The Don Con

by Richard Armstrong

  “I’m going to make this check out to Gangster-Con, LLC. That’s the name of our venture from this day forward. Joey you need to file the papers of incorporation. It’s easy, even for an actor. You can find the proper forms online. Then I want you to withdraw five thousand and buy two nonstop first-class tickets to San Diego. One for you and one for Tony.”

  “Why do you want us to go to San Diego?” said Rosetti.

  “I want you to see my Comic-Con operation with your own eyes. I want you to see how big it is and how big Gangster-Con could be with your help. Trust me, Comic-Con will amaze you. I’ll show you the exhibition floor, and then take you across the street to the Hyatt and show you our offices. You need to see how much cash we handle every day and how much of it … well, maybe I shouldn’t say any more.”

  “No, go ahead,” said Rosetti.

  “Very well,” Beason said. “I know I’m in the company of a man who understands how these things work.” He glanced around him and continued sotto voce. “Frankly, Tony, I want you to see how much of that cash manages to find its way into our pockets without going through the books, if you know what I mean. That’s another thing I’ve learned in business. The less you give to Uncle Sam, the better. Uncle Sam already owns plenty of islands. He owns Guam. He owns Puerto Rico. Hawaii. Why shouldn’t you and I have an island, too? Just a little one.”

  All three of us laughed and when I looked up from my breakfast, I saw someone I recognized. Someone I knew from many years ago. The Four Seasons in Philadelphia is the kind of swanky hotel that when Hollywood stars come to town, they don’t give a moment’s thought to staying anywhere else.

  Gwyneth Paltrow was seated five tables away from us. I’d worked with Gwyneth in summer theater twenty years ago. It was between my junior and senior years at Haverford and I got a job as an actor … well, more like an intern at the Williamstown Theater Festival in Massachusetts. Gwyneth was my age but light-years ahead of me in her career. She was playing leading roles at Williamstown while I was holding spears in crowd scenes. The cast and crew always partied a lot together, and I figured there was a chance she might remember me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as Ben Franklin and Tony Rosetti said. So I excused myself from the table and walked over to say hello.

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” I said to the two men seated with Paltrow. “Gwyneth, I doubt if you’ll remember me, but I’m Joey Volpe. We worked together—”

  “Of course I remember you, Joey.” There was a touch of gold glitter on her eyelids. It made her eyes sparkle even more than I remembered.

  I smiled and nodded at the two men, as if to say, yes, I belong here, too.

  “You’re the guy who embarrassed me to death by leading a drunken conga line through my living room in Williamstown.”

  The two men laughed.

  It’s not easy for an Italian with olive skin to blush, but I could feel the blood rush to my head and I assumed my face had taken on the color of a fire engine.

  “Well, er, I …”

  It was true, of course. Long story. Involving tequila shots. “Well, I just wanted to say it’s good to see you again.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Joey. Especially when you’re sober. And dressed so elegantly, too.”

  The two men laughed again and I stumbled back to our table where Rosetti and Beason were watching the scene but weren’t close enough to hear what was said.

  On my way back to the table, I realized that from Beason and Rosetti’s point of view, I had walked over to the table of a major movie star, someone who clearly recognized me, and I made her companions laugh with my charm and wit. So I decided to play it for all it was worth.

  “Lovely girl, Gwynnie,” I said as I picked up my napkin, shook it with a flourish, then laid it back on my lap, smoothing the wrinkles.

  “Just as charming as she was twenty years ago when we had a little … well, I shouldn’t kiss and tell, should I? Let’s just say we had a great time together at the Williamstown Playhouse.”

  “I’m duly impressed,” said Beason.

  “What’s that shit in your hair?” said Rosetti.

  I reached up and found a dried chunk of vomit that was still stuck in my hair from the previous day’s bus ride. I’d tried to wash it out in a public restroom the night before, but some of it was still stuck in there. Good Lord. As if the reunion with Gwyneth hadn’t gone badly enough, I still had a chunk of puke in my hair?

  Time to change the subject.

  “Well, gentlemen,” I said. “While I was chatting with Gwynnie, did you agree on a date and time to meet in San Diego?”

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Rosetti.

  “Look, Tony,” said Beason. “There’s no risk in coming to San Diego. Consider it an all-expenses-paid vacation. The airline tickets are on me. The hotel is on me. Bring your wife if you want. Or maybe you don’t. Those California girls can be very friendly, let me assure you. All I want you to do is take a look at Comic-Con, take a look at all the cash that’s coming through our operation, then decide for yourself if Gangster-Con is something you want to invest in.”

  “Okay,” said Rosetti. “I guess there’s no harm in it.”

  “Excellent,” said Beason. “Joey, you buy the first-class airline tickets out of the money I gave you, and I’ll take care of everything else. Let’s meet in the main exhibition hall of the convention center at high noon next Friday.” He glanced at his watch. “And now, gentlemen, I’m afraid we must adjourn. I’m going to San Diego myself today to finalize my preparations for Comic-Con. Tony, I’m sure you have many important things to do. And Joey, you and Miss Paltrow may wish to rekindle your romance upstairs.”

  “I think she’s married now.”

  “I’m just pulling your leg, Joey. Shall we go?”

  We walked outside the hotel and the limo pulled up in front of us in a flash. All three of us shook hands and before I knew it Beason was gone. Rosetti and I stood there silently, still stunned by the presence of someone with such charm and charisma. A look of recognition crossed Rosetti’s face and he almost shouted. “Douglas Fairbanks!”

  “What?”

  “That’s who he reminded me of. Douglas Fairbanks. The silent movie star.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “He does look like Douglas Fairbanks. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m Charlie Chaplin.”

  I toddled off in the direction of the BoltBus stop in the bowlegged waddle that made Chaplin famous. I took one last look at Rosetti before I turned the corner. He was still standing in the same spot, looking both bemused and bewildered.

  30

  Bemused and bewildered.

  That’s was the look Rosetti had on his face as we stood in the middle of the main exhibition hall at Comic-Con in San Diego a week later. I would hasten to add another adjective—awestruck.

  I assume I had the same expression on my face. As many times as I’d been to these Fan-Cons, this was the first time I’d seen the one that started this bizarre phenomenon.

  Imagine you’re in a cavernous hall ten times the size of the main concourse of Grand Central Station, or five hundred thousand square feet to be precise. Now imagine Grand Central during its busiest moment of the week. Let’s say, Monday morning at 8:30 a.m. Can you picture the crowd of commuters in your mind? Good. Now multiply it by ten. No, multiply it by fifty. Multiply it by whatever number you need to get to one hundred thousand people. That’s roughly how many people come to Comic-Con every year.

  It’s the same number of people who jam themselves like sardines into a modern NFL football stadium, although here they were in a single gigantic room. I couldn’t move more than two feet in any direction without bumping into someone. I kept saying, “Excuse me … Pardon me … I’m sorry.” Until I said it so often that I grew hoarse and stopped apologizing because. After all, nobody else was bothering to do so.

  Do you remember the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and the others were gr
anted entrance into the Emerald City? With their eyes blinking in wonder and amazement, they walked into the town square and teaming crowds of peculiar people and bizarre sights surrounded them. It’s the scene where the famous horse of a different color walks by, pulling a carriage. If the horse of a different color walked through the exhibition hall at Comic-Con, pulling a carriage while changing from purple to red to yellow, nobody would’ve noticed.

  At Comic-Con it would’ve seemed normal.

  At one point, I saw an entire Bat Family walk by me. The dad dressed up as Batman. Mom wore her Batgirl outfit. A teenage son dressed as Robin. And a tiny three-year-old toddler brought up the rear as Bat-Mite. As a parent myself, it appalled me. Would I have brought Bianca into a place like this? No way. I would’ve been afraid to lose her, which would’ve scared both of us half to death. I noticed a rope tied the Bat Family together. It made sure they wouldn’t lose contact with one another, but also made it rather hard on Bat-Mite. He was the last person in a game of crack the whip. The little tyke was flailing from side to side like a water skier who’d lost a ski.

  Hundreds of aisles, rows, booths, pavilions, and various crowd-control systems like velvet-roped stanchions and switchbacks divided the vast space. Thousands of people waited in long lines to get their hands on some swag. Something to buy. Or something to get free. Or both. I remembered Jerry telling me about the time he saw a sign that said, “Buy three Star Trek action figures, and get one Jeremiah Pennington free.”

  Here and there I saw huge pavilions devoted to the latest offerings of the major comic book publishers, like DC Comics or Marvel Comics, the big movie studios like Universal and Fox, and the hottest video game developers who had such colorful names as Naughty Dog, Black Isle Studios, and Insomniac Games. Then there were all the people whom this convention was intended to serve—comic-book dealers, retailers, independent publishers, artists, and writers. One lone comic-book artist might be at a tiny table with samples of his original drawings for sale, sitting under the shadow of the gigantic Paramount Pictures pavilion staffed by dozens of people promoting the corporation’s latest movies, television shows, and video games.

  I was so overwhelmed by all this I was literally speechless. I hadn’t said a word to my companion for ten minutes. Finally, I broke my silence. “What do you think of all this, Mr. Rosetti?”

  “It’s fucking amazing.”

  “Just think of the amount of money changing hands here.”

  “Would Gangster-Con be this big?”

  “Oh, no. Maybe half this size. Or even a third. But we’re talking about the difference between making five million versus twenty million. It’s still a pretty nice chunk of change, don’t you think?”

  He said nothing.

  “Especially when you consider that your investment is only two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not putting up a penny.”

  “It was my idea, Mr. Rosetti.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re the idea man.”

  We stood there for a few more moments, taking it all in. You really couldn’t take it all in, it was just too big. An eagle perched on the uppermost rafter couldn’t see it all. My eyes turned up to the ceiling as if I could catch a glimpse of such a bird, and a fragment of Shakespeare popped into my mind. This most excellent canopy, the air—look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with fire. Hamlet, Act II, Scene Two.

  “Welcome to San Diego, gentlemen,” said a familiar voice behind me. “And welcome to Comic-Con.”

  I turned and saw Jonathan Beason with a warm smile on his face.

  His attire had changed from the smart sophistication of the East Coast to West Coast casual-style. He was wearing a cream-colored Armani silk suit with an open-collared patterned shirt. No necktie. A brown pocket square, puffed and folded, peeked out of his jacket pocket. Rich brown Gucci loafers adorned his smallish feet. No cashmere socks this time, his bare feet nestled into the soft leather shoes. He looked like a movie producer. No, better than that. I’ve met a few movie producers in my day and, frankly, they can’t pull that look off, as hard as they may try. He looked like a wealthy Italian playboy sitting on the veranda of the Villa D’Este overlooking Lake Como, sipping a Campari and soda and smoking a cigarette. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more sophisticated and stylish human being in my life.

  The three of us shook hands.

  “It’s quite a sight, my dear boys, is it not?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Mr. Rosetti and I were just saying it’s amazing.”

  “Let me show you around a bit before we go up to the offices.”

  Beason guided us out of the main exhibition hall and led us down another long hallway where there were a series of ballrooms, conference rooms, and meeting rooms ranging in size from cavernous to intimate. In each one, something interesting or unusual was going on. We poked our heads into a few of them and Beason explained what was happening or would be happening soon.

  “This is a panel discussion of top comic book artists and writers,” said Beason. “Stan Lee, Neil Gaiman, Allan Moore, and a few others whose names escape me.” The room was filled with maybe five hundred people. Five middle-aged men were talking into microphones on the dais.

  Beason showed us a somewhat larger room. “In about two hours we’re going to have a panel discussion of Star Trek actors in this ballroom.”

  “All versions?” I said.

  “All the way from TOS to DS9. Patrick Stewart and Bill Shatner won’t be coming this year. Busy with other stuff. We’re still expecting a packed house, though.”

  “Is Jeremiah Pennington coming?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask? Are you a fan?”

  “Personal friend.”

  I made a mental note to call Jerry on his cell phone. I wanted to figure out a way he could take part in Gangster-Con, even though he never played a gangster. I would feel better having him there.

  “Next up is the big one,” said Beason as we headed toward a grand ballroom. The line of people waiting to get inside stretched all the way down the hall and out the door.

  “What are they lined up to see?” Rosetti asked.

  “Tonight at nine o’clock, Steven Spielberg will be announcing his blockbuster film for the Christmas season. I can’t remember the title. But I know that both Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie will be starring in it. They’ll be here tonight.”

  Nigel … oops, I mean Jonathan was doing such a great job acting like the CEO of Comic-Con he almost had me convinced. I wondered if he had taken the time to memorize the names of every star on these panel discussions, or if he was making this shit up.

  “People are already lined up for it?” Rosetti asked. “It’s still nine hours away.”

  “Oh, they’ve been lined up for much longer than that,” said Beason.

  I walked up to the teenage girl who was first in line. She was dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans with holes in them, but her eyes were slathered with glitter makeup.

  “How long have you been waiting on line, dear?”

  She looked at her watch. “Twenty-six hours. We got here at ten in the morning yesterday. I think that’s twenty-six. I’m not sure I’m adding it up right. I’m a little tired.”

  “You added it right,” I said. “A little more than twenty-six hours, actually.”

  “Are you on television?” she said to me. “You look familiar.”

  “Well, I was once. A long time ago.”

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  “Don’t you want to know which show I was on?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Can I have your autograph, please?”

  “I don’t have a pen on me.”

  “I do,” she said and she handed me a black Sharpie.

  “Where should I sign?”

  “On my back,” she said as he pulled up her T-shirt.

  I saw twenty other signatures there, but I didn’t recognize any of the names. So I signed her back,
above the bra strap and under her left shoulder blade.

  “Thanks,” she said. “What’s your name again?”

  “Joey Volpe of The Sopranos.”

  “Okay, cool. My grandpa loved that show. I can’t wait to show it to him.”

  I guess I was a big hit with the senior citizen set. I could imagine the old guy’s disappointment when he realized he had no idea who Joey Volpe was.

  “Now that we’ve made this young lady’s life complete,” said Beason, “lets head over to our offices across the street and I’ll show you the most important part of our operation.”

  “What’s that?” said Rosetti.

  “I’ll show you the money.”

  31

  We left the convention center and started walking northwest on Harbor Drive toward the Grand Hyatt Hotel where Beason had his “headquarters” for Comic-Con.

  “Why don’t you have your offices inside the convention center?” said Rosetti. “It would make things simpler.”

  “Having it in a nearby hotel is more secure,” said Beason. “Quieter, too.”

  “But if you’re moving cash from one location to the other, doesn’t it make it less secure?”

  “We have systems in place to make sure it’s secure.”

  We kept walking along Harbor Drive past the Marriott Hotel. Like the convention center itself, the sidewalks and parking lots were filled with Wookies, Klingons, superheroes, vampires, and zombies. By now I barely noticed them.

  “Why not put your office right here in the Marriott?” said Rosetti. “The Marriott is connected to the convention center. It looks like you don’t even have to go outside to walk from one to the other.”

  “Well, the Hyatt is a nicer hotel, for one thing.”

  “That’s a stupid reason,” said Rosetti. “You’re increasing your security risk.”

  “Trust me, Tony, the money is secure.”

  Rosetti shot me that nasty smile I’d come to know and hate. It meant he had something sneaky in mind. I could see the gears spinning in his brain. He thought he had an opportunity for a hijacking here. Rosetti had noticed something wrong with Beason’s operation. But because of his greed he misinterpreted it.