“What the fuck is this?” said Rosetti. “What the FUCK is this? This is fake. Fake money. You motherfuckers. Do you know who the fuck you’re dealing with?”
Nigel and I had backed out the door and into the adjoining room. Nigel took out a key and locked the door from the outside. Immediately, Rosetti started banging on the door, but we were safe for the time being.
“What if he starts shooting, Nigel?”
“He doesn’t have a gun.”
“How do you know he doesn’t have a gun?”
“Because I borrowed it from him this morning when I shook his hand. I gave him a man hug and came away with a handgun.” He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and showed me.
“Got his Rolex, too. Couldn’t help myself. Old habits.”
“That was risky.”
“Life is risky, my dear boy. That’s what makes it interesting.”
Rosetti was still banging on the door and screaming. “You two cocksuckers are dead men. Do you hear me? Dead! I’m not going to make it easy for you either. I’m going to make you suffer. Do you hear me, assholes?”
From the day I first met him at Hoover, Nigel was the coolest customer I’d ever known in my life. He tapped on the door with his knuckles.
“Listen to me, dear boy. Please do calm down a bit. Everything’s going to turn out fine. Just relax and you’ll be out of there soon enough.”
“You’re a fucking dead man, Beason!” came Rosetti’s muffled scream from inside.
“What about his telephone?” I asked.
“Cell phone or hotel phone?”
“I didn’t even think about his cell phone.”
“I did,” said Nigel, and he pulled Rosetti’s cell phone out of his pocket.
“What about the hotel phone?”
“Disconnected,” said Nigel.
“The other door to that room?”
“I locked it from the outside. Tricky, but it can be done.”
“Shouldn’t we put the Do Not Disturb signs on the doors so the maids don’t let him out?”
“The maids haven’t even started work yet, Joey. Too early. They won’t find him for another hour. By that time we’ll be long gone. It doesn’t matter if they let him out. We want them to let him out before too long.”
With Rosetti still screaming and banging on the door, Nigel and I left the room and took the elevator downstairs. By the time we got to the grand ballroom, it was 9:15 am. Theoretically, Gangster-Con had been open for fifteen minutes. But nobody—and I mean nobody—was there. Not a single fan. Not even a curious bystander.
The actors, writers, and retired gangsters all sat there playing their parts, waiting for the hordes of fans to arrive. Rosetti’s little group of investors looked dumbfounded and disappointed. But there was another look on their faces, and it became evident with each passing minute: They were angry.
After a while, I looked at my watch. It was almost nine thirty. I caught Jeremiah Pennington’s eye and nodded. He took his cue like the pro he was.
Jerry stood up and, loud enough for everyone in the ballroom to hear, shouted “What the fuck is this? Where is everybody? I was promised thousands of fans.”
Some of the other actors started mumbling in agreement.
“Hey, you,” said Jerry, pointing to me. “What’s your name again?”
“Joey Volpe.”
“You’re one of the guys who organized this thing, right?”
“Well, I’m really just an actor.”
“But this was your bright idea, right? You put this thing together, am I right?”
“I guess so.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Where the hell is everybody? You told me we’d have ten thousand fans here this morning. You told me I’d walk away with fifty thousand bucks in autograph fees.”
“He told me that, too” said Frank Vincent of The Sopranos.
“You fucking lied to us, man,” said Jerry. “This thing is a total bomb. I’m a big star, for chrissakes. I don’t have to put up with this shit.”
“Well, like I said, I’m just an—”
“I don’t even know who you are,” said Jerry. “What show were you on?”
“I was on The Sopranos and …”
“He wasn’t on The Sopranos,” said Frank Vincent. “I can tell you that for damn sure.”
“… and Button Men.”
“Button Men? Who ever saw that show?” said Jerry. “It was canceled after the first commercial. You know what I think? I think you’re a con man. I think this whole thing is a fake and a fraud. And I’m getting out of here right now.”
“Don’t leave, Mr. Pennington, please.”
He ignored me and spoke to all the other actors in the room. “How many people here are members of SAG-AFTRA?”
Two dozen hands went up.
“How about Actors’ Equity?
Most of the hands stayed up.
“Well, listen to me, my union brothers. I’ve been active in the Screen Actors Guild ever since I first came to Hollywood. Even before I got into television, I was the Equity deputy in the plays I did in New York. I take our unions very seriously, gentlemen. Without unions, producers would still be paying actors with room and board. Without unions, there would be no residuals. No catering on the set. No mandatory five-minute breaks every fifteen minutes. Life as we know it would not be the same, gentlemen. I’m declaring a wildcat strike right here and now. I say we walk out of here. Who’s coming with me?”
“I am,” said Frank Vincent.
“Brotherhood!” said Dennis Farina.
Nigel nudged me and whispered into my ear. “Did your friend Jerry ever do Hank Cinq?”
“Henry the Fifth? I don’t think so.”
“What a pity. He’d be perfect for it.”
Every actor in the ballroom cheered and started to follow Jerry out the door. The writers followed suit in solidarity, although the writers weren’t unionized. Good thing, too, or you’d be paying as much for a book as a Broadway show. You’d pay a hundred bucks for the next John Grisham novel. (Even a far-fetched story about gangsters and actors would run you seventy-five.) The retired mobsters joined the walkout, too. After all, many of them were union workers themselves—albeit of the no-show variety.
“Wait a second,” I said to them as they filed past me. “This isn’t even a union production.”
They ignored me and before I knew it, they were gone. Nigel and I were standing in the middle of the grand ballroom of the Mirage Hotel, surrounded by a group of Rosetti’s investors, some of whom were starting to get mad as hell.
“I think we’d better get going, too,” said Nigel. “The natives are starting to look restless.”
“Good idea,” I said.
By the time Nigel and I got to the taxi stand, the last group of actors took the cab in front of us.
“Follow that cab,” Nigel ordered the driver. He turned to me with a smile. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
I laughed. “Maybe we should tell the driver where we’re going anyway in case they shake our tail.”
“You’re absolutely right, dear boy,” said Nigel. “Follow that cab, my good man, and take us to Bellagio.”
Bellagio was a half mile from the Mirage, but the cabbie didn’t complain. Las Vegas taxi drivers were used to taking these short hops from one casino to another. The sad thing is that many of them have to wait in line for an hour to pick up one of these lousy fares. I was sure Nigel would give him a big tip. He tipped big wherever he went.
When we got to Bellagio two minutes later, I saw the giant marquee. I was happy to see we got top billing again. The flashing digital sign said, “WELCOME, GANGSTERS!”