When Rosetti and I walked into the room, Jonathan Beason stood up, clinked his wineglass with a spoon, and said, “Gentlemen, may I introduce the man of the hour. The man who made all this possible. My partner and principal investor, Tony Rosetti of Philadelphia.”
There was a smattering of applause and two or three guys at the table yelled, “Speech! Speech!”
I saw a look of fear cross Rosetti’s face.
I’d seen that look many times before—stage fright. I’d seen it on amateur actors who spent months learning their lines and rehearsing a play, only to learn at the last moment that performing in front of a live audience is a different experience from rehearsal. I’d seen it on professional actors when they’ve forgotten their lines or made some other critical mistake. I’m sure that look has appeared on my own face a few times, too. A good actor is someone who can face the fear, work through it, and come out the other side in one piece.
One time when I was doing summer theater in Camden, Maine, I was playing a guy hosting a small dinner party with his wife and another couple. I had to open a wine bottle with a corkscrew and pour four glasses of wine. I wasn’t a big wine drinker at the time and I had little experience with using a corkscrew. I managed to push the cork down into the neck of the bottle so no wine would come out. That wouldn’t have been so bad if this had been a big proscenium stage where I could turn my back on the audience and fake it. But it was a tiny arena-style theater where nearly every member of the audience could see what happened. I heard one sympathetic member of the audience gasp, and two other (less sympathetic) members chuckle. Someone actually said out loud, “Uh-oh.”
Then I had an idea.
I began miming the action of pouring the wine into everyone’s glasses with a flourish. Everyone in the audience could see that no wine came out of the bottle and the glasses remained empty.
I ad-libbed, “Be careful now, my friends, and don’t drink too fast. This is a very dry wine.”
The audience burst into laughter and gave me a standing ovation.
Unfortunately, the speech that Tony Rosetti improvised didn’t work quite so well.
35
“Oh, no,” said Rosetti. “No speeches. I don’t like giving speeches.”
He wasn’t acting humble and hoping everyone would insist he speak. I could tell he didn’t want to do it. But the little audience of mobsters and actors wouldn’t give up. They kept shouting, “Speech! Speech!” They applauded. They whistled. They stomped their feet.
I’m not sure why they were so insistent. My own feeling was, if a man doesn’t want to give a speech he shouldn’t have to do it. As I surveyed the little crowd their motivations became clear. The mobsters realized Rosetti was shy and unaccustomed to giving speeches. They wanted him to make a fool of himself. (I had to keep reminding myself these weren’t the nicest people in the world.) The actors, on the other hand, loved speeches at events like this. They figured if people started giving speeches, it would only be a matter of time before they could give one.
Rosetti dragged himself to his feet like a ninety-year-old man at the dog track in Florida reluctantly standing for a recording of “The Star Spangled Banner.” When he did, everyone cheered. They fell silent to hear what he would say.
As Rosetti stood, I could tell from the blank look on his face he had no idea what to say. He stared at the group for what seemed like a full minute, which is almost an eternity when a performer is facing an audience alone. He started to mumble something. I was surprised to hear my own name was the first thing that came out of his mouth.
“Joey Volpe, I want to thank you for organizing this meeting here today. And also the other associates. We have with us Angelo Santoro from New York. Anthony Moretti from Atlantic City. Alfonso Mancini from north Jersey. And Mario Spagnuola from my own hometown of Philadelphia. And all the other associates and actors who came from as far away as Kansas City, California, and all the other territories of the United States. Thank you for coming.”
This was starting to sound familiar.
“How did things ever get so far? It was so unfortunate. So unnecessary. Tattaglia lost a son. And I lost a son. We’re quits.”
At this point, a burst of laughter drowned out Rosetti. He was quoting Vito Corleone from The Godfather. It’s the scene where the heads of the five families came together to call a truce. This from a guy who fifteen minutes ago had told me he was sick of Godfather jokes.
The mobsters and actors at the table ate it up. In fact, they ate it up too much. They started shouting famous lines from the scene at Rosetti.
“Hey, Tony,” said Frank Vincent from The Sopranos. “You can present us with a bill for the dinner. After all, we are not communists!”
Big laugh.
“Of course we’ll pay the bill,” said Jonathan Beason. “We don’t have to make assurances to each other as if we were lawyers!”
Another laugh. I was surprised that Mr. Beason had seen The Godfather, much less memorized it. He struck me as the kind of person who would prefer The Sting.
“We’re all grateful to Don Rosetti for calling this meeting,” said Alfonso Mancini from Jersey. “He’s a modest man. He’ll always listen to reason.”
“He’s too modest,” said Gianni Russo, who was actually in the movie. “He had all the judges and politicians in his pocket. He refused to share them.”
From that point forward, the whole thing devolved into chaos. Rosetti lost control of his audience.
As every actor knows, an audience is a mercurial thing. On the one hand, they’re all rooting for you and want you to succeed. But they have a nose for blood and sweat that would put a hyena to shame. They can smell weakness, uncertainty, and fear before the actor himself feels it. And they will turn on you. It’s like the crowd at a bullfight. They want to see beautifully executed passes and shout, “Olé!” They want to see the sword go into the bull’s back like a knife through butter and watch it drop dead in an instant. But as soon as the first sword bounces off the bull’s shoulder blade, they turn on the matador like a fickle girlfriend. They boo. They whistle. They make catcalls. Now they’re rooting for the bull and hoping he gores the matador to death. All they want to see is blood and they don’t care whose it is. Every audience is like the crowd at a bullfight, a prizefight, or a cockfight—even if they’re dressed in tuxedos and attending the ballet or an opera at the Met. Yes, they want to see excellence, talent, and artistry on display. But they’re just as happy to see blood, guts, and tears. That’s what makes acting such an exhilarating profession. It’s also why opinion polls say most people fear speaking in front of an audience more than they fear death itself.
While the group around the dinner table continued to laugh and shout quotations from The Godfather, Rosetti sat down next to me, deflated. He said nothing for a long time. Then he turned to me and whispered, “I’m worried, Joey.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Rosetti. You thanked them for coming and welcomed them. That’s all you need to do in a speech like that. Heck, you even made them laugh. They’re having a good time. You did great.”
“No, not about that. I’m worried about the convention.”
“Worried about what exactly?”
“I’m worried nobody’s going to come tomorrow.”
“Ah, please don’t worry about that. Charlie tells me the advance reservations have exceeded our goals by a mile. The hotel is filled with gangster fans. If the foot traffic is even half what we expect, we’re going to make out like bandits.” (Perhaps an unfortunate choice of words on my part.)
“That’s just it, Joey. When we walked through the lobby and the casino on the way to the restaurant, I didn’t see a single fan. I didn’t see anybody dressed up like Spiderman, or Superman, or Captain Marvel. I didn’t even see anybody in Star Trek uniforms. It didn’t look anything like Comic-Con in San Diego, Joey. I don’t think there’s anybody here. I think it’s going to be a big bomb.”
“Mr. Rosetti, Tony, listen to me. This i
s Gangster-Con, not Comic-Con. It’s a gangster convention. Remember the big sign outside that said, ‘Welcome, Gangsters.’ Of course nobody here is dressed up in Star Trek uniforms or superhero outfits. The people are fans of gangster movies.”
“So how come they’re not dressed up like gangsters?”
“They’re not into that kind of thing, Mr. Rosetti. They’re older, for the most part, in their forties or fifties. They’ve got their wives with them. Not the type to slather their faces with greasepaint and glitter. They’ve got beer bellies. They dress in cargo pants and golf shirts and big white running shoes.”
“Well, I did see a lot of fat guys dressed in cargo pants and golf shirts.”
“See what I mean? The hotel is filled with them. After dinner, go outside and look around. You’ll see thousands of them. Tens of thousands. And most of them are coming to Gangster-Con tomorrow. We’re all going to be rich by this time tomorrow night, Mr. Rosetti. Relax this evening and have a good time.”
Rosetti sat to the right of me, and my old friend Jeremiah Pennington was at my left. You may be wondering on what pretext I invited the Star Trek actor to this gangster convention. Well, there was a computerized device on the later versions of Star Trek called the holodeck. It was a virtual-reality game that crew members on the starship used for recreation and entertainment. They could program the holodeck to put themselves into any scenario they could imagine. If they wanted to take part in the shootout at the OK Corral, they’d give the holodeck a few instructions and—poof!—they were holding a six-shooter and staring Wyatt Earp in the face. In one episode, Jeremiah Pennington’s character wanted to go back to the Prohibition era in Chicago and play a gangster who had a violent confrontation with Al Capone. I never saw the episode myself. The truth is, I wanted Jerry to be there for moral support.
Steven Dubois had never played a gangster, not even in the holodeck. But believe it or not, I invited him to Gangster-Con, too. Amazingly, he accepted. Despite the fact that I was responsible for him getting shot in the foot. He was either a very forgiving guy, or he couldn’t pass up one of these Fan-Cons. Why did I invite him? Well, it wouldn’t be a real Fan-Con without him. At the moment, he was sitting between two mobsters and talking to them about the relative merits of Bruno Magli versus Salvatore Ferragamo shoes.
I turned to Rosetti and said, “Mr. Rosetti, have you met my old friend, Jeremiah Pennington of Star Trek fame?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Rosetti, and he reached across me to shake Jerry’s hand.
“An honor to meet you, sir,” said Pennington. “Joey’s been telling me all about you.”
“Jerry, Mr. Rosetti is worried because nobody in the hotel is dressed up in costumes.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Rosetti” said Jerry. “Only sci-fi and superhero fans engage in that kind of foolishness. Gangster fans have more class.”
“Yeah, that’s what Joey just told me. I hope he’s right.”
“Oh, he’s right, Mr. Rosetti. Trust me, I’ve been to a million of these conventions over the years.”
After a few minutes, Rosetti started talking to the guy on the other side of him, so Jerry and I had a moment to speak in private. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Yep. All set.”
“You know exactly what to do?”
“I do.”
“When I give you the sign, that’s when you start talking to the other actors. But not before I give you the sign.”
“I know, Joey, I know.”
“I hope you don’t mind the way I keep going over this business.”
“No, not at all.”
“It’s an old habit. I spent my whole life trying not to be careless.”
“Now you’re quoting from The Godfather.”
I didn’t realize it, but I was. I was quoting from the scene where Michael and his father are talking in the garden. So we both laughed.
Rosetti touched me on the shoulder, and I felt a chill go down my spine. Had he heard what Jerry and I were talking about?
Fortunately, no.
“Joey, I want to introduce you to somebody. An associate of mine from Philadelphia. Mario Spagnuola. On the street, they call him Spags.”
I reached in front of Rosetti and shook hands with the mobster on his right.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said.
I hadn’t seen Spags since the day I left the Hoover Federal Correctional Complex. But I’d talked to him over the phone several times. He was helping me and Nigel on this caper. Not so much for the money, although we were cutting him in for a nice piece of the action. I think he liked the idea of screwing Rosetti.
“Likewise. What did you say your last name was?”
“Volpe. Like a fox.”
“You know, Spags, Joey lives in New York City now,” said Rosetti. “But he’s from Philly originally. Maybe you two have met before.”
“Where in Philly are you from?” said Spagnuola.
“Gladwyne.”
“Gladwyne. Ha! The only time I ever got to Gladwyne was to crack a safe in some rich guy’s house. I live in Little Italy, near the cheesesteak restaurants.”
“That’s ironic,” I said. “The only time I ever got to Little Italy was to have a wooder ice.”
“A wooder ice?” Spagnuola laughed and turned to Rosetti. “You’re right, this guy really is from Philly.”
“Come to think of it,” said Rosetti. “You two might have met in the joint. Spags, weren’t you at Hoover in Arizona for a few months?”
“Yeah, I was there until my lawyer sprung me on a technicality.”
“Joey was there, too. Two years. He got mixed up in some armed robbery deal. Not his fault. Lousy lawyer. Did you two ever run into each other out there?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Which building were you in at Hoover, Mr. Spagnuola?”
“Call me Spags. Everybody does. I was in max.”
“Oh, well, that explains it. I was in minimum.”
“You were in minimum? Lucky son of a bitch. I heard that was like doing your time at the Rittenhouse Hotel.”
“Well, it wasn’t quite that nice. It could’ve been worse, I guess.”
“It’s like old home week here,” said Rosetti. “Hey, Joey, could you do me a favor?”
Another chill went down my spine. There was nothing like having a gangster ask you for a favor. The only thing worse was having a gangster do you a favor.
“After dinner is over, can we take a peek at the ballroom?”
“Well, Mr. Rosetti, they’re still working on it, you know. The construction crews and volunteers are going to be working all night. We’ll be lucky if it’s finished by the time we open the doors tomorrow morning.”
I didn’t know what to expect to find in the grand ballroom at the Mirage. Beason was in charge of all the preparations there. When I poked my nose in the ballroom after I arrived at the hotel that morning, it was empty except for some cardboard boxes and folding tables. I wasn’t sure how much Beason was able to do, or planned to do, in the meantime. If Rosetti saw an empty ballroom a few hours before the opening of the convention, he’d shoot me on the spot.
“I still want to see it,” said Rosetti. “It’ll make the whole thing seem more real to me.”
“Okay.”
“Right now, it seems like a mirage.”
“It is a mirage,” said Spagnuola. “The Mirage Hotel and Casino.”
Rosetti laughed.
I didn’t.
36
The rest of the dinner party went well. The actors and mobsters got along famously. The mobsters were fascinated by the actors. No surprise there. What surprised me was that the actors paid some attention to the mobsters, too.
Actors usually don’t show the slightest interest in what someone outside of show business does—unless they’re paid to follow somebody to prepare for a role. Even then, they only pretend to be interested. Sometimes they ask a reporter or a publicist to follow them around, saying, in
effect: “Watch me while I watch this person.”
At Collicchio’s Steakhouse, both the real gangsters and the fake gangsters seemed to enjoy one another’s company. That is, until I overheard one of the Atlantic City gangsters come up to Rosetti and say, “Tony, can I speak with you man-to-man?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Why did you sit me next to a fanook?”
“What fanook?”
“The little French faggot over there.” He pointed to Steven Dubois.
“How do you know he’s a fanook?”
“I saw him on Oprah, that’s how.”
“Look, Pete, it’s not fanook. It’s finocchio. If you’re going to say these words, learn how to speak Italian for chrissakes.”
“I didn’t say he was a puppet. I said he was a queer.”
“Not Pinocchio. Finocchio!”
“Pinocchio, finocchio, what difference does it make? He’s a fag and I don’t want to sit next to him.”
“If you’re watching Oprah in the middle of the day, maybe you’re the fanook. Did you ever think about that? If it bugs you so much, talk to the guy on the other side of you.”
“The guy on the other side is a rat. He sold out Sonny Corleone. He beat up his wife just so Sonny would leave the compound and take the causeway into Manhattan.”
He was talking about Gianni Russo, who played Carlo in The Godfather.
“It’s a movie for chrissakes,” said Rosetti. “Sit down and shut the fuck up. Eat your cannoli or I’ll stick it in your face.”
We were four hours into the evening at this point, and I think we were all suffering from the barbershop-mirror effect. Or maybe it was the funhouse-mirror effect. Nobody could tell what was real and what wasn’t. Was this an actor? Or a mobster? Or an actor playing a mobster? Or a mobster playing an actor who was playing a mobster? What with the infinitely receding reflections of reality, plus all the red wine we were drinking, not to mention my anxiety, I was getting a headache and wanted to wrap it up.
Then one of the waiters spilled a few drops of wine on Dennis Farina’s cashmere sport coat. The waiter got so scared I thought he was going to shit his pants. He kept saying, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m so sorry, send me the bill, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll get it dry-cleaned. No, I’ll buy you a new one.”
The Don Con Page 24