“Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
(I assume I don’t have to provide the attribution for that quotation.)
“Ah, my old friend, Ganymede,” said Nigel. “I haven’t seen you since we set up those phony offices in San Diego.”
“Good to see you again, Nigel.”
Spags held out his hand and said, “We haven’t met.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Mario Spagnuola, this is my wife, Caitlin Volpe.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Spagnuola.”
“Call me Spags. Everybody does.”
Then another old friend showed up.
“What the fuck are all you guys doing in the bar for chrissakes? We’ve got a convention to run out there. There are ten thousand people on the ballroom floor. I could use a little help. It’s eleven in the morning and you’re hitting the bar already?”
“We’re coming, Charlie, we’re coming. Hey, Caitlin,” I said, “do you have your cell phone with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, I want you to take a picture.”
“Of what?”
“Of Nigel, Charlie, Spags, and me in the prison cell,” I said. “Just for old times sake.”
40
We made eight million dollars altogether on Gangster-Con, after expenses. We split it four ways. Two million each for Nigel, Charlie, Spags, and me. Nobody complained or asked for more. Who says there isn’t honor among thieves?
Then again, we made that money legally and on an investment of 350,000 dollars OPM—courtesy of Rosetti and partners. In the end, we made good on Spags’s promise to the partners and paid back the front money, minus the fifty thousand dollars Rosetti put up. Neither Spags nor Nigel had the slightest intention of paying taxes on their profit. They were career criminals, after all. Charlie, Caitlin, and I—good upstanding citizens all—gave Uncle Sam his share of the take.
That left me and Caitlin with a little more than 1.3 million dollars. More than enough money to do what we should’ve done twenty years earlier after we graduated from Yale. We moved to Los Angeles where actors can find some decent work. I told Caitlin, “Let’s focus on your career for a while, and I’ll take care of Bianca this time.”
Sure enough, she started gaining traction as an actress within a few weeks after we arrived in Los Angeles. She had the perfect look for commercials. Even though she was over forty, she still looked young enough to play a mother with small children. (Heck, she was a mother with a small child!) She was pretty, but not too pretty, if you know what I mean. Commercial casting directors love that look. In her first year in LA, she shot commercials for Pampers, McDonald’s, and Cascade dishwashing liquid. The money started rolling in. So did the attention from casting directors who specialized in film and television.
She started landing some day-player roles on sitcoms and hour-long TV dramas. It was like I’d always heard: When success finally comes, it comes fast.
One day, she got a call from her agent for an audition for a sitcom. This wasn’t a day-player or a guest-star role. She was up for one of the biggest recurring roles on the show. Not the star of the show, but the star’s next-door neighbor. Yes, she was the “sitcom neighbor,” the best role in television: You don’t have to memorize as many lines as the star but you usually get most of the good ones.
Our little family was rolling in money and as happy as a family of three could be. Or maybe I should say a family of five. Because the best part was that we repaid my parents all the money we’d borrowed over the years. With interest. Or vigorish, as we call it in the Mafia. Plus, we gave them a Mercedes for Christmas. Even better, they got the chance to see their granddaughter more often than they could when we weren’t speaking to each other.
As Bianca got older and we could afford a nanny for her, I tried to get back into acting. But my heart wasn’t in it. I landed a few walk-on jobs. They seemed so dull compared to the things I’d done with Nigel, Charlie, and Spags. Even the heist I pulled off with Rosetti. That was life on the edge. That was real life. Pretending to be somebody in front of a television camera didn’t seem so exciting anymore.
For the time being, I was content with being a house husband and a Mr. Mom. What is fame and fortune, after all, compared to the love of a beautiful daughter and a wonderful wife? And hey, it doesn’t hurt if that wife happens to be rich and famous, too.
While Caitlin went off to work at the television studio every day, I made the most of the time I had with Bianca while she was still young enough to think her daddy walked on water. One Saturday morning, she wanted go to the Cosmopolitan Studios theme park. I was happy to oblige, even though I hated the place. Bianca, on the other hand, thought it was heaven on earth.
After stopping at the bank near our house in Beverly Hills to load up on cash, we headed off to the amusement park. The studio where Caitlin shot her television show was nearby, so I told Bianca we could stop and see Mommy at work afterward. Bianca got a kick out of that because the other actors and technicians on the set treated her like a visiting princess. Caitlin loved having her there, too, although Saturday was a busy day for her. She’d be doing a final dress rehearsal in the morning and shooting in front of a live audience that evening. But I knew she could spare a few minutes for me and Bianca.
Have you ever been to Cosmopolitan Studios theme park? If not, don’t bother. If you have, you know what it’s like. It’s a tourist trap with a phony bus tour of movie sets, lots of lousy restaurants, and several other cheesy attractions and dopey rides. There was one kiddie ride, in particular, that Bianca couldn’t get enough of. I was sick of it. So I bought one ticket and gave it to her.
“You’re old enough to go on the ride by yourself now,” I said. “Daddy will be right here waiting for you when you get off, okay?”
“Okay,” she said with a big smile. I think she was happy to be ditching her dad. She was reaching the age where it was more fun to do stuff like that alone.
As I stood along the fence line watching Bianca go up and down on the ride, I nodded to another single father standing next to me.
“Daddy’s day out with his little girl, huh?” he said.
“Yeah, she loves it here,” I said. “Heaven knows why.”
“My boy does, too. I keep trying to take him to Santa Anita instead, but he insists on the amusement park.”
I laughed. “Which one is your son?”
“He’s the one with the Dodgers baseball cap. The divorce agreement says I get him two weekends a month. I try to do whatever he wants. I spoil him, I guess. But what the hell. Have you got the same deal with your ex?”
“No, we’re still married. My wife works on Saturdays. I like to let Bianca choose whatever she wants to do on that day.”
“Bianca? That’s a pretty name.”
“We thought so. It’s from Shakespeare. The Taming of the Shrew. Of the two sisters, Bianca is the pretty one. Not the mean one.”
He was no longer listening to me. He had that glaze in his eyes that people sometimes get when I’m quoting Shakespeare. I realized he wasn’t bored, he was looking at something.
“Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or do you see something glittering underneath that bench over there?”
I looked where he was pointing. “Yeah, I see it.”
“What the heck is it? A bracelet?”
“Let’s take a look.”
So we walked over to the bench, and I picked it up.
“Wow,” I said. “It’s a Rolex watch.”
“Let me look at it,” he said. He studied it for a minute. “This isn’t just any Rolex watch, my friend. I happen to know a little about fine timepieces. It’s a gold Rolex Presidential Limited Edition. It’s got diamond studs in the numerals and platinum bars in the band. Day and date. Self-winding. Sweep second hand. Even a moon-phase indicator. That’s rare as hell, dude. This watch is worth fifty grand if it’s worth a penny.”
“I wonder who it belongs to?”
He was quiet for a long time.
<
br /> “I guess it belongs to us now,” he said.
“Finders keepers, losers weepers?”
“That’s the rule I’ve always played by. But we both found it.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We both found it. I’m not trying to cheat you.”
“We can’t both wear it, though, can we?”
“No, we can’t.”
“Look, I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I know a pawnshop about thirty minutes from here. An hour at the most if there’s traffic on the freeway. The guy there is honest. He won’t give us the full fifty thousand for it. No pawnshop will do that—the watch is used and they’re in business to make a profit. But he might give us twenty-five grand for it. Fifteen at least.”
“I don’t have time to go to a pawnshop,” I said. “My kid would go nuts if I tried to drag her out of here now.”
“Yeah, mine, too.”
We stood there for several minutes trying to come up with a fair solution to the problem.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve already got plenty of nice watches. The Lord has been good to me. If we can agree on a fair price, I’ll sell you my share.”
I smiled. For some reason, I really wanted that watch. Despite all the money I made on Gangster-Con—and all the money Caitlin was making as an actress—I never got around to buying myself a nice watch. I remembered Rosetti making a nasty comment about my Timex on the day he kidnapped Gizmo. How ironic, I thought. I could have a gangster-style Rolex like Rosetti himself used to wear and get it on the cheap.
“How much cash do you have on you right now?” asked the man.
“I just stopped at the bank on my way here,” I said. “I’ve got a thousand bucks on me. But that’s all I’m afraid.”
“Well, this is your lucky day, dude. I’m going to make you a deal. I’ll sell you my share of the watch for a thousand bucks. You can pawn it if you want. You can put it in your safety-deposit box to help pay for your retirement. Or you can wear it and let your friends think you won the lottery.”
“Just a thousand bucks? Really?”
“You’re making out like a bandit, man. Have we got a deal?”
“You better believe it.” I pulled out my wallet and gave him all the cash I’d taken out of the bank.
“Wear it in good health, my friend,” he said. And he started backing away.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’ve got to hit the men’s room. Watch my kid for me until I get back, will you? The one in the Dodgers cap.”
“Okay.”
I wouldn’t have left my child alone under those circumstances, but there are all kinds of parents in the world. I didn’t give it much thought, though, because I was distracted by my new watch. I strapped the gold band on my wrist, and it fit perfectly. The diamond numerals glittered in the Southern California sun.
I noticed something strange.
The second hand was jumping from one second to the next. Click, click, click. I didn’t know a lot about watches, but I knew that wasn’t typical of a Rolex. That’s what cheap quartz watches did. The sweep of the second hand on a fine Swiss watch like a Rolex is supposed to move smoothly around the dial. I didn’t think Rolex even made a quartz watch. This knockoff on my wrist was probably worth about twenty-five bucks, tops.
“Hey, wait a second! Come back here!”
The man was a hundred yards from me now and walking fast. I thought about chasing him, but the kiddie ride was coming to an end and I promised Bianca I’d be waiting for her when she got off. Sure enough, the kid in the Dodgers cap ran up to his mother and father and asked them if he could go on the ride again.
“Why are you crying, Daddy?” said Bianca when she came up to me.
“I’m not crying, honey. I’m laughing.”
I was laughing so hard I could barely speak. Tears were pouring out of my eyes. Like I said before, tears were always coming out of my eyes for one reason or another.
“What’s so funny, Daddy?”
“Oh, nothing, sweetheart,” I said. “Daddy just realized his life is a comedy after all. So I started laughing.”
“Can I go on the ride again?”
“Sure, honey, but I need to find a cash machine. Then we’ll come back here and you can ride as many times as you want.”
Do you feel sorry for me that I got ripped off by a con man? Forget about it. I learned an important lesson in life. All it cost me was a thousand bucks, two years in jail, and twenty years trying to make it as an actor.
Merchant of Venice, Act II, Scene Seven:
“All that glitters is not gold.”
Acknowledgments
Shakespeare actually wrote “All that glisters is not gold.” And when Juliet says “Wherefore art thou, Romeo,” she means why are you Romeo, not where are you, Romeo. Please forgive me for taking those liberties with the Bard’s immortal words.
I also owe an apology to Trekkies (or Trekkers, if you prefer) for taking many liberties with the plots, characters, episodes, and versions of Star Trek. In my defense, I can only offer the weak excuse that it’s much more difficult to master the intricacies of Star Trek than the thirty-seven (thirty-eight?) plays of William Shakespeare.
I am indebted to Rob Salkowitz’s excellent book Comic-Con and the Business of Pop Culture for teaching me what I needed to know about fan conventions in general and Comic-Con in particular. The image of the Bat Family on the convention floor was borrowed directly from Mr. Salkowitz’s book.
Anybody who writes a book on con artists stands on the shoulders of the late David W. Mauer, whose classic book The Big Con lays out step-by-step how confidence men work, think, and talk. Mr. Mauer was the Herodotus—and the Margaret Mead—of the underground world of con artistry.
I’m glad to say that everything I know about prison comes from surfing the internet. So I’m grateful to Justin Paperny and Walt Pavlo, who talk about life inside a minimum security federal prison with great insight, compassion, and sensitivity in a series of short online videos available on YouTube.
Speaking of prison, the character of Charlie Scott, Joey Volpe’s cubie, is a wholly fictional character. But I owe a tip of the hat to the late, great copywriter Gary Halbert for giving me the idea of a prisoner writing a book about marketing to his two children. Bond and Kevin Halbert, all grown up now, still offer Gary’s excellent book, The Boron Letters, for sale on Amazon.
There really is a restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego owned by a former matador. His name is Paul Dobson and his restaurant is called Dobson’s. And it really does serve the best mussel soup en croute in the world. But that’s where the similarity to the Cape & Sword ends. Of course, Mr. Dobson played no role whatsoever in the shenanigans portrayed in this fictional satire. (Neither did Gwyneth Paltrow!)
I’m deeply grateful to all the people who read the book in manuscript form and offered advice, guidance, and encouragement. They include Dorinne Armstrong, Carl Scott, Deke Castleman, Justine Walp, Renee James, Louis Wasser, Gretchen Archer, Donna Baier Stein, Ann Bauer, Alexa Stark and Ellen Levine of the Trident Media Group, the late Beverly Swerling, Michael Willis, Lori Willis, Jane Brookstein, the late Max Busetti, Bill Mueller, John Bullion, and especially my wife, Sharon Armstrong, who continues to believe in my ability as a writer despite mounting evidence to the contrary.
Many thanks to all the people at Linden/Pace for being thoroughly professional and utterly delightful to work with—especially my editor Kent Sorsky and my publicist Jaguar Bennett, as well as my personal publicist Claire McKinney. Special thanks to my friend Bob Bly, author of nearly one hundred books and an expert on the publishing world, who encouraged me to send the manuscript to Linden.
This book never would’ve come into being if my wife and I hadn’t had dinner one night in Maine with my dear friend of forty-plus years, Jonathan Frakes, who played Commander Riker on Star Trek: The Next Generation. He regaled us with funny stories about fan conventions. Until that moment, I never knew such
a thing existed. Thanks also to Jonathan for inviting me to join him for a magical evening at the Louisville SuperCon where we had dinner and drinks with William Shatner, LeVar Burton, and Henry Winkler. Meeting Captain Kirk, Kunta Kinte, and The Fonz was like hitting the trifecta of iconic television stars.
Finally, to all the actors out there, the extras and the stars, the wannabes and the washed-ups, the has-beens and never-weres, I salute you! Don’t forget—and never regret—what you did for love.
ALSO BY RICHARD ARMSTRONG
Leaving the Nest
(with Dorinne Armstrong)
The Next Hurrah
God Doesn’t Shoot Craps
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Armstrong’s first book, Leaving the Nest (coauthored with his mother, Dorinne Armstrong), was published by William Morrow & Co. in 1986 and had five printings. His second book, The Next Hurrah, was published by Morrow in 1988. It was praised by the Los Angeles Times as “captivating and complete” and by Kirkus Reviews as “One of the best books on the ramifications of the electronic political process since Joe McGinniss’s The Selling of a President.” His first novel, God Doesn’t Shoot Craps, was published by Sourcebooks in 2006 and optioned for film by the producers of the Broadway show Xanadu. A 1974 graduate of Carleton College, he works as a freelance advertising copywriter and lives with his wife Sharon in the Glover Park neighborhood of Washington, DC. If you’d like to contact Richard Armstrong with questions or comments, or about interview or book club requests, please visit www.TheDonCon.com.
The Don Con Page 27