Читать книгу Indiscretion - M.G. Crisci - Страница 15

The first lie.

ContactPro Ltd. was in the middle of one of the picturesque Litchfield’s hottest office complexes, called Technology Center Research Park. The mirrored facade of the ultra-modern ContactPro building was a vibrant crimson and dark gray. However, once inside, there was an eerie silence, as if everyone had been evacuated. The feeling reminded me of the late nineties dot-com boom, which left venture capitalists with bankrupt internet businesses and empty re-wired landmark buildings up and down Manhattan’s Silicon Alley (West Broadway between Houston and Canal Streets).

There was no receptionist, just a set of locked double-glass doors with a bright red button that said, “Push me.” A young man with wire-rimmed glasses, a full head of groomed hair, and a rumpled jacket with a non-matching shirt and tie greeted us. “I’m Gil Rodman; you must be Alexandria and Martin. Thanks for coming.”

Alexandria was already in venture-building mode. “Oh, no, the pleasure is all ours. Thanks for spending the time with us.”

“I’ve set up a presentation and demonstration in our boardroom.”

As we walked down the hall, I couldn’t help but notice more than half the seventy-five or so work stations were empty cubicles. “Looks like you’ve invested for growth. How long have you been in business?”

“We’ve been around for about four years. We’ve had to do some retooling of our business model since we discovered our primary prospect is the corporate enterprise rather than the internet community’s end customer. We’re also in the middle of another round of financing.”

Translation: they wasted a ton of stage-one venture capital, maybe between $10 and $20 million judging from the facility, before they had a proven business model. Then they cut operating costs to conserve cash and were again running out of money, probably because they hadn’t sold zilch to anybody.

The presentation and subsequent discussion went pretty much as I expected. There wasn’t a salesperson to be had, and Rodman had no idea what we did or whether his model was appropriate for us. He was suggesting that our advisors, who had long-standing offices in their communities, shut them down and convert to virtual storage of their sensitive sales information, databases, etc., on his remote servers.

I explained that people like to visit the offices of financial advisors. He said he didn’t know that and looked at Alexandria. I told him most advisors were marginally computer-literate and got most of their communications through a designated administrative assistant. He said he didn’t know that either and again looked at Alexandria. I told him we were not in the business of selling branded third-party proprietary software with no headquarters controls.

Later, standing in the parking lot outside the building, I said, “The ContactPro situation is not right for us. Let’s discuss it tomorrow at the office.”

“What about my dinner?” she asked.

~

I decided on dinner at the Tomiyama Sushi Grill at the edge of the 79^th Street pier, across the river from the Pacific Palisades. The sunset was spectacular, the George Washington Bridge twinkled, and the sushi was fresh. Importantly, Lauren hated sushi, so there was zero chance of an accidental encounter.

As always, the conversation began with the business issue du jour — in this case, ContactPro. I reiterated the same points I had made to Rodman about a lack of strategic fit. Alexandria uncharacteristically acquiesced. “Now that I understand better, I’m sorry about wasting your time.”

“Oh, my God,” I joked, “Does that mean you trust me?”

She smiled. “No. It just means I may be beginning to trust you.” I touched the hand she placed on the table. “What did you think of Gil’s business acumen?” she asked.

“Very smart, but he has no clue what the financial marketplace needs, and I seriously doubt whether he’ll raise anymore venture money in today’s environment.” I paused and smiled mischievously. “And he seems a bit young for you.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say!” Alexandria said in mock-outrage. “Besides, Gil’s not my type.”

“Well, I’m trying to figure out why else we’re here.”

“Bill Johnson suggested we meet. He may be an early investor in ContactPro. I’m not sure.”

“So, we’re here because your boss is using you to recapture his investment, and then some?”

“You make Bill sound dreadful.”

“And let me guess: Johnson promised you a finder’s fee, a bonus commission, or some future favor if an AFA-Contract Pro deal closed.”

“Well, there was some of that,” she admitted, “But Gil Rodman also sounded cute on the phone.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t your type?”

Alexandria just glared.

Dinner was a terribly quiet affair. As I signed the check, Alexandria finally spoke. “How did you explain the other night to Lauren? I mean, what did she say when you got home?”

“I had to lie.”

“That’s terrible. What’s worse is, I know Lauren.”