. Who are you?”

  We shook hands and she held my hand perhaps a little too long.

  “Joey. Joey Volpe.”

  “Italian?”

  “If you prick me, do I not bleed olive oil?”

  “Ha, that’s funny!” She fingered a glittery bauble on a gold necklace that dangled just above her neckline. “So tell me, Mr. Joey Volpe, how does an Italian with curly black hair like yours get such beautiful blue eyes?”

  Oh boy, here we go again. Three years ago, I would’ve killed the time by letting Jennifer give me a quick blowjob in the nearest broom closet. But I’d learned my lesson. I was in it with Caitlin through thick and thin now. Better or worse. Sickness or health. Richer or poorer. (Mostly poorer, so far.)


  “It’s funny,” I said. “My wife has blue eyes, too. But our little daughter has brown eyes. I never took biology in college, so I have no idea how that genetic stuff works. All I know is that I love my wife’s blue eyes, and she loves mine.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet,” she said. “Well, Mr. Beason said I should use this time to call the furniture-rental company to make sure they’re ready with the moving van. So I guess I better do that.”

  “Good idea.”

  After a few minutes, I felt that familiar tingle in my pants begin to subside. Marital fidelity was going to be a full-time job for a guy like me. But I learned the hard way that it’s worth it.

  An hour later, the red light on Jennifer’s desk flashed. She said, “They’re coming out.” The office sprang to life again. Beason and the mark walked out of his office together. The mark was carrying a fat briefcase and wearing a dopey grin on his face. Beason, on the other hand, was betraying no emotion whatsoever. He had the kind of beatific smile on his face that one saw on funeral directors at a wake. They exchanged a few pleasantries at the door. I couldn’t quite make out everything they were saying, but I thought I heard the mark say something like, “It will take a few days for me to sell some assets.” And I thought I heard Beason reply by saying, “Take your time. Enjoy the St. Regis.”

  Beason walked the mark into the hallway and waited with him until the elevator arrived. When the elevator doors opened, they shook hands one more time, the mark stepped inside, and Beason watched as the doors closed. He watched the dial above the elevator door to make sure it went all the way down to the first floor and stayed there. Finally, he walked back into the office and said simply:

  “I have done the deed.” Macbeth, Act II, Scene Two.

  Everyone in the office cheered, hugged each other, and exchanged high fives.

  “Jennifer,” said Beason, “call the furniture-rental company and tell them they can start moving stuff out immediately. Joey, come back into my office with me. We’ve got about thirty minutes to talk about our next project. Then I’ve got to make like Banquo’s ghost and vanish.”

  “What just happened?” I said when I took my seat in Beason’s office.