The Don Con

by Richard Armstrong

“Suit yourself. But we’re going to need your money right away. And I’d prefer it in the form of a check made out to Gangster-Con, LLC.”

  “What if I delivered the money in cash to Joey and he put it into the Gangster-Con account. Wouldn’t that work?”

  “I guess that would be acceptable. How long will it take you to put that kind of cash together?”

  “Two or three weeks, tops. I know some people who might want to chip in. Subcontractors … wait, that’s not the right word.”

  “Minority partners?” I suggested.

  “No, these are all Italian guys. I don’t want to team up with no melanzane.”

  “Well, what do you say, Tony? Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” said Rosetti.

  All four of us shook hands and went back to eating. We were finishing up our entreés when Mr. Weston stopped by our table to say goodbye.

  “So how was the meal, gentlemen? Everything to your liking?”

  “I had the filet mignon,” said Rosetti. “Did you kill that cow yourself?”

  “I kill bulls, Mr. Rosetti, not cows. Bulls are more entertaining for the crowd. Cows like to stand there and chew their cud. It’s not very sporting to kill them. Kind of like shooting a duck in the water.”

  “I’ve got to disagree with you on that,” said Rosetti. “The less they struggle the better. Sneak up behind them and stick a shiv in back of their brain. They drop like a rock.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s exactly what we’re forced to do when the swords don’t work,” said the former matador. “If the bull is still standing after we’ve stuck the sword in him two or three times, the presidente says we’ve got to nail him in the back of the brain with a dagger in the spinal cord. And you’re right, Mr. Rosetti, the bull always drops like a rock.”

  “What’d I tell you?”

  “You see what I mean, gentlemen?” said Beason. “That’s why I always come to the Cape & Sword for the moment of truth.”

  33

  “Frank Vincent, please.”

  “This is Frank. Who’s calling?”

  Frank Vincent had one of the biggest roles on The Sopranos, although the bulk of it came in later episodes. He played one of the leaders of a rival gang of mobsters who sometimes worked with the Soprano family and sometimes battled them. He had one of the most visible recurring roles on the show until he was written off. And by written off, I mean he took a bullet in the brain. Then a car tire rolled over his head and squashed it like a pumpkin. Not a great way to go. I’d met Mr. Vincent during one of my brief appearances on The Sopranos. I was hoping this phone call might go a little easier than most of them had.

  “It’s Joey Volpe of The Sopranos.”

  “Joey who?”

  “Volpe. We met on the set one day. We talked a little.”

  “What role did you play?

  “Well …”

  “Well what?”

  He wasn’t going to fall for the usual ploy. He knew the cast and guest stars on The Sopranos too well. I had to come clean about the role I played on the show.

  “It was a scene at the Bada-Bing. I played one of the customers at the bar.”

  “There were a lot of scenes like that. Dozens of them.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “it’s great to talk to you again.”

  “What can I do for you Mr.… what did you say your name was again?”

  “Joey. Joey Volpe. Like a fox.”

  “What’s like a fox?”

  “Volpe is Italian for fox.”

  “I thought it was lupo.”

  “No, that’s wolf.”

  “Oh, yeah. I knew that. What can I do for you? I’m kinda busy right now.”

  So I explained the whole Gangster-Con idea to him. I told him about the other actors and writers who had agreed to come. I told him it was the same sponsors who produced Comic-Con. I even said there would be some real gangsters there, some guys stepping out from the witness protection program, or who were too old to worry about appearing in public. When I finished my pitch, I could tell he was interested, though not exactly gung-ho.

  “Maybe you should talk to my agent about this.”

  “I’d be happy to talk to your agent, Mr. Vincent, but most of our special guests are choosing to keep their agents out of this.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s not really an acting job. Why give your agent fifteen percent of your money if you don’t have to?”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  Good question. I was trying to get some of these guys signed up for nothing at all—just whatever money they could make in the autograph line. But like I said before, Frank Vincent had a pretty big role on The Sopranos. Plus, he’d acted in Casino, Goodfellas—“Now go home and get your fucking shinebox!”—and dozens of other gangster movies and TV shows over the years. I needed him for a panel discussion in addition to the autograph room. It would be helpful to have his name and face on the promotions Charlie Scott was working on. I needed him to say yes.

  “We can pay you a five-thousand-dollar appearance fee, plus whatever you can make in the autograph line.”

  “Which is how much?”

  I had to stretch the truth a little.

  “The sky’s the limit, Frank. I’ve seen people walk away with ten, fifteen, even twenty thousand dollars. Cash.”

  Of course, those people were William Shatner, George Takei and Patrick Stewart. But Frank Vincent was a pretty big deal in the make-believe Mafia world, and he’d make some money.

  “That’s not too shabby,” said Vincent. “All I need to do is sit there and sign autographs?”

  “Well, some people are going to want to have their picture taken with you. You can charge more for that.”

  “How much more?”

  “That’s up to you. It’s not unusual to charge thirty-five bucks for an autograph if they brought something for you to sign. If they didn’t, you can charge another fifteen for your standard actor’s headshot. Then if they want a picture taken with you on their cell phone, that’s another twenty-five. We’re talking up to seventy-five bucks for every person waiting on line to see you. If you’ve got a hundred people in line, that could be seventy-five hundred dollars …”

  “You said more than that.”

  “I’m not finished. There are two autograph sessions each day and three days for the whole convention. You might make as much as forty-five thousand, not to mention the five thousand appearance fee. Fifty grand is a nice chunk of change for a weekend’s work, don’t you think?”

  His chances of making fifty grand at this thing were about the same as me being elected head of the Gambino family. But I was painting the rosiest possible picture.

  “When did you say the convention was again?”

  “October fifteenth through the seventeenth.”

  “And where?”

  “Las Vegas. At the Mirage.”

  “Expenses?”

  “Full transportation, of course. Plus room, food and beverage. It’s all covered.”

  “Let me check my calendar. I’m going to put the phone down for a minute. Hang on.”

  I hummed the theme to The Godfather while I waited for him to come back.

  “Yeah, I’m free then. I’ll do it.”

  “Great! I’ll send you the paperwork today.”

  We spent a few more minutes on the phone working out the details. I hung up and looked at the next name on my list. Tony Sirico. He wasn’t going to be so easy. First of all, he had one of the biggest roles on The Sopranos. Second, he was known to be a little gruff. Rumor had it that Tony Sirico really was a mobster before he went into acting.

  I reached for the phone, but it rang before I could pick it up.

  “Joey Volpe here.”

  “It’s me.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, as it always did when I talked to Rosetti.

  “I got the money together. You want to come to Philly or should I go to New York?”

&n
bsp; “I wouldn’t feel safe carrying that much cash on the BoltBus, Mr. Rosetti. Or even the Acela train.”

  “Good point. I’ll bring it to you. No problem.”

  “You put that money together fast, Mr. Rosetti.”

  “People loved the idea.”

  “What people?”

  “I got some of my friends to invest in this thing. I only had to put in about fifty grand myself. They’re all excited about it. They can’t wait to come to Vegas. They think it’s going to make them rich.”

  I thought I heard him chuckling. “What’s so funny?”

  “I might’ve gotten my figures wrong. I’m not good with math.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I sold a fifty percent share to one guy. And a seventy-five percent share to another guy. And thirty percent to somebody else. It adds up to more than a hundred percent, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mr. Rosetti …”

  “It’s okay. They’ll never find out. I swore them all to secrecy. We take secrecy seriously in our business, Joey.”

  “Mr. Rosetti, isn’t that how Bugsy Siegel came up with the money for the Flamingo?”

  “Where do you think I got the idea from?”

  “Bugsy Siegel took a bullet in the eyeball for doing that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m smarter than Bugsy Siegel. I got it all figured out. I’ve got an accountant who can make it look on paper like we didn’t make much money from this thing. I’ll give them their money back plus a few thousand bucks in profit and they’ll walk away happy. Don’t be such a pussy, kid. You gotta take your shots in life.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Rosetti, you taking a shot. If they take a shot at you, they’ll probably take one at me, too. I don’t think oversubscribing your investors is such a good idea.”

  I didn’t know if “oversubscribing” was the word to use, but I knew it was a risky strategy under the best of circumstances—even riskier when your investors carried guns.

  “You worry too much,” said Rosetti. “Look, kid, let me give you some advice that might be helpful to you as you go through life. You know, Joey, I look at you as sort of a prodigy of mine.”

  Prodigy?

  “Everything you’ve heard about loyalty, friendship, fidelity. That’s all bullshit. In this world, everybody is out for themselves. You may have a wife. You may have a business partner. You may have so-called friends. You may have loyal employees—or employees you think are loyal. But the truth is that everyone is looking out for his own self-interest. You live alone, and you die alone. Maybe your wife holds your hand while you’re dying, but you know what she’s thinking? She’s thinking, I wish this guy would hurry up and die so I can get out of this shitty hospital room and grab a cheeseburger. You’re alone in life, Joey, all alone. That’s why you gotta get what’s yours, and you gotta get it any way you can. Fuck your friends. Fuck your employees. Fuck your business partners. Given the chance, they’d fuck you, too. In the end, money is the only thing that matters. Money is the only thing that’s gonna take care of you when you’re sick. Money is the only friend who won’t desert you when the going gets rough. Don’t let anybody try to tell you any different. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Good. I’ll come to your apartment tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you’re there. And Joey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be thinking about doing something stupid with that cash.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like stealing it.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Rosetti. I’m not a crook.”

  “You’re a convicted felon, Joey. Armed robbery.”

  I wanted to say, “Thanks to you.” But I bit my tongue.

  “Well, technically it was a RICO violation.”

  “I know. I can’t believe they charged an actor with RICO. I’m still laughing about that. Who were you using for a lawyer? Moe, Larry, or Curly?”

  “I’m glad you think it’s so funny.”

  He got serious. “Don’t even take a penny of it, Joey. Put it right in the Gangster-Con account. If I find out some of that money is missing, it’s not going to be good for you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Or your wife. Or your daughter. Or your little dog. Capisci?”

  “Si, capisco.”

  “Va bene.”

  And the line went dead.

  ACT THREE

  THE SWITCH

  34

  “Welcome, Gangsters!” said the marquee in front of the Mirage Hotel and Casino. The two-word message appeared in the same famous type font used in the Godfather book jacket and movie posters.

  “Can you see the sign?” I said to Rosetti who sat with me in the back of a stretch limousine. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “We got top billing over the Beatles show and Terry Fator.”

  “The Beatles broke up, didn’t they?” said Rosetti. “Two of them are dead, for chrissakes.”

  “Well, it’s more of a tribute to the Beatles. It’s a retrospective of their music, along with dancing and acrobatics by Cirque du Soleil.”

  “Sounds like a boring piece of shit. Who the fuck is Terry Fator?”

  “He’s a ventriloquist.”

  “Like Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy?”

  “Yes. But more up-to-date. Racier. He’s really funny. I saw his show last night. Hey, guess what? He made a joke about Gangster-Con.”

  “What joke?”

  “Terry Fator said, ‘Did you know the hotel is filled with mobsters this weekend for Gangster-Con?’ His little dummy says, ‘Yeah, I had dinner with one of the gangsters last night.’ Fator says, ‘What did you have for dinner?’ And the dummy said, ‘Testa del cavallo.’ Fator says, ‘What’s that?’ The dummy says, ‘It’s Italian for horse’s head.’”

  Rosetti didn’t laugh. “I’m sick of Godfather jokes, to tell you the truth.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought it was funny. But the sign looks great, doesn’t it? I paid through the nose for that sign, let me tell you. At first the hotel didn’t want to put it up at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “They gave me some song and dance about how Las Vegas has spent the last forty years trying to downplay its reputation as a Mafia town. They said nowadays, the city was trying to cultivate the image of a fun place to go for the whole family … blah, blah, blah.”

  “How did you get them to change their mind?”

  “I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  “You threatened them?”

  “No, I just offered them more money.”

  “You’re spending too much money on expenses, Joey. You’re cutting into our profits. You didn’t need to pick me up at the airport in a limo. I could’ve taken a cab.”

  “Maybe so. But all the actors and special guests expect to have limousines. So we made a package deal with the livery company. We’ve got five limos at our beck and call for the whole weekend. More if we need them. It’s all one price, so it didn’t cost me extra to pick you up at the airport.”

  “Still, you’re spending too much on frills. I need to take some profit out of this thing. I’ve got investors, you know. I can’t tell them it lost money. Guys in my line of work, they don’t understand the concept of losses in business. They say, ‘You lost money? Tough shit. Pay me back anyway.’”

  “Speaking of your investors, are they coming to the VIP dinner tonight? They’ve all been invited. All the actors are coming.”

  “They’ll be there, don’t worry. They’re looking forward to it.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  I didn’t know if I was looking forward to it or not. The dinner was Charlie Scott’s idea. He said, “Why don’t we invite all the special guests to a private dinner the night before the convention begins? We’ll have it at the steakhouse restaurant in the Mirage. It’s perfect because the chef is Italian. His name is Tom Colicchio. The restaurant sp
ecializes in free-range beef. Grass-fed and organic.”

  “I’m not sure these guys are into organic food,” I said.

  But Jonathan Beason loved the idea. So we set it up. I invited all the actors from mob movies and TV shows who would be at the convention. The writers, too: Nicholas Pileggi, Gay Talese, and a few others whose names you probably wouldn’t know. When I sent the invitation to Rosetti, he insisted that all the wiseguys he was bringing to the convention should be invited, too. First and foremost his investors, who were all big wheels in the Philadelphia, New Jersey, and New York mobs. Then a couple of other low-level soldiers and hangers-on. Paulie and Carlo would be there, of course. Plus, Rosetti wanted the refugees from witness protection program to come. We still weren’t sure how many of those guys would show up; none of them had RSVP’d. I reserved four seats at the table for them anyway.

  It struck me as a rather volatile group. I didn’t want any fights to break out the night before the convention. But Beason and Charlie outvoted me. So the VIP dinner at Tom Colicchio’s Heritage Steakhouse was on. We headed there as soon as we got out of the limo and checked Rosetti’s luggage with the bellman. Rosetti’s flight from Philly had been late and we were cutting it close. By the time we entered the private room at the restaurant, nearly everyone else had taken their seats.

  I say nearly everyone else, because two seats were empty. Since I had reserved four seats for members of the witness protection program, it meant two showed up. Which surprised and delighted me, despite my lingering concerns that these guys might not fit in and play nicely with the rest of the group.

  And what a group it was!

  Charlie and I decided to use place cards at the dinner and alternate the real mobsters with the make-believe mobsters. We had Frank Vincent of The Sopranos seated next to Bruno “Fat Bernie” Bianchi of the Philadelphia mob. Angelo “The Little Angel” Santoro seated next to Gianni Russo who played Carlo, Connie Corleone’s husband in The Godfather. Gay Talese, the famous author of Honor Thy Father was in the far corner chatting with the two gangsters on either side of him, Anthony “The Killer” Moretti and Alfonso “No Nickname” Mancini. So it went all the way down one side of the table and up the other.