I did a double-take when Libby suggested that the car service drop me and Zee off at Temple of Duma’s. Especially when she added that Zee “deserved some fun” after his tumultuous experience at the police station.
But then I remembered that tonight was Duma’s annual hunger drive, which was more along Libby’s idea of fun—a black-tie party and helping poor people. She gave me a sealed envelope that included a donation from the Wainwright family. If she had a sense of humor, she would have warned me not to sail off with it.
I did agree with her on one thing—today’s events had shaken Zee. He might not show much emotion, but his comment to Stu Reed about having a catch with his son was Zee’s version of wailing in pain.
After Libby dropped us off, we stopped at a Food Emporium in Times Square to obtain the admission to the party, as listed on the invitation—ten cans of food. Of course, most of the high rollers at the party dropped much more than that at the auction that’s held during the event. Last year they raised over three million dollars to fight hunger.
Before we entered the club, Zee slipped me a key. He didn’t say anything, but I knew it was the key to the Reed home.
We stepped inside, looking very under-dressed. I was still in my sport-coat and khakis, while Zee was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans with a leather jacket. I’d grown quite paranoid about my recent entrance music, and it just happened that the house band was rocking out a version of The Ramones’ “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)”. I could only hope that this would be a more peaceful visit than my last trip here.
It was always strange for me to see Temple of Duma’s transform each year from a strip club, albeit a high-end one, into something along the lines of the ballroom at Wainwright Manor. But while there were no naked pole dancers present, there was certainly plenty of eye candy. It was a who’s who of celebrities, most looking out of place as they mixed with the many homeless folks that Duma invited to the event each year.
We made our way through the crowd, and I kept running into former clients. I had maintained good relationships with most of them over the years—mainly because I had kept them out of jail—and I never took offense that not one of them supported me during my own troubles. I understood that being linked to me at that time would not be perceived well by the public. If I was still their lawyer, I would have advised them to stay a couple states away from me at all times.
The first one to greet me was Hollywood bad boy Brett Modino. His penchant for bar fights had kept me gainfully employed for many years. I could tell that his publicist was working with tennis star Natasha Kushka’s people to keep the former explosive couple nicknamed Bretasha, away from each other.
The room was also full of many famous athletes like Yankees second baseman Juan Azocar, along with many of the New York Jets, past and present, including the other members of the feared defensive line that Duma anchored, called “Dume & Gloom.”
But some of the brightest stars in the room came from the music world. I was introduced to my daughter’s favorite pop star, Natalie Gold, who didn’t seem to care that her music mogul husband Nick Zellen appeared more interested in her arch rival in the pop world, Maria DeMaio. I got a picture taken with Natalie to give to Taylor. How cool was Dad now?
Zee did briefly chat with former professional wrestler Coldblooded Carter. But he really only had eyes for one person in the room—Sophie—even if they went out of their way not to be seen together.
Zee and I made our way through the crowd, and up to Duma’s office. We found him with Wintry. Their sons, Jarren and Terrance, were also there, wearing miniature tuxes. I could tell that we’d just interrupted a fight. And when he sent Wintry and the kids away, it seemed to make things even wintrier.
We didn’t have much time, so I quickly detailed the events that occurred since I’d left this office last night—an unpleasant ride with the FBI, an even more unpleasant visit from Gooch, a trip to the North Pole, and Zee being taken in for questioning.
Duma then summarized his day at the mall, which went off without a hitch. He did mention that he preferred the Santa suit to the tux he was forced to wear tonight.
There was really nothing left to say. In football terms, we were 24 hours away from kickoff and the game was a toss-up. Duma stood to signal the end of the meeting and said, “I’m putting you two at the head table.”
And that was before I handed him the Wainwright donation. When I did, he made the expected joke about being surprised I didn’t try to sail away with it. Then he let us know the reason for our prime seating was to best keep us out of trouble. We all knew that would be easier said than done.
Prior to dinner, Duma briefly addressed his guests. It wasn’t the preachy speech you normally get at charity events. He spoke from the heart, focusing on his own childhood, and how hard his mother had to scratch and claw just to feed her children each night. When he finished there wasn’t a dry eye in the strip club, and more importantly, checkbooks were out. When he trotted out his closers, Jarren and Terrance, I was confident that the cuteness factor would add an extra zero to each contribution.
Our table featured Duma, Wintry and their family, along with Duma’s mother. The mayor of New York—who unlike the last mayor, was a big supporter of Temple of Duma’s—was also present, along with a couple of select homeless invitees. The mayor couldn’t take enough photos with the homeless, but stayed as far away from me as possible. It was good for business to be seen supporting the downtrodden, but not with the man who’d become synonymous with enabling corporate greed.
After dinner, the band began to play and the party started to heat up. At one point, Maria DeMaio and Natalie Gold joined them onstage in an up-tempo version of “Little Drummer Boy.” But everyone’s attention was hijacked by a curvy blonde who’d begun dancing on one of the stages like she hadn’t got the memo that it wasn’t business as usual tonight. She was going for the naughty librarian look, wearing a professional business suit with glasses, her hair tied up. But in a flash, the clip came out of the hair and it fell to her shoulders. Then the jacket came off, followed by the skirt.
A murmur could be heard throughout the room. At first I’d thought it was one of the dancers from the club who’d had one too many, but then I realized who it was. As did the rest of the room. The dancer, who was down to nothing but a skimpy bra and panties, was Candi Kane. And with each shake of her bottom she was putting new meaning in pa rum pa pum pum.
Sadly, most people in the room had seen this before. Candi’s attention-seeking, often drug-fueled antics had become too common of a sight in the Hollywood scene. The incident that got her banned from the Chateau Marmont Hotel had become a thing of legend. Judging by the looks of those around me, all this latest incident did was confirm their belief that Candi’s comeback was nothing but a farce. The crowd was so uninterested that nobody attempted to stop her, and the band played on like they were on the Titanic.
Duma shot me an “I told you so” look for including her. When security asked if they should remove her, he told them to wait until she finished and then remove her as quietly as possible. But Candi was a long way from finished.
She hopped off the elevated stage—not easy to do in six-inch heels—and moved in our direction. Wintry held her hands over her boys’ eyes to shield them from the scene. The mayor looked horrified, while a couple of the homeless guys seemed to like the idea. But I knew she was coming for me, and I braced.
“I told you all I wanted for Christmas was you, Kris Collins,” she whispered in my ear. When I tried to move, she held me down.
She kicked off her pumps and did a long, seductive production of unhooking her garter and rolling her black stocking down one leg. She danced around with it, before hooking it around the back of my neck and pulling me toward her for a kiss. She left it there like a scarf, before repeating the process with the other leg. Then the remainder of the clothes began to come off.
Once the bra was removed, she’d crossed the red line, and security moved in. She fought them as they dragged her away. Just another in a long line of sad and destructive Candi Kane moments. It’s what the crowd thought, and it’s what I was thinking.
Until I found the note in her stocking.