The Don Con

by Richard Armstrong

  We entered the Hyatt and walked to the elevators where Beason pressed the button for the ninth floor. As the doors were about to close, a short young man wearing a big fedora and pulling a large suitcase on rollers squeezed into the elevator.

  “Good morning, Mr. Beason,” he said in a high-pitched voice.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ganymede. Everything going smoothly so far today?”

  “Smooth as silk, sir.”

  Ganymede glanced in my direction, and our eyes met. I’d been looking into those eyes ever since my first year at Yale Drama School. I smiled. She did not. She was good at staying in character.

  When the elevator doors opened on the ninth floor, all four of us walked down the hall until we got to room 917. Beason knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” said a female voice from the inside.

  “It’s Beason. Today’s password: lighthouse.”

  When the door opened, I expected to see an ordinary hotel room because that’s what it looked like from the outside. Instead, I saw a suite of several adjoining hotel rooms that had been transformed into a bustling office. Where there had been double beds, sofas, chairs, and dressers, now there were desks, filing cabinets, credenzas, fax machines, computers, and busy people scurrying here and there. Telephones throughout the suite were ringing constantly. Computers were making that distinctive ding announcing the arrival of a new email. A photocopier in the corner was running nonstop. The sound of fingertips tapping on keyboards never stopped.

  The young man with the suitcase started walking toward one of the back rooms, but Beason stopped him.

  “Ganymede, hang on a second, will you? I want to show my guests something.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Open the suitcase.”

  “You want me to open it out here in the reception room?” said Ganymede. “That’s not procedure.”

  “It’s okay, Ganny. We’re going to break the rules this one time.”

  Ganymede did as Beason told him to. He unzipped the suitcase and pulled back the flap. When he did, Rosetti and I both sucked in our breath. Dozens of packets of crisp new twenty-dollar bills filled the suitcase. I’ve never seen so much cash in my life, so I couldn’t tell you how much money was there. If I had to take a wild guess, I’d say it was at least fifty thousand.

  “That’s your fucking security?” said Rosetti. “One skinny, little unarmed guy with a suitcase?”

  “I’m armed,” said Ganymede, and he pulled back his suit jacket to reveal a shoulder holster.

  “So you’ve got a peashooter on your tit, big deal.” He turned and said, “I could knock this faggot over with a feather. No Brinks truck? No security guards? No machine guns? You’re asking for trouble, Beason.”

  “That’s the genius of it, Tony. Who’d notice a guy in a business suit rolling a suitcase down the sidewalk on Harbor Drive from the convention center to the Hyatt? A thousand guys do that every day. How would you know which one to hit? We use a different courier each day with a different suitcase at a different time. It couldn’t be safer.”

  Again, Rosetti shot me a glance. I was sure he was planning a hijacking now.

  “Okay, Ganny,” said Beason. “Zip it back up and take it back to the count room, just like you normally would. Only this time we’re going to follow you and watch what happens.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ganymede. He closed the suitcase and started rolling it back deep into the suite of offices. We passed room after room, each one filled with people doing various business tasks. They were so busy they barely looked up as we walked by.

  As we followed the slight young man, Rosetti whispered to me, “That guy looks like half a fag. What the fuck kind of name is Ganymede anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s the first Ganymede I’ve ever met. I think it comes from Greek mythology. Come to think of it, one of Jupiter’s moons is named Ganymede.”

  “I don’t like the name,” said Rosetti.

  “There was no thought of pleasing you when he was christened,” I said. As You Like It, Act III, Scene Two.

  “He doesn’t even look like a man. He looks like some kind of transylvanian.”

  “A vampire?”

  “No, a girl who dresses up like a guy. What are they called again?”

  “Transvestite.”

  “Yeah, one of them.”

  Finally, we reached the last room in the suite. It was one of the most amazing sights I’d ever seen in my life.

  The room was jam-packed with money.

  Packets of cash were stacked from floor to ceiling wherever I looked. Most of them were packs of twenty-dollar bills. But there were plenty of fifties and hundreds, too. In the center of the room was a long table, where three people sat counting the money and making notes in ledgers.

  “Welcome to the inner sanctum,” said Beason. “This is the count room.”

  “Holy shit,” said Rosetti.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “But I don’t understand something,” said Rosetti.

  “What’s that, Tony?”

  “Isn’t most of your business done with credit cards nowadays? Even the guys selling stuff at little tables in the convention center were taking credit cards. I saw them.”

  “Very perceptive, Tony, and you’re right. About seventy-five percent of our business nowadays is transacted with credit cards. This is the other twenty-five percent you’re looking at. As you can tell, it’s a considerable amount.”

  “Yes, I see.” Rosetti was salivating.

  “From my point of view, the cash business has a significant advantage.”

  “What advantage is that?”

  “Until it reaches these three people you see sitting here, until they make a note in their ledgers, there’s no record of it. As far as the IRS knows, all this cash doesn’t exist. Ganny, why don’t you open the suitcase again.”

  Ganymede laid the suitcase on its side, unzipped the zipper and pulled back the flap to reveal the packets of twenties. Beason reached inside the suitcase and pulled out as many packets as he could hold in one hand, maybe four or five of them. I guessed it was a thousand dollars’ worth of cash. He handed the cash to Rosetti who, although surprised by the move, immediately held out two open hands to receive it.

  “Here’s a gift from Comic-Con to you, Mr. Rosetti,” said Beason. “As a token of my personal respect and appreciation.”

  Rosetti didn’t thank him. Instead, he nodded in the direction of the three people at the counting table and said, “What about them?”

  “They’re in on it,” said Beason in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’re well-compensated.”

  “It’s the goddamn skim all over again.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “The skim. We used to do it back in the sixties when we owned most of the casinos in Vegas. Jesus, those were the days. Money was growing on fucking trees back then. Every month, my boss would send a guy out to Vegas with a big suitcase. He’d walk right into the count room, right past the security and everything. They wouldn’t even bother to look up. He’d go into the back room and start stuffing the suitcase with cash. Nobody gave a shit. He’d walk out with five hundred grand, six hundred grand, you name it. Then the next month he’d come back and do it all over again.”

  “Did you ever do that?” I asked.

  “Naaah, I was just a young punk back then. I was still robbing schoolgirls for their lunch money.”

  I wasn’t sure he was kidding.

  “After I made my bones, they let me go out to Vegas with the suitcase man. It was a reward for something good I’d done. When we got back to our room, the suitcase man—his name was Lorenzo, but we called him Zorro—he says to me:, ‘Why don’t we just take some of this cash down to the crap table. The boss won’t mind.’ I says, ‘Zorro, the boss will mind—a lot.’ He says, ‘What the boss don’t know won’t hurt him.’ So we pull about five grand out of the suitcase and take it down to the crap table. Then I go on the fucking roll of my
life. I must’ve held the dice for an hour. When I finally sevened out, between the two of us, Zorro and me, we won about seventy-five grand. We put five thousand back in the suitcase for the boss and the rest of it was ours to play with. You wouldn’t believe the shit we did the rest of that weekend. We upgraded to the presidential suite. We had hot-and-cold running hookers coming in and out of there. We got room service steaks and lobsters. Champagne. Hell, I filled the bathtub with champagne and fucked some girl in there. Jesus Christ, what a weekend that was.”

  Rosetti was lost in a reverie.

  I looked at Beason, who gave me a thin smile. Rosetti had risen to the bait and taken the hook in his mouth. All we needed to do was reel him in. As long as Rosetti didn’t spit the hook, we’d have our principal investor and Gangster-Con would become a reality.

  “About this Gangster-Con thing,” said Rosetti. “I’d like to talk with you about it some more.”

  “Fine,” said Beason. “But not here. I know a nice restaurant nearby. It’s about a ten-minute walk. Plus, I want someone else to join us.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “My marketing guy, Charlie Scott. I briefed him on this and he’s got some great ideas for promoting the event.”

  Beason turned to Ganymede and said, “Tell Charlie I want to introduce him to some people and take him to the Cape & Sword for lunch. He’ll know what it’s about.”

  “You’ve got it, boss,” said Ganymede and left the room.

  Charlie Scott was a genial, if somewhat nondescript, middle-aged guy. We shook hands all around. Then Beason said, “Let’s head on over to the Cape & Sword and talk some more about Gangster-Con, shall we? I think you gentlemen will like the restaurant. The food is superb and the owner is a real character.”

  We left the Hyatt and headed north on First Avenue toward the Cape & Sword, whose owner, as Beason had promised, turned out to be an unusual guy.

  32

  When the four of us entered the Cape & Sword restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego, Beason did something out of character. He put his two index fingers up to his forehead like a bull and charged at the host standing in the reception area.

  The host knew what was coming. He grabbed the nearest napkin and executed a perfect matador’s pass, curving his lithe body into the shape of a C, while Beason’s horns aimed for the napkin and passed harmlessly under the host’s outstretched arm.

  Charlie yelled “Olé!”

  “You haven’t lost your touch, Chris,” said Beason.

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt that you’re ten times slower and weigh ten times less than the real thing, Mr. Beason. Great to see you again.”

  “Chris Weston, I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine. This is Mr. Tony Rosetti from Philadelphia. Mr. Joey Volpe from New York City. And Charlie Scott you already know.”

  “A pleasure, gentlemen,” said Weston.

  Beason turned to the rest of us and said, “Chris Weston is not only the owner of this fine restaurant, but he’s the only American ever to work as a matador in Mexico.”

  “Well, I wasn’t the only one,” said Weston. “Just the best-looking. What brings you gentlemen here today?”

  “I always come to the Cape & Sword for the moment of truth,” said Beason. “Chris, I’m hoping you could kill a bull for me and give me one of your famous rib-eye steaks. Can you find a table for four without a reservation in the middle of Comic-Con?”

  “For you I can, Mr. Beason,” said Weston. “Follow me.”

  He led us upstairs to the second level. Along the way we had to dodge several waiters running up and down the stairs. After we took our seats, Beason said, “I rarely order for other people, but when I’m at the Cape & Sword I insist that everyone start with the mussel bisque en croute. It’s the best soup you’ve ever had in your life.”

  Rosetti turned to me and said “En route to where?”

  I had become Rosetti’s official translator for foreign phrases and difficult vocabulary words.

  “En croute,” I said. “It means the soup has a layer of pastry baked on top. It’s like zuppa delle cozze in crosta,” I said, trying to think of some rough equivalent in Italian.

  “Okay,” said Rosetti. “When in Rome, I guess.”

  As we waited for the soups to arrive, Beason began the business meeting.

  “I invited Charlie to join us today because he’s the marketing genius behind Comic-Con. He’s the reason you saw a hundred thousand people cramming the convention hall and flowing out into the streets and hotels. I briefed him about our Gangster-Con idea, and he seems excited about it.”

  “I’m very excited about it,” said Charlie. “I think it’ll be a big hit. I did a preliminary search on mailing lists and I believe we can find several million fans of mobster movies, television shows, and books. We can also have lots of fun with the website. Maybe a headline that says, ‘We’re going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’ We’ve been talking about holding it at the Mirage Hotel in Vegas, where there’s a shark tank behind the registration desk. So we can say this is your chance to ‘sleep with the fishes.’ Great opportunities for a Facebook page, Twitter account, and other social media.”

  “What about the financial side?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Charlie, “when you add up the out-of-town reservations to all the walk-in traffic we’d get in Las Vegas, I think we can attract at least ten thousand people per day, and maybe as many as twenty-five or thirty. If we charge just under two hundred bucks for a three-day pass, that’s two million dollars right there. The one-day passes should go for just under fifty. Multiply that by twenty thousand people a day over three days, and you’re talking about another three million dollars. So I think we’re looking at a gross of about five million on an investment of five hundred grand.”

  “And if those numbers are too optimistic?” I said.

  “That’s the best part. Even if the event is a total bomb, I’m sure it will attract enough people to break even. So it’s a no-lose proposition.”

  The waiter arrived with the mussel bisque en croute. It was a big puff pastry on top of a piping hot bowl of soup. Rosetti just stared at his for a minute, unsure how to attack it.

  “Just take your spoon and break into it like you’re digging a hole,” I said.

  “I know how to dig a fucking hole.”

  “Then keep swirling your spoon around until you find a mussel. It’s like digging for buried treasure.”

  “Don’t tell me how to eat, asshole.”

  But still he hesitated. When he broke the pastry crust with his spoon, a puff of vapor escaped from the bowl and the unmistakable scent of sherry wafted up to our noses. Nigel was right, it was an exquisite dish. I had the feeling that if I ever found myself with Nigel in Timbuktu, he’d know exactly where to go for food and what to order there.

  After sipping his soup long enough to get the hang of it, Rosetti returned to the topic at hand. “So we’re talking about a ten-to-one return on our money?”

  “Exactly. Just like hitting a long shot at the track,” said Charlie. “Even better, because if this horse loses you still get your money back.”

  “What if I wanted to invest more than that?”

  I had to clench every muscle in my face to keep from breaking into a grin. Fortunately, keeping a straight face in a comedy was one of the acting tricks I’d mastered over the years.

  “How much more?” said Beason.

  “Let’s say I put in four hundred grand and you put in a hundred.”

  “Absolutely not,” Beason objected immediately. “You’d be cutting me out of the deal, and I was the one who brought it to you.”

  I said, “Well, technically, I was—”

  “That’s right,” said Beason. “Joey came up with the idea. He shared it with me, and together we brought it to you. Now you want to run with it all by yourself? That’s unacceptable, Mr. Rosetti. Besides, you need our expertise. I’m the one who knows how to produce this kind of event. Jo
ey is the one who has all the connections with the actors. You need Charlie, too, the marketing guru who knows how to get bums in seats.”

  Rosetti turned to me for another translation. “Who’s he calling a bum?”

  “It just an expression that means to attract an audience,” I said.

  “How much do Charlie and Joey get out of this?” said Rosetti.

  “Well, they’re not putting up any investment capital, but they’re putting in lots of sweat equity. So I think they should get about five percent each, don’t you?”

  Rosetti didn’t answer. Instead, he made a counter offer.

  “What if I put up three hundred and fifty grand and you put in one hundred and fifty? That means I’m taking most of the risk. If it’s a hit, you still walk away with more than a million bucks. That’s a nice haul.”

  Beason looked at the ceiling and thought about this for a moment.

  “I’ll accept on one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “If it’s a hit, and we roll it out to other cities over the next few years, I want a more equitable distribution. I want to be fifty-fifty partners with you going forward.”

  “I’ve got a condition, too,” said Rosetti.

  “What’s that?”

  “I may ask some of my associates to invest in this thing out of my share. I’d like them to be able to come for free.”

  “Of course,” said Beason. “Full room, food and beverage, as they say in the casino business. Plus free tickets to the convention.”

  “Good,” said Rosetti.

  “And just to show you I’m bargaining in good faith,” said Beason. “I’m going to write a check out to Gangster-Con, LLC right now.” He pulled a checkbook out of his sport jacket pocket. “And I suggest you do the same, Mr. Rosetti.”

  “I don’t put my money in banks. It’s not safe.”

  “Banks are extremely safe, Tony.”

  “Not the ones I’ve knocked off. They weren’t so safe.”

  “So where do you keep your money?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you.”