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.
“I have a long day planned tomorrow, I think I should go home and try to get some rest,” I said.
She grabbed my hand and pulled me up off the couch. “I’ve got a better idea—come dance with me, Kris.”
Since I rarely danced, even at weddings, doing it in a packed club in the Candi Kane spotlight was pretty much the last thing I wanted to do. But I needed her right now, more than she needed me. So I agreed to meet her downstairs after a bathroom break.
I made my way to the men’s room as a techno version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” began to play, which I didn’t think either Santa or Springsteen would have been happy with. “Let it Snow” would have been a more appropriate tune for the bathroom, as all the sinks were taken with clubbers getting their cocaine fix. Through my many bad decisions, the one good one I made was never getting involved with drugs. I’ve seen what they’ve done to the likes of Zee and Candi, and no matter how much they both seem to have it together today, the demons were always looking to make a comeback.
I found Candi on the dance floor on the first level. She was surrounded by a bunch of twenty-something males, all vying for her attention. But she only had eyes for the old guy in the khakis, who was rocking the gray goatee and soft belly. She pulled me close to her as Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” played. She whispered in my ear, “All I want for Christmas is you, Kris.”
“You can’t have me,” I said. For some reason it was much easier to turn her down now that I was single.
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean I can’t ask Santa for the one I love this year.”
I’ve never doubted her claims of loving me. I was the father she never had after he ran out on them when she was three. And I was one of the few people who actually took an interest in her best interests … at least up until that fateful night in her hotel suite in Beverly Hills. I could have brushed off the comment, but I chose to make sure my intentions were clear. One of the most merciful things Libby did for me was to make it clear that there was no hope of reconciliation. Hope can be a dangerous thing, leading us to believe in things that have no chance of happening, and sending us down the path to a dead end.
My firm rejection didn’t seem to lessen Candi’s mood. She continued to dance like nobody was watching, even though every eye in the club was on her. I, on the other hand, was watching everybody else. I noticed a woman snapping a photo of us with her cell phone. She looked like a Jersey Shore extra, with her hair almost reaching the third level. In this day and age of smartphones there was no way for celebrities like Candi to stop people from taking unwanted photos. But this was different … I’d met this woman before.
I excused myself from our dance and walked straight toward the woman. She didn’t move.
“Hello Jacqueline. I like the wig.”
She smiled. “Did Zee’s girlfriend send you to beat me up?”
“No, I just wanted to send my regards to your boss Stone Scroggie.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Kris. And when you become too connected to someone in this game, you can get them hurt. It’s pretty obvious that you still care about her.”
I glanced back at Candi. “You leave her alone—this is between me and your boss.”
“I’m not talking about Candi,” she said and held up her phone so I could view a photo. It was a picture of Libby.