He adds, “Tower wanted to cut his losses. Lawrence didn’t.”
“Were they angry?”
“I was able to smooth it over. Sometimes, my clients don’t need a lawyer–they need a shrink. They decided to give the information to the other investors and let them decide.”
“What other issues did you discuss?”
“Matters concerning the operation of the fund.”
Could you be a bit more vague? “Such as?”
“Nothing earth-shattering.”
Evasiveness doesn’t become you. “Chamberlain told us a hundred grand was missing.”
The last remnant of affability disappears. “Not true. Tower had some cash flow problems, so he took an advance.”
“Did he tell you about it?”
“Of course.”
“Before or after he took the money?”
He clears his throat and says, “After. I told him that he should be more careful about any transaction that involves an interested party.”
It’s one thing to give somebody the benefit of the doubt, but it’s another to let them pilfer a hundred grand. I say, “Mr. Chamberlain told me it was the type of transaction that required a vote of all of the partners.”
“It was. If he had told me about it beforehand, I would have advised him to obtain the approval of his partners. In my view, he was guilty of sloppiness, but not fraud.”
Right. “Yet you advised Mr. Chamberlain to investigate.”
“That’s my job.” His tone turns patronizing. “In the post-Madoff world, I told him he had a fiduciary duty to conduct a full investigation of any questionable insider transaction.”
Sounds like Grayson got caught red-handed with his fingers in the cookie jar. Where I come from, we used to call that sort of thing stealing.
He tries to take the offensive. “Tower disclosed the relevant information to the other investors and made a full and complete restitution, with interest. I always tell my clients that it’s better to fix mistakes than to cover them up. End of the story.”
If it was merely a mistake, you self-righteous ass. I say, “Mr. Chamberlain said that some of the investors wanted to replace Mr. Grayson as the investment manger.”
The phony smile reappears. “Lawrence gave you a lot of information,” he says. He tries to buy time while he collects his thoughts. “You’re still a good lawyer.”
You never mentioned it when we were working together. “So, did the partners want to replace Grayson as investment manager?”
Lucas gives me a circumspect look. “What does that have to do with Tower’s death?”
Rosie interjects, “Maybe nothing.” Her voice takes on a cross-exam tone when she adds, “Are you going to answer?”
Lucas stakes a nonchalant pose and says, “Lawrence suggested to Tower that his credibility had been compromised and that it might have been appropriate to step aside. Lawrence would have taken over as investment manager.”
This would have entitled him to the lucrative fees. “What was Mr. Grayson’s response?”
“A rather heated discussion ensued. Tower said he wouldn’t step aside voluntarily and Lawrence said that he was going to hire a lawyer to solicit the approval of the other investors to replace him. It’s hard to tell if he was serious. Lawrence can be a hothead.”
I ask, “Do you have any idea why Grayson needed the money?”
He answers immediately, “Nope.”
He has a good poker face and I can’t tell if he’s trying to hide something. “Mr. Chamberlain suggested that Mr. Grayson was having marital and financial problems.”
“Mr. Chamberlain is prone to exaggeration.”
He’s holding something back. I ask, “Are you aware that Mrs. Grayson hired a private investigator to follow her husband?”
He stops cold. His voice is barely audible when he says, “No.” He hesitates for a beat before he asks, “Where did you get that information?”
“We hired our own private investigator. We confirmed it with Mrs. Grayson.”
Lucas doesn’t respond.
“Evidently,” I say, “the PI discovered that Mr. Grayson was regularly patronizing an adult theater called Basic Needs.”
“Mr. Grayson’s private life was none of my business.”
“Mrs. Grayson confirmed that information, too.”
Lucas starts drumming his fingers on his desk, but he doesn’t say anything.
I try to hold onto the initiative, “Mr. Grayson placed a call around two A.M. on Friday morning to a cell phone that was owned by Basic Needs.”
The drumming gets louder.
“Do you have any idea who he was calling?”
He stares at his fingertips and says, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
# # #
The cultivated voice on my cell phone has the polished inflection of a network news anchor. “Mr. Daley, it’s Arthur Carponelli.”
Rosie and I are in the lobby of Four Embarcadero Center at four o’clock on Monday afternoon. We just finished with Lucas and I didn’t expect to hear from Carponelli so soon. Frankly, I didn’t expect to hear from him at all. “Thanks for returning my call,” I tell him.
“Not a problem. I understand you stopped by our shop yesterday evening.”
“Yes, we did. We spoke to Kenny Vinson.”
“I trust he was helpful.”
Right. “Yes, he was.”
Rosie gives me an inquisitive look. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and whisper, “Artie Carponelli. He sounds like Peter Jennings.” I return to my conversation with my new friend. “Mr. Carponelli,” I say, “Kenny may have mentioned to you that we’re representing Leon Walker.”
“I saw you on the news last night.”
Fame. I search for the right words. “I understand that you were at your, uh, establishment on Thursday night.”
“I was. I’ve given my statement to the police.”
“Did they mention that the victim placed a call to a cell phone that was registered in the name of your business right before he died?”
“Yes, they did.”
“We’d like to talk to you about it.”
“I’d be delighted. If you’re free, why don’t you come over to my office? I’ll track down the information while you’re on your way over.”
Not that I’ve had vast experience, but he’s certainly the most helpful pornographer I’ve ever met. “We’ll meet you at the club.”
“Actually, my office is on the fortieth floor at 600 Montgomery Street.”
What the hell? “It’s a date.” I hit the end button and close my cell phone. I turn to Rosie and tell her that we’ve been invited to meet Carponelli.
“Maybe we can catch the afternoon show at Basic Needs.”
“Actually, it seems he’s running an adult entertainment empire from the penthouse of the Transamerica Pyramid.”
*****
Chapter 27
“We Provide a Legitimate Service to a Diversified Clientele”
“Our professional management team is dedicated to customer satisfaction.”
— Basic Needs Website.
Instead of a smoke-filled back room on Sixth Street, at five o’clock Monday afternoon, Rosie and I are awaiting an audience with Artie Carponelliin a wood-paneled reception area on the fortieth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid, San Francisco’s most recognizable high rise. Carponelli’s empire looks more like an investment bank than a sex shop. The adjacent conference room has a polished marble table and an unobstructed view of Coit Tower, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. Except for the posters for the soft-core porn flicks on the walls, it could pass for the boardroom of a Fortune 500 company.
Rosie glances at the young woman sitting behind the redwood reception desk, just below the sleek BNI corporate logo. With long blonde hair, model-perfect skin and surgically enhanced breasts, she bears an uncanny resemblance to Cameron Diaz. She flashes a smile and takes another call. Rosie whispers, “I was expecting the office to be a lit
tle earthier.”
So was I.
She studies the logo and asks, “What does BNI stand for?”
I found the answer on the company’s website. “Basic Needs International,” I say.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
She takes a sip of Peet’s coffee from a bone china cup. Artie Carponelligets points for his taste in java. Another young woman with perfect features struts into the reception area and greets us with a firm handshake. If the receptionist is Cameron Diaz, then she’s Drew Barrymore. Unlike Cameron, who is decked out in a revealing blouse and a tight skirt, Drew is dressed like an associate at a big law firm. She gives us a professional smile and says in a clipped tone that bears the hint of a French accent, “I’m Mr. Carponelli’s assistant, Simone.”
Give Artie his due. Whether it’s the design of his office or the design of his personal assistant, he has exquisite taste.
She leads us up a stairway to the forty-first floor, then takes us through corridors that are less opulent, but still nicely appointed. She opens the thick double doors to Carponelli’sinner sanctum and I’m wholly unprepared for what I see. His office is five times the size of Brad Lucas’s and the cloudless blue sky provides the backdrop for a stunning one hundred and eighty degree view that extends from the FarrallonIslands to the Berkeley hills.
In terms of real estate, Carponelli’s office outnumbers Lucas’s in desks (four to two), sofas (four to one), bookcases (eight to two), conference tables (three to one), and state-of-the-art audio/visual systems (one to nothing). Desk number one is a massive expanse of hand-carved cherry wood that’s akin to the family home in Pacific Heights. Number two is a rosewood model that represents the summer home at Lake Tahoe. Number three is made of sleek Plexiglas and chrome and is the condo in Maui. Number four is an antique roll-top that might pass for the stylish pied-à-terre in Paris, and seems a bit embarrassed to be among its younger and more pretentious neighbors. Adjacent to it is a mini-theater that includes a huge flat-screen along with two dozen theater seats. I was once invited to visit George Lucas’s private screening room at Skywalker Ranch. The stars of Carponelli’s dirty movies may not be featured in Happy Meals, but the Head Jedi Knight’s screening room has nothing on Artie’s.
A man with chiseled features and a top-of-the-line Italian suit is pouring himself a Perrier. He saunters toward us and offers his hand. His grip is firm and his smile appears genuine as he says in an engaging baritone, “I’m Arthur Carponelli.”
And I’m shocked. I’ve never met a pornographer before, but Artie Carponelli isn’t what I expected. He looks and sounds like a Harvard MBA. He’s also younger than I had imagined. A buff, boyish man in his late thirties with gleaming eyes that match his slick, jet-black hair, he resembles a young Robert DeNiroand towers over me by at least four inches.
I try not to appear surprised. “Thank you for taking the time to see us,” I say.
“My pleasure, Mr. Daley.”
“Please call me Mike.”
“And I’m Art.” He asks Simone to bring us coffee, then he extends an inviting hand to Rosie and says, “Let me show you around my office.”
It’s a sign of status when your office is large enough to warrant a tour. He shows off his view and his mini-theater with equal pride, then he asks us to sit on one of the four semi-circular sofas arranged around an antique coffee table. He has excellent manners for a guy who runs a girlie theater. “This used to be the conference room of a big law firm,” he explains. “We had to make a few minor alterations, but I think it turned out okay.”
No kidding. I look around for an icebreaker and I find what I need on the credenza. I feign admiration of the photo of his wife and two daughters and say, “How old are your kids?”
“Twelve and ten.”
Even porn kings have families. Affability reigns as we scope each other out on the pretense of talking about schools, childcare and play dates. He strikes me as bright, highly-educated and charming when he wants to be.
Rosie gives him a disarming grin and asks him where he lives.
“Ross.”
There’s either a lot of money or a lot of debt in his family. Ross is an enclave of multi-million dollar homes in Marin County that is right up there with Atherton on the non-affordability scale. It’s populated by graying gentry and a smattering of high tech titans, lawyers, doctors, investment bankers and movie stars. An adult entertainment entrepreneur is as close as the homogeneous community gets to a degree of diversity. I wonder if his neighbors know what he does for a living. I ask, “Is that where you grew up?”
“Born and raised. I went to Branson.”
It’s a highly-exclusive private high school in a rolling valley at the base of Mount Tamalpais. The village fathers must be proud of their native son.
The strained small talk segues into a tentative discussion about the true purpose of our visit. He gives us non-committal answers when we ask about his business and we do the same when he questions us about Leon. Finally, his boyish face breaks into a rehearsed grin. “You must be curious,” he says.
I play coy. “About what?” I ask.
“How a nice Catholic boy with an engineering degree from Princeton and an MBA from Harvard ended up running an adult theater on Sixth Street.”
I’m impressed by his candor, but his attempts to be self-effacing strike me as forced. I offer up an equally well-practiced smile and say, “The thought had crossed my mind.”
He winks and says, “I’d sit in class at Branson and dream of being Hugh Hefner.”
He’s trying to be disarming, but it’s coming out flat. “I trust you’re kidding.”
“I am.” The smile disappears. “Some kids’ parents are doctors and lawyers. My family happened to operate an adult theater. My grandfather opened the business in the thirties as a vaudeville club. As the neighborhood changed, we started attracting a rougher crowd and he adjusted to the times. The theater was one of the first topless clubs in the sixties. We didn’t talk about the business at Thanksgiving dinner, but we didn’t hide it and we weren’t embarrassed. When people ask me what I do, I tell them I run an adult theater. It’s my job.”
He’s seems more forthcoming than your average porn king.
He says his father went into the business and ran the club for almost forty years. “We provide a legitimate service to a diversified clientele. People from all walks of life patronize us. Some live on Sixth Street, but many are businessmen from the suburbs. We pay our bills and provide jobs. Even if you disapprove of the nature of our entertainment, you should respect us for doing it well.”
The fact that you shamelessly exploit women isn’t part of your standard rap and I presume you probably wouldn’t want your daughters to work at the club. I ask, “Did you ever consider another line of work?”
“I worked on Wall Street for five years. My father died suddenly about eight years ago and my sister had no interest in the business. My mother asked me to come back and run it long enough so that we could sell it.”
“You’re still here.”
“We own the building and there isn’t a great market for used adult theaters. We have a group of employees who have been with us for a long time. My mother didn’t feel right about putting them on the street.”
A pornographer with a conscience.
His tone is unapologetic when he says, “I discovered something as I became more familiar with our operation. Sex is a remarkably profitable enterprise, especially with the advent of the Internet. The stigmas are breaking down and you can order our products from the comfort of your own home. Our theater generates only a tiny fraction of our revenue and we’re phasing out low-margin product lines to focus on our more profitable divisions. We operate retail boutiques in fifteen states and our Web sales division is the fastest growing segment of our operation. We’ve won several awards for the design of our site.”
He sounds like a brand manager at Procter and Gamble who is promoting a new
detergent. I ask, “What are your product lines?”
“We sell lingerie, sportswear, movies, videos, DVDs, magazines, cosmetics and accessories. We design our own products that are manufactured overseas to our specifications. We’re trying to get the NFL to give us a license to manufacture football-related lingerie.”
They’ll probably call it “Touchdown Sportswear.” You know you’ve hit the big time when workers in third world countries are being exploited to make your company’s sex toys.
“Our mission,” he says, “is to be a full-service provider of anything you might need to enhance your sensual experiences. Operations like Playboy and Hustler have gone mainstream. We have the infrastructure and the know-how to become a player. Our goal is to be the Bloomingdale’s of adult entertainment.”
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