The Don Con

by Richard Armstrong

“Mr. Wilson turned a five-hundred dollar investment into five thousand by using our system. We gave it to him in cash, small bills, and he carried it out in a briefcase. Now he wants to turn two million into twenty million. But he’s got to liquidate some stock and sell some assets to pull the money together.”

  “You put him ‘on the send?’”

  “Your memory always amazes me,” said Beason.

  “And your ingenuity amazes me.”

  “Meanwhile,” Beason said, “our gullible friend will stay at the St. Regis Hotel on us. He’ll be eating caviar and macadamia nuts until he gets sick to his stomach. A few days from now, his two million dollars will reach our offshore bank, and we’ll call him to come in and make the trade. Unfortunately for Mr. Wilson, when he gets to Fifty-five Wall Street he’ll find that this office is quite empty. Broom clean, as they say.”

  “You’re a scoundrel,” I said.

  “Have I ever claimed to be anything else? Speaking of scoundrels, where do things stand with your Italian friend?”

  “I told him I want to pull another heist at a Fan-Con. He wasn’t very enthusiastic, but he agreed to talk with me about it. We set a time for next Monday morning at his office. Which I must say is somewhat less luxurious than this one.”

  “That’s the difference between running numbers and running collateralized debt obligations, I suppose. How do you plan to handle that conversation?”

  “I’m going to come right out and say I lied to him on the phone.”

  “He may not like that.”

  “It’s a chance I have to take.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” said Beason.

  It was Jennifer, the pretty receptionist.

  “The movers from the rental company are here, Mr. Beason. They want to know if they can start taking furniture from your office.”

  “Just leave us these two chairs,” said Beason. He turned back to me and said, “Go on.”

  “I’ll tell Rosetti I really don’t want to rob any more Fan-Cons, but I have a better idea. I have an idea that can make us some real money. Then I’ll give him the spiel you and I came up with in prison.”

  Two burly guys entered the room and carried out the desk that was between Beason and me. Beason didn’t seem to notice. He said, “When do you want me to make my entrance?”

  “I was thinking I’d tell him that you happened to be in Philadelphia on business that very day. I’ll suggest that the three of us meet the next morning for breakfast at the Four Seasons.”

  Two different guys walked into the office and carried out the bookcase, the credenza, and the coffee table. Beason didn’t even glance at them.

  “We’re talking about next Tuesday morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “That works fine for me. One last thing, Joey, I know I promised to pay you for your acting work today.”

  “Oh, don’t mention it, Nigel … I mean, Jonathan. It was fun. I haven’t done any acting for years. You don’t have to pay me a penny.”

  “I insist. Unfortunately, I can’t do it today. Until Mr. Wilson’s money comes in, we’re tapped. We had to pay for all of this, after all.” He swept his hand to take in the magnificent view of New York harbor outside the windows. “But I’ll have the money by the time I get to Philadelphia. I’ll write you a check for five thousand dollars.”

  “Five thousand? For saying one line? Even George Clooney doesn’t get paid that much for one line.”

  “You’re a better actor than George Clooney, Joey. Besides, you’re going to have to use some of that money to buy some airline tickets for you and your Mafia friend. But the rest is yours to keep. And now, my dear boy, I’m afraid I must take my leave of you.”

  “You cannot take from me, sir, anything which I would more willingly part withal.”

  He laughed.

  “Hamlet, Act II, Scene Two,” I said. “Hamlet is talking to that old gasbag Pollonius. I think it’s one of the funniest lines in Shakespeare.”

  “Hamlet is a tragedy, but there are some amusing lines in there. You do realize you just insulted me, don’t you?” said Beason. “I’ve always wondered if Shakespearean actors actually understand the things they’re saying.”

  “Who’s insulting whom now? To tell you the truth, Mr. Beason, there’s only one line I’ve ever uttered onstage that I didn’t understand.”

  “What was that?”

  “‘The strike price on the put options just fell to one hundred twenty-three and three-eighths before the triple witching hour.’”

  “That makes two of us,” said Beason.

  Then we shook hands, which somehow turned into a long and heartfelt hug. Even if your cellmate is not named Bubba, the bond between the two of you is strong and can last forever.

  28

  I didn’t take the Acela train to Philadelphia this time. I couldn’t afford it. I took the ultra-cheap BoltBus instead. Which made a two-hour trip seem like twenty. The guy sitting next to me was playing music in his earphones so loud I might as well have been sitting next to the subwoofer at a rock concert. The person behind me vomited outside of Trenton, some of which splattered into my hair. And the inevitable screaming baby was a few rows ahead of me. All of which made it very hard for me to focus on my pitch to Rosetti.

  No, I wasn’t crazy enough to suggest we rob another Fan-Con. As I told Nigel, I was lying to Rosetti on the telephone. Nor was I stupid enough to be planning a hit on Rosetti. What Nigel and I had in mind was something a bit more complicated and I needed a face-to-face meeting with Rosetti to explain it. I knew Rosetti would reject the idea if I tried to pitch it over the telephone. That’s why I had to ask for the “sit-down,” as we say in the Mafia.

  When I got off the bus in Philly, I realized I didn’t have enough money for a cab. I had to take a city bus to the Santa Lucia Hunting & Fishing Club in Little Italy. I knocked on the door, and just as before, Tony Rosetti himself opened it.

  “Come in, Joey. It’s good to see you again.”

  I walked inside and as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could see that nothing had changed in the past three years. The same guys were sitting around talking, drinking, or playing cards. The place was furnished with the same ratty furniture. Perhaps another hole or two had sprouted up in the vinyl seat cushions with foam rubber spilling out.

  My reception this time was much cooler than before. Nobody rushed up to shake my hand, pat me on the back, or ask me questions about The Sopranos. Most of the guys looked up, glared at me for a moment, and went back to what they were doing. Except for Carlo and Paulie who came up to say hello for old time’s sake.

  “It’s Joey the Fox!” said Paulie. “Remember me? Good to see you again. How are you doing?”

  “Good to see you, too, Paulie,” I said. “How are your, uh, well …” I glanced down at his crotch. I was trying to think of a delicate way to inquire after the health of his testicles.

  “Stugotz? They’re doin’ fine. Thanks for asking. Just a couple of stitches. Good as new. Spraying like a fire hose.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said, trying to shake that image out of my head.

  “Hey, Joey,” said Carlo. “How’d you do in the slammer?”

  “Kept my nose clean and did my time.”

  “Good thinking. Where’d they put you?”

  “Hoover Federal Correctional Complex in Arizona.”

  “Minimum or medium? They couldn’t put you in max. You’re a first offender.”

  “Minimum.”

  “Minimum? At Hoover? Oh, shit, man, that’s fucking Disneyland. You lucked out. They put me in Hoover Minimum for one week on my way out to California. I thought I’d died and gone to fucking heaven, man. I’d rather spend a week at Hoover than some fleabag hotel in Atlantic City. I shit you not.”

  “I didn’t find the accommodations quite so pleasant. But it could’ve been worse, I suppose, yes.”

  “Could’ve been worse? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’d rather spend
twenty-five years in Hoover than one afternoon in Victorville.”

  “All right, all right, you two,” said Rosetti. “You sound like you’re telling the kindergarten class how you spent your summer vacation. Joey and I need to talk about something. Joey, do you want these two cafoni in the meeting, or just you and me?”

  “Just you and me, please,” I said. I glanced at Carlo and Paulie to see if I’d offended them, but they didn’t care. I guess they were used to being excluded from meetings. Everything in the Mafia, like the CIA, was conducted on a need-to-know basis.

  “Mike, bring us two espressos and some donuts,” said Rosetti.

  “You got it, boss” said a voice from the kitchen.

  Rosetti led me into the same conference room where we had planned the Columbus heist. We sat down and Rosetti said, “Well, what’s your master plan, Mr. Dillinger?”

  “Mr. Rosetti. Tony?”

  He nodded to renew my first-name privileges. So I said, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

  “What kind of confession? I ain’t no priest.”

  “I lied to you on the phone. I don’t want to rob any more conventions.”

  For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw fear cross Rosetti’s face. He managed it well and it was gone before I knew it. But for a millisecond, I could tell he was afraid.

  “Joey. Don’t even think about it. You’ll never get out of here alive. You want to make your wife a widow? You want to make your kid an orphan?”

  “No, no, no, Mr. Rosetti. Tony, please. I’m not here for revenge. I’m over it. I did my time. I’m ready to get on with my life.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I need money. I need it bad.”

  “I don’t have any money to give you, kid. I told you. I only made about twenty-five grand with that stupid caper in Columbus. Plus, things have been tight here recently. Our other businesses are slow, at least until football season starts.”

  After pleading poverty, and without any sense of irony whatsoever, he pulled a huge wad of hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket. He touched his thumb to his tongue and started peeling them off.

  “Look, maybe I could give you one or two thousand. Maybe three thousand tops. That’ll help you get your legs underneath you after getting out of prison. I guess I owe you that much. But that’s all I can do.”

  “Honestly? I’d love to take the money, but I don’t want charity. I have a business proposition for you.”

  “What kind of business proposition?”

  “I had a lot of time to think in prison.”

  “And?”

  “And I realized we went about it all wrong. It was a mistake to rob the convention. There’s not enough money there to make it worth our while.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, kid.”

  “What we should do is hold our own convention.”

  “What?”

  “That’s where the big money is, Mr. Rosetti. The sponsors of these conventions make millions of dollars. Most of it in cash. They’re not trying to fence fake Rolexes. They’re making it legally. They don’t have to worry about going to prison because it’s all on the up and up.”

  “Joey, look at my face.”

  I looked at him. The broken nose. The pitted skin. The nasty scar down his cheek.

  “Do I look like an event planner to you?”

  “Hear me out, Mr. Rosetti. I think you’re going to like this idea. You see, when I was in prison, I realized there’s an untapped niche in the market for Fan-Cons. It could be worth millions to the first person who exploits it. But nobody ever tried this before. Nobody’s ever come up with this idea.”

  “What idea?”

  I paused like an auctioneer at Sotheby’s before unveiling the featured painting of the evening. Then I said it.

  “Gangster-Con.”

  “What?”

  “A convention just for gangsters.”

  “You mean like the Apalachin meeting? That got busted, you know. A lot of our guys went to jail.”

  “Nah, I’m not talking about real gangsters. I’m talking about television gangsters. Movie gangsters. I’m talking about a convention for fans of mob movies like The Godfather or Goodfellas. Or television shows like The Sopranos or Button Men. People who read books like Honor Thy Father or Casino or Wiseguys.

  “I’m not a big reader, Joey.”

  “Yes, but other people are. You told me you’re not a big television watcher either. Trust me, Mr. Rosetti, that’s what ninety nine percent of the population does with their free time. They watch this shit on television, and they get obsessed with it. I’ve known guys who couldn’t talk for two minutes without quoting The Godfather. I mean, why do you think I can sign autographs for thirty-five bucks a pop?”

  “I’ve wondered about that myself.”

  “People just want to get close to it, that’s why. I wasn’t even a big star. I had a few walk-on roles. It’s fame by association, I guess. They want a little of that glitz and glitter to rub off on themselves. They go to Fan-Cons to get autographs, to get their picture taken with the stars, to get their silly little questions answered in the panel discussions. Don’t ask me why they do it, but they do. We can make money off it.”

  “How much money?”

  “More than a hundred thousand lousy dollars, that’s for sure. More than a million. I’m talking about millions of dollars. I know a guy who sponsors these Fan-Cons. He’s the richest man I ever met. He flies all over the world in his own jet. He has a hundred-foot yacht. He owns his own island in the Caribbean, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Good for him,” said Rosetti. “But I don’t want to be in that business. It sounds too much like work. It sounds too—I don’t know—legal. I like to make money the old-fashioned way. I like to steal it.”

  “One lawyer with a briefcase can steal more than a hundred men with guns.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Mario Puzo. In The Godfather. The book, not the movie.”

  “I ain’t no lawyer either. Thank God.”

  “It’s a good idea, Mr. Rosetti. You have to admit it’s a damn good idea.”

  “So go run with it. What do you need me for?”

  “Mr. Rosetti, I don’t have any money. I had to take the BoltBus to Philly. Hell, I had to take a city bus to Little Italy. I haven’t got two pennies to rub together. I can’t sign autographs anymore; I’m the guy who robbed the Columbus convention. I can’t even get a regular job because I’m an ex-con. I need your help to get this idea off the ground.”

  “Why not ask your friend with the private jet for money?”

  “I did! And he’s interested, Tony, he’s very interested. But he says he doesn’t like to go into these things alone. He likes to share the risk, especially when it’s a brand-new idea. He said he likes to use OPM.”

  “OPM?”

  “Other people’s money. It’s a catchphrase they use on Wall Street. It just means that if you get a few other people to go in with you on an investment, you can spread the risk around. Guys like Mr. Beason aren’t stupid. They like to minimize risk and maximize return.”

  “Me too.”

  “But Mr. Beason, the guy with the private jet, said to me, ‘Joey, I like your idea. If you get an angel to back you on the initial investment, I’ll take a closer look at it.’”

  “I ain’t no angel either.”

  “That’s just another Wall Street term. It means the guy who puts up the seed money for a new business venture. The angel is the guy who takes the most risk, because it’s an unproven idea. But the angel is also the guy who makes the most money if it works. He has the most shares in the business. You’d have to risk some money, sure, but the return could be in the millions.”

  “I don’t know, Joey.”

  “Just do me this one little favor, Tony. Take a meeting with Mr. Beason. He’s going to be in Philly tomorrow. He’s willing to meet us for breakfast to talk this over. He suggested the Four Seasons over by t
he art museum.”

  “You told him I was going to meet him?”

  “I told him I’d try to get you to come. He was glad to hear that. He said it would be even better if we had a real … a real …”

  “A real what?”

  “A real, I don’t know how to say it, a real member of an organized-crime family to take part in this venture. No offense, Mr. Rosetti. He said a man like you would bring more than just money to the table. You’d bring your expertise. Your experience. Your connections. He was excited about it.”

  Rosetti allowed a tiny smile to cross his lips. I could tell what I said flattered him. Either that or he was thinking that there might be some way to steal some money from Mr. Beason.

  “Just breakfast, you say?”

  “Just breakfast. That’s all. You don’t have to make any commitment. You don’t even have to pay for breakfast. I’m sure Mr. Beason will pick up the check. Let’s just talk about the idea with someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  Rosetti let out a long sigh. Then he said, “Okay. I’ll have breakfast with the guy. Why not? Nothing ventured nothing gained.”

  I’m sure he didn’t know it, but Rosetti had quoted Benjamin Franklin while sitting less than a mile from old Ben’s house.

  29

  The breakfast was set for 7:30 a.m. Which suited me fine because I couldn’t afford a hotel and had to spend the night wandering around Center City, catching an occasional catnap on a park bench before some cop came along and rousted me.

  My parents taught me that policemen were my friends. Since I got out of prison, I viewed them like flesh-eating zombies who wanted to kill me for no reason. Throughout the night, the mere sight of a cop car was enough to make me get up and walk to another park. I showed up at the Four Seasons Hotel in the morning looking like death warmed over.

  Rosetti looked worse. Not because he was up all night wandering the streets, but because he wasn’t used to wearing a coat and tie. He was wearing a plaid sport jacket, checkered shirt, and polka-dot tie. Even by the standards of the 1970s, it was a garish outfit, and that was probably the last time he wore it. Rosetti and I ran into each other outside the hotel.