Kristmas Collins (8 page)

“Can you please either put a shirt on, or lose that gut. You really need to get yourself in better shape if you’re going to fight off these guys.”

That sounded like a good New Year’s resolution, when hopefully all this would be over. And preferably I’d be alive, and not back in jail.

“And what’s that sticking out of your pants?” she asked.

“I guess I’m just happy to see you,” I replied with a smile.

“You should be—I don’t sacrifice my cute nose for just anyone. I meant the folder.” The bleeding had stopped, but her face was still a big red and purple mess.

I followed her point to the Morzetti file that I’d stuck in the waistband of my suit pants. “Oh, Libby said you wanted to get a jump on it for an upcoming meeting.”

I handed it over to her. “If you need any assistance from your favorite paralegal, just give me a shout.”

“You need to concentrate on getting some rest, Collins. You’ve had a long day, and we have an even longer one tomorrow.”

She was right. But before I could take her advice, my phone rang. I knew who it was, and Alyson’s disapproving look told me that she did too.

“Just give me a few minutes to change, and I’ll meet you there in an hour,” I told the caller.

I met Candi outside of the club Vida’s in the Meatpacking District. Once upon a time it was known for being the area of the city where meat was butchered and packaged. Now it was a different type of meat market, filled with Manhattan’s trendiest clubs.

I kept my dress minimalist with a checkered gingham shirt and khakis, along with a pair of Chukka boots. On most occasions this getup wouldn’t get me past the velvet rope, but I brought a shiny accessory with me—Candi Kane.

She used her celebrity to avoid the wait with the other schleps out in the snow. She wasn’t the same level of star she was when her stage-mother from hell hired me to get her out of the first of what turned out to be many brushes with the law, but she was still a rock star when it came to things like the club scene and making tabloid headlines.

Once inside, I shouted over Snoop Dogg’s “Everyday is Like Christmas to Me” that was playing so loud it was rattling my fillings, “I guess we have a different idea of what discreet means.”

A proud look came over her face. “It’s from my new clothing line!” She then provided a detailed description of the stretch-leather Santa mini-dress with zipper front that might be considered too risqué for Temple of Duma’s. A thick black belt was hooked around her midsection, as if Santa’s gifts—and by Santa, I mean her plastic surgeon—needed to be elevated any more than they already were. Her heeled leather boots, the type my fellow prisoners had another name for, came up to her lower thigh.

She pulled down the satin-lined hood and her blonde hair extensions fell down past her shoulders. She then removed her necklace and held it over my head. The last word I heard before she kissed me was “mistletoe.”

I did what I should have done the first time this happened, and pulled away.

She looked mystified. “I was just playing, Kris—what happened to your Christmas spirit?”

A good question. Some of my best childhood memories centered on Christmas, and I remained a Santa believer long after my classmates busted the myth. So I couldn’t pinpoint why or when it no longer was the season to be jolly for me. Maybe it was when my father died almost ten years ago, or my sister moving away to Seattle with her family. Or that I married a woman so literal that if Santa came down the chimney she might have him arrested for breaking and entering. But it most likely stemmed back to the shock factor of seeing Alexander Wainwright in a Santa suit for the first time, ruining the myth forever.

She grabbed my hand and led me upstairs, jiggling all the way.

Vida’s was a multi-level club. The first floor featured a large dance floor and a DJ that Candi mentioned was famous. I wasn’t familiar with him, but admittedly, the last time I thought about DJs was when Libby and I were trying to find one for our wedding. When Snoop Dogg finished ushering in the holiday, the “famous” DJ broke into regularly scheduled club music to announce that Candi Kane was “in the house.” He then played “Candy Cane Children” by the White Stripes to mark the moment.

Candi looked smitten by the attention and waved at her fans. She was most comfortable in the spotlight, which shouldn’t be a surprise. She was bred for this. When a mother names her daughter Candi Kane she is looking for attention, and using her daughter as a vehicle to get it. And when Candi spent her childhood going to auditions instead of birthday parties, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

And while I’d been very critical of Julia Kane over the years, to be fair, Candi did achieve great success in her field. And if she had pushed her in science and she became a surgeon, she would have been applauded.

Candi’s big break came when she joined the cast of
The Candy Stripers
—how could she not get the part with that name?—a Saved by the Bell-ish teen hit about a group of teenage candy stripers in a hospital and all the dramas that went with that. She quickly became the star of the show and Julia negotiated to have the name of the show changed to
Candi Kane & the Candy Stripers

Julia had followed my work at Zee’s trial, which led to her hiring me to defend her megastar, sixteen-year-old daughter when she was arrested for her first DUI. Over the next decade I practically became her assistant, as she went from teen idol to an out-of-control twenty-something, charged with everything from petty theft to assaulting a former boyfriend, to the more serious drug charges. Yet, of the two of us, I was the only one who’d ever done prison time.

While the first floor was full of urban hipsters with their bohemian fashions and messy shag cuts, on their eternal quest to find the world’s most obscure indie band—I’d become an expert on hipsters since moving to Brooklyn—the second floor was staked out by the “career clubbers,” whose entire existence was built around the club scene. They had more of a reserved cool—goatees and oval rim glasses seemed to be the trend this year. Although, it was possible that my eyes were deceiving me, based on the overzealous work of a fog machine.

We arrived at the third floor “tree fort” section that was VIP only. I noticed a few celebrities, but none of them were attracting the attention that Candi Kane and her sexy Santa outfit was receiving. She dragged me to a leather couch near the railing, where we could look down on the steerage that was mingling below. I took a seat beside her, but kept an arm’s length away.

A waitress brought us a couple of drinks called Frosty the Snowmen. It was a mixture of red and green liquid and a pile of ice. As long as it had enough alcohol to make me forget the last few hours, I was good with it. But Candi pushed it away, announcing, “I’ve been sober for three-and-a-half years!” She then paused, as if waiting for applause.

After the waitress left, Candi exclaimed, “I’m cleared!”

This was not an uncommon phrase between us, usually followed by a dramatic hug, and me reminding her that she was, as long as she completed her community service. “I didn’t know you had any charges pending.”

“No, sweetie—I’ve been cleared to go to Afghanistan to perform for the troops for Christmas.”

“I’m impressed—that’s a really nice gesture.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” she said, which was always dangerous. “My whole life has been about me. My career, my desires, doing whatever would make me feel good for a moment … so I decided to dedicate my life to helping others.”

I waited for the catch, but none came. She had “dedicated” herself to every quackery known to man over the years, so I found it best to take a wait and see approach with all things Candi. But she did seem genuine about it.

“And ever since I did, amazing things have been happening. First the new
Candy Stripers
show, and then this great opportunity you offered me!”

In the new version, Candi Kane had graduated to doctor—scary, I know—who was now in charge of the new young cast of candy stripers. They’d been holding tryouts all over the country this month, including this upcoming week in New York, so I had to schedule around this surprising career rebound. Usually once you start making Skinemax movies—most notably the infamous
Candi Kane & the Candy Strippers
—the career doesn’t pull out of the nosedive. And it also shows how much of a difference one ‘p’ can make.

The good fortune in her life had me rethinking her involvement in the plan. Duma’s warnings about my motives for including her were also still fresh in my head, as was the knowledge of the FBI monitoring her trip to Statia.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Candi?”

“I told you, sweetie—I’m dedicating myself to helping people, and by helping you, maybe I can make up a little bit for all the damage I’ve caused.”

She looked me deep in the eyes, sealing the deal with the look that I never could resist, even though I always knew I’d regret it in the end.

Candi ran her hand up her thigh and subtly pulled up her skirt. She then removed what looked like a business card that was hooked to her garter, and handed it to me.

I reviewed the number of the bank account that she’d opened during her trip to Sint Eustatius, a sleepy island in the Netherlands Antilles, better known as Statia.

She was there on an official visit to perform for St. Nicholas Day, which was as important as Christmas on the island. And Falcone was right to think it wasn’t a coincidence that Candi happened to book an appearance on the island where Kerstman owned an estate, and where his boat sank.

Candi pulled out her phone and showed me a photo of her with Sinterklaas, the Dutch version of Santa, and Black Pete, his not so politically correct assistant, throwing treats to children. The tabloid seemed to focus more on the bikini shots. “It was so much fun!” she exclaimed.

I was glad she enjoyed her visit, because she’d be making a return trip very soon. I couldn’t argue with those like Duma who thought I was insane to have involved such a loose cannon, and one that I have an unholy history with. But in some ways she was a perfect fit. She freely traveled the world for her career, now including Afghanistan. And she’d accumulated … and snorted away … and re-accumulated millions, so it wouldn’t be a total red flag if she opened up an offshore account that became filled with a very large Christmas bonus in the next week.

But most of all, when it came to Kris Collins, she was loyal to a fault. Three people visited me every week that I was in prison—two of which were my mother and Taylor, neither of whom I would include in this at gunpoint. The other was Candi.

I pulled out a glossy travel brochure from Statia and handed it to her. “I circled the location where you will meet your contact on New Year’s.”

Her excitement bubbled over. “It will be just the type of relaxing vacation that I’ll need after the tryouts and then going to Afghanistan. The perfect end to a perfect year!”

We also had a different definition of relaxing. I kept on task, “Over the next week the treasure will be loaded into the account.”

“So I won’t be digging for it?” she said with a laugh. “I’ve been going to the gym to work out for it. Feel my muscle.”

I obliged, lightly squeezing her bicep as she flexed it. It was impressive. “No—your job will be to transfer the money into different accounts around the world. Like hitting a diamond with a hammer and the pieces spraying in all different directions.”

“That’s beautiful … you’ve always had such a way with words, Kris,” she gushed, before proving that no matter how much she spoke of helping others, the world still revolved around Candi—it’s how she was programmed. “And I get half … that’s our deal, right?”

“I just wouldn’t go on a spending spree right away. The FBI is monitoring all of us. Once the new
Candy Stripers
show takes off, you should be in the clear.”

She smiled at the thought of being back on the top of the mountain. She then proceeded to unzip her top and tuck the brochure safely next to her bosom.

She read my horrified look, and smiled. “It’s not like you haven’t seen my jingle bells before, Kris.”

Nobody knew better than me that those bells came at a very high cost. I had hoped that the court would see my indiscretions as a moment of weakness and lessen the charges. And I pleaded mitigating factors; such as I’d held off Candi’s advances for years, basically since she’d turned legal age, which was much longer than most mortal men could have. But the court of Libby found my defense laughable, and gave me the maximum sentence. The court of public opinion was equally harsh, understandably. I was the married man who was shagging a pop star with a wife and twin baby girls at home. I became a public punching bag, the hostility only exacerbated by my decision to represent a fellow social outcast, Diedrich Kerstman.

“Besides, I’m seeing someone,” she added. “Do you want to know who he is?”

“Not if he’s some controlling, father figure type.”

“Then I guess you don’t want me to tell you,” she said with a shrug. There was nothing more predictable than a Candi Kane boyfriend.