Kristmas Collins (2 page)

With each bite of the cheeseburger and sip of my drink concoction, I came closer to blowing off the Wainwright bash and remaining here for the evening. Libby and I attended a couple of these
tonos
back in the day, usually held on
Noche Buena
—the night before Christmas. They often went until four or five the next morning, and really picked up after the children were put to bed.

But just as I grew comfortable in my rickety lawn chair, I noticed a female in a fancy party dress awkwardly gliding over the snow in a pair of uncomfortable heels. It was still hard for me to believe that she was this grown up. It seemed like just thirty seconds ago she was crawling around the floor in her diapers.

Since Taylor would always be six years old in my mind, this womanly stuff was a big adjustment. While attending her high school basketball game last week, I was seated near some of her male classmates, who were admiring certain parts of her body. In other words, being normal teenage boys. I wanted to turn around and introduce them to one of my body parts—my fists. But besides ending up back in jail, I figured that my daughter would hit me with the look of embarrassment that only a seventeen-year-old girl can—a much tougher punishment. So I chose restraint, which had never been my first instinct.

I noticed Gustavo’s son, Angel, whom I’ve heard is no angel, staring at her. I gave Gustavo a look to let him know there were a few things I was willing to go back to prison for. He just shrugged and smiled.

When Taylor reached the Lake House, the women circled around her. She let out a big smile—as amazing as her mother’s—and pirouetted to show off the dress. They analyzed and admired everything from her purse to her heels. Taylor had always been like family to them—her first couple of years of life were spent on Wainwright Manor, and frankly, I thought she’d pick up less bad habits hanging out in this section of town than being around her grandparents, so I made it a point to bring her down here at every opportunity.

After the fashion show came to a close, Taylor made her way to the patio area. She traded greetings with the Amigos, and then informed me, “Dad—I’ve been ordered to bring you to the party … ASAP.”

“And this order came from?”

“Grandmother wanted to call the FBI and demand that they revoke your parole for storming past the party police, but I talked her off the ledge. She gave me ten minutes to bring you back, before she sends in the troops.”

It would be no surprise if the FBI had already found their way onto the property. Not only would it allow them to monitor my moves, as they’d been doing since my release, but they could kill a whole flock of birds with one stone, considering the white-collar-crime festival inside … and that was just the Wainwright clients. But I decided to keep this information to myself.

Taylor plopped in the lawn chair next to me. Like her father, she didn’t appear eager to return—she was going to use the entire ten-minute allotment. She yanked at her dress. I could tell that she couldn’t wait to shed it in favor of a sweatshirt and jeans when she got home. In that way she was very different from her mother, who found a formal gown as comfortable as a second set of skin.

After a few minutes of reminiscing about the “good old days” spent at the Lake House, most of which Taylor was too young to remember, we said our goodbyes, and my bounty hunter daughter dragged me back for my public flogging. The good news was that the walk provided another opportunity for some father/daughter bonding.

As strange as it might sound, we grew much closer during my stint in prison. In the prior years, I’d been too busy with my career, hobnobbing with celebrities, and cheating on her mother. Taylor visited me almost every week, and to prove that she’d inherited her sense of humor from the Collins side of the family, she would occasionally bring me a gag gift like a Hostess cupcake with a nail file stuck in it like a birthday candle. The guards didn’t always find it as funny as I did.

“Thanks for my Christmas gift, Dad … it’s the best gift ever! At least until you buy me that private jet I’ve had my eye on,” she said with a smile.

I looked at her with surprise, which she read. “Mom didn’t mean to give it away, but the camp called to confirm this week and I answered. I’m so excited to go!”

“Well, now that your grandparents are claiming to be destitute, you’re going to need to get that field hockey scholarship if you want to go to college.”

“Yeah, they’ll probably have to sell their kidneys just to scrape by.”

Or sell mine.

“And Dad,” she flashed me her patented look of disappointment. “It’s lacrosse camp, not field hockey. You only went to like ten of my games last fall.”

“Lacrosse—that’s what I meant.” The T-shirt she often wore popped into my head. “Chicks with sticks, right?”

“Ewe … when you say it, it sounds like tranny porn.”

You haven’t lived as a parent until you hear your little bundle of joy utter the term ‘tranny porn.’ “Your mom said this camp is the one you really wanted to attend, and it fits perfectly into your winter break from school.”

“The coach from Clemson is going to be instructing there. I really want to impress her … and get that scholarship. That’s where I really want to go.”

“Clemson? I thought Syracuse was your top choice?”

“It was … like last year! Do you ever pay attention?”

Obviously not.

“I’m thinking I wanna go to a warm-weather school. And it’s only like a few hours from Grandpa’s place in Hilton Head—he said I can use the place when I’m on break.”

That didn’t sound like such a good idea, but I couldn’t quibble with the warm weather part. I took notice that Taylor was shivering, so I removed my suit jacket and placed it over her bare shoulders. If I were a better parent I would have thought to do it about an acre ago, but I was making progress, and I think she respected that I was giving an honest effort. At least that’s what her smile told me.

We entered the party area, which led me to think that warning signs should be posted, like at the beach when the surf is too rough. The speakers were now blaring “Silent Night.” I could only hope.

“Seeing you in a suit reminds me of way back when we were kids. You were so Don Draper back then, always duded up,” Taylor commented.

Way back … as in a whole four years ago. “I can’t believe how much older you look in that dress. You’re turning into a woman, no matter how much I want to hold you back.”

“Speaking of old, I love how you’re rocking the gray goatee.”

My face still gave off that boyish innocence that was always very effective with juries, and occasionally got me carded at the liquor store. But the recent addition of the gray in the facial hair did make me appear closer to my age of forty-one, closing in on forty-two—maybe it’s a sign that I was finally growing up. The hair on the head was still its natural dishwater blond. I grew it out after my release, after having it cut to the nub while doing my time.

Physically, I came out of prison in the best shape of my life. But after suffering through three years of prison food, I fell off the wagon after my release, and gained twenty pounds in nine months, most of it in my gut. Luckily, my custom-tailored suit hid it well … along with the bulletproof vest I was wearing.

Taylor escorted me through the marble foyer into the grand reception hall. When we entered the ballroom, my eyes immediately went to its signature double-staircase that cascaded down from the balcony. I’d always assumed the reason for two was so that neither Alexander the Great and his wife, the lovely Beatrice, would be forced to sacrifice any of their spotlight during their entrances.

A large orchestra was playing on the other side of the room, accompanying a Celine Dion wannabe singer. Or maybe it was Celine Dion. You never know who will show up at these parties. “Do you see what I see,” she sang as I entered. As if to warn the others that “the felon” had returned after a three year absence—like a neighborhood watch program for stuffy parties.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but Taylor noticed it too, and said, “I guess ‘Jailhouse Rock’ woulda been too obvious.”

I would have taken pleasure in my entrance creating one of those moments where the crowd froze in horror, and a hush came over the room. But most of the guests were too distracted by their revelry … and alcohol … to notice.

I did spot a couple of my former brothers-in-law with their bra-bursting second wives, who were trying to put the ho, ho, ho back into Christmas. The rest of the guests appeared to be the usual hodgepodge of old, money, and old money. Despite reports of it being a “down” year for Wainwright & Lennox, which was connected to the lingering martyrdom from the Kerstman debacle, there was no evidence of it in this room.

W&L is an investment bank that dates back to the Civil War. It holds a pristine reputation in the world of high finance. Mainly because its reviews had always been written by the clients they’d made gobs of money for.

The investors, the ones who were often bilked by the fraudulent IPOs that W&L underwrote, had another tale to tell—and likely didn’t have a lot of sympathy for them. Sometimes the manipulation of share prices was achieved with techniques like “laddering,” while other times it was good old-fashioned extortion and bribery. None of which came up in those glowing reviews.

But what everyone could agree on was that W&L had an amazing knack for being able to position itself to profit from—and some would say, help fuel—many of the biggest economic bubbles of the past century, from the stock market crash of 1929 to the tech bubble of the 90s, and the most recent housing crisis. Must be a coincidence.

My first job out of NYU Law School was at W&L’s in-house law firm, which worked endless hours to fend off lawsuits, and keep the firm’s pristine image unsullied. They preferred family members to work there—a club that they reluctantly admitted I was a member of after my marriage to Libby—because they were less likely to risk their inheritance by having a heart to heart with the feds about some of the firm’s tactics. But working for Wainwright wasn’t all bad—it actually made my job representing celebrities seem authentic.

In the center of the room an enormous Christmas tree towered over the partygoers. But in keeping with the party theme, this tree was a fake. Next to the plastic pine, fittingly, was a throne. It was occupied by a Santa Claus, who held two six-year-old girls on his lap.

After Taylor ran off to meet up with a few of her cousins, I made a surprise attack on the throne, sneaking up behind the two girls. They felt my presence, and my cover was blown. But that didn’t stop me from pulling them into an embrace, which caused them to giggle. I received a dirty look from Santa, not that it affected my standing with him—I’d been on his “naughty list” since my first date with his daughter. I shot one right back at him, but quickly looked away—the sight of Alexander Wainwright dressed as Santa Claus was always too much for me to take. It was the equivalent of Bernie Madoff playing the role of Baby Jesus in the upcoming Nativity play.

The twins were the result of the never discussed “save the marriage” crusade led by my former wife. It didn’t work, and we learned the lesson that all parents should be taught in Marriage-101—never drag your kids into your problems, especially ones that aren’t even born yet. But so far the girls haven’t held it against us, which we’re thankful for.

We named them Franny and Zooey, because our devotion to Salinger was one of the few things Libby and I could agree on at that stage of our union. Alexander and Beatrice still held
Catcher in the Rye
responsible for Libby’s rebellious streak, which was blamed for her marrying a middle-class schmuck from Tarrytown, and gasp, becoming a lowly prosecutor.

I took a long look at the identical twins. I had always thought I was a horrible father every time I would mix them up, but Libby recently mentioned that she’d often done the same. This made me feel better, since her mothering skills and devotion to our children were beyond reproach.

“So what did you ask Santa for?” I inquired.

Zooey answered for both of them, “A castle!”

I could tell she wasn’t referring to a plastic, toy version of one. They were definitely more Wainwright than Collins. But I was trying to make up for lost time in Collins-izing them. Over the last nine months, I’d gone from being a total stranger to “Daddy,” which I’m sure hadn’t gone unnoticed by their grandfather.

“Nice suit,” Alexander said to me. “I was concerned that you might wear prison stripes out of habit.”

I noticed a smile peering through the opening in his Santa beard. Seemed like they’d added some extra snark to the eggnog this year. But I refused to let him bait me in front of the girls. “I was honored to receive an invitation.”

He leaned in close to my ear. “I like to keep my enemies close, and those who steal my money even closer.”

To be fair, I didn’t steal his money. Alexander knew that, but suspected that I knew where it was, which was no different to him than if I robbed him at gunpoint. The FBI also suspected me in such matters, as did Alexander’s former business partner, now rival, Stone Scroggie, who was the mastermind behind the initial heist. It was irrelevant if I knew where it was—the important thing was that they thought I did, and that they were convinced I was the only one who could deliver it. Or in other words, life insurance.