Before I could take my seat, I was met by a stunning woman wearing
only
a pair of Christmas-themed thigh highs and five-inch heels, to go along with her Santa hat.
“Hey stranger,” she greeted me with a flirtatious smile and a hug, pulling me close to her soft body.
She rubbed her hand over my goatee. “Look who’s Santa now, baby.”
“You don’t think it makes me look too old?”
“I like the gray … but not the white on top,” she said, and knocked off snow that had settled on my head during the walk over.
She then seductively ran her hands over my chest like I was one of her typical customers—making a strange face when she came upon the bulletproof vest. “God, you’re all wet, Kris. I can’t believe you’re walking around in the snow without a coat.”
It made me think of the coat-less Taylor from earlier. It was a sobering thought, as Taylor wasn’t much younger than Sophie.
Most strippers I’d come across in my pre-prison days, which admittedly was many, started out wanting to be actresses. Problem was, while they excelled at looking good naked, most were really bad at acting. And Sophie once again proved this to be true. She looked to Zee and casually said, “Long time no see, ZT. Good to see you again.”
“Spending time together”—which was Zee’s term, and sounded more like a day at the DMV than dating—was against the rules. But Duma had made an exception in this case, and gave his blessing on the condition that nobody found out … and he was clear that Sophie would be out of a job if anyone did.
I was the one who set them up last summer. It was reminiscent of our younger days when the antisocial Zee needed his talkative wingman to close the deal for him. Which was sort of funny, since females had been throwing themselves at him since we were in the sixth grade.
I’d always felt guilty that I wasn’t there for Zee when he made his dangerous ascent into the stratosphere. I’m sure that any call for caution from me would have come off as jealousy—at least that’s what his team of handlers and PR lackeys would have made it seem. And while Zee was on the road with the Yankees, I was consumed by college life, and stalking Libby Wainwright until she’d agree to go out with me. But the signs were there, and I should have seen them.
Zee hit his first speed bump when he required surgery on his arm during his second season. Not a good thing when you use it to make a living. By that time he was already entrenched in the fast crowd—for once I wished he would have more trouble speaking to strangers. And after the surgery he had too much idle time on his hands, which was never a good thing with Zee. So while his baseball career had been put on hold, his newfound love of the fast lane was full speed ahead.
When he was arrested on the pot charge, people made excuses for him. He was still college age, and what kid that age doesn’t smoke a little weed?
Baked ZT
was the headline, almost making light of the situation. When he returned from the injury, he struggled—the once blazing fastball had turned lukewarm. With the weight of expectations crushing down on him and nobody to nudge him in the right direction, he turned to drugs. The Yankees eventually traded him, but instead of providing a fresh start, it accelerated the downward spiral.
By the time of the home invasion, we had been drifting apart for some time. I’d finished law school and was working for Libby’s father, with a baby on the way. That night, Zee traveled with a couple of addicts he’d met just hours earlier in a shady club, to a house in Mount Kisco with the intention of stealing money to purchase drugs. In the process, one of the men shot and killed the owners—a husband and wife, with three young children—dead on Christmas Eve. Zee was arrested as an accomplice to the murder, which was legally the same as if he pulled the trigger, and was facing life in prison.
He would need a lawyer, and he called the only one he thought he could trust. I told him I would represent him on the condition that he got himself clean, which he did. The law was not on our side, and no matter what the public thought of Zee Thomas the baseball player, this was a brutal crime. And Zee couldn’t make a case to defend himself, since he was too whacked on drugs to remember anything. Before the trial began I had advised him that he really needed an experienced trial attorney. He replied that if he was going to go down, he was going to go down with the last person left on the planet that he trusted.
Things weren’t looking good for us, to say the least. But then we received a miracle. Credible witnesses came forward to testify that not only was Zee comatose in the car during the invasion, but that he’d lost consciousness at the club and was dragged to the crime scene by the assailants, like a scapegoat to slaughter.
When the verdict came down, and he was ruled not guilty, my celebrity took off. And like Zee, I hit the accelerator onto the fast-crowd highway. Zee had been at the end of his rope, but little did I know that I was just beginning to tie my own noose.
When the next song ended, the guy seated to my right turned to me with a shell-shocked look, and said, “I think that girl you were talking to … Sophie … is one of my students.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “If you can concentrate with her in your class, you should get some sort of ‘teacher of the year’ award. What school?”
“I teach in the graduate psychology program at Brooklyn College. She doesn’t dress like that for class, or I probably wouldn’t be able to.”
“You mean she wears clothes for class?”
He chuckled nervously. “Um … I meant she looks a lot different, but I’m sure it’s her.”
He looked like a college professor with his tweed jacket and glasses. His gray hair lent him a distinguished look, although it appeared to be a toupee. And he was correct—Sophie was pursuing a masters degree in psychology at Brooklyn College. But I didn’t want to add to the awkwardness of their future teacher/student relationship, so I told him, “It’s probably not her. And after working in a place like this, she wouldn’t need to take a psychology class—she would know all there is to know about human behavior.”
He nodded, looking closely at me. “I know you from somewhere.”
“Zee Thomas. I used to pitch for the Yankees,” I said and offered my hand to shake. I received a small smile from Zee.
“No, you’re that lawyer. The one who helped Diedrich Kerstman escape.”
Since Kerstman ended up dead, I’m not sure that escape would be the proper term, but I didn’t push the subject. After we formally introduced ourselves, he asked, “So do you really know where the treasure is hidden, like some people claim?”
I smiled. “I must. How else could I afford to spend time in a place like this?”
Our conversation was interrupted by start of the next song—“I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus,” the John Mellencamp version.
Sophie worked her way over to me. “You look stressed, Kris,” she said over the pounding music.
Not as much as her teacher probably was at this moment. I subtly nodded in his direction, but she didn’t pick up on my signal. I guessed she’d have to figure it out on her own—and maybe it could come in handy if her grade ever needed a boost, and let’s say, his wife was under the impression that he was at the office correcting papers tonight. “I just came from a party at the Wainwrights, I might need a couple weeks in the Caribbean to de-stress.”
“I got a better idea—how about a dance?”
“Zee gave me one earlier, and it didn’t really work,” I replied with a grin.
I could tell that it wasn’t a question, and she began to grind up on me—her excuse to remain nearby Zee. “ZT must not know how to do it right,” she said and they smiled at each other.
I lightly pushed her away. “I’m going to have to pass, Sophie.”
She looked strangely at me—this probably never happened before—then she grabbed me by both sides of my face like my grandmother used to. Her eyes bulged like she’d had an epiphany. “Oh my God, Kris—you’re in love. I see it in your eyes. You are head over heels in love!”
An impressive psychological analysis—I wondered if her professor was equally dazzled. I never thought I could feel this strongly again for someone after Libby. Then one day she swept into my life—actually my courtroom—and I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since. But the reality was I had more of a chance of remarrying Libby with Alexander and Beatrice’s blessing, than even getting a date with this woman. So there was no reason to discuss it.
“I’ve heard of love causing a man to do stupid things, but never anything as foolish as turning down a dance with you,” a voice rang out. I was surprised that it came from her professor—I figured he would want to keep a low profile.
Sophie didn’t become the highest grossing girl at Duma’s by turning down easy business. She moved to her professor and began dancing in front of him like nobody has ever danced to John Mellencamp. She whipped her leg around him and pulling him into a straddle—a classic move they must teach on the first day of stripper school. She didn’t seem to recognize him, but after they’d been doing this job for a while most girls focused on shaking what they’ve got, rather than who they’re shaking it for.
On the other side of me, Zee was also attracting some attention. A guy in a replica Zee Thomas Yankees jersey came up to him and introduced himself as Paulie. He began excitedly recounting some game he was at years ago, where Zee struck out the first nine batters of the game. Strangely, he told the story as if Zee wasn’t present for it. I knew this was way outside the lines of etiquette at Temple of Duma’s—the celebrity clientele weren’t to be bothered—and security moved in. Paulie understood the error of his ways, and backed off without incident.
Zee was then approached by another person, this time a female, but not a dancer. She had spiky black hair and was wearing a black tank top and tight jeans. One arm was a complete sleeve of ink.
She opened with the typical “I’m a big fan” intro, telling him her name was Jacqueline, before turning around and raising her shirt to show him the ‘ZT’ she had tattooed on her lower back. She then started moving her hips like she was one of the professionals.
She began to grind her hips into Zee’s midsection. Moments later, the tank top flew off. Zee appeared too stunned to react.
Sophie looked like she’d lost interest in the professor. She was going through the motions while keeping both eyes on Zee and the woman.
Jacqueline stared right back at her, and shouted over the music, “Mind your own business, tramp. This one’s all mine.”
Sophie, who couldn’t bring herself to kill a mosquito, was now glaring at the woman like she wanted to introduce her to the art of pole dancing. As in, if she didn’t get away from Zee, she was going to stick a pole somewhere that would make her dance.
When Jacqueline went in for the kiss, Sophie lost it—to hell with Duma’s rules. She left the professor high and dry, and leaped in the direction of Zee and the woman.
But the professor grabbed Sophie’s arm, yanking her back in his direction. “We’re finished when the song’s finished,” he said sternly.
She tried to squirm away. But when that didn’t work, she sent a mule-kick into his chest, which would probably cost her on the final exam.
Zee was now trying to push the woman away, but her lips were locked on him like a dog to a bone. She wouldn’t let go … until Sophie tackled her, and they begin to roll around on the floor. Security was slow on the draw, which was likely on purpose. This place sold male fantasy, and what do men find more fantastic than two topless women rolling around on the floor and pulling hair? And to make my point, some caveman yelled out, “Cat fight!” Except he used a different word for cat.
A security guard finally reached the scene and pulled Jacqueline away. “You need to leave him alone,” he yelled. But on further review, it wasn’t security—it was Zee’s fan in the Yankees jersey. Paulie.
I did my best to remove Sophie from the situation, but she continued to kick and scream—arms, legs, and other appendages flying everywhere.
When the song ended, security finally arrived. They immediately kicked Paulie and Jacqueline out of the club. Sophie was sent to the dressing room to calm down, like a child getting a timeout. But Zee and I got the worst of it. “You two are going to the principal’s office,” one guard said, as he dragged us up the stairs. I looked back, noticing that the professor had slipped out, undetected.
We were ushered into Justin Duma’s office. Our presence interrupted a meeting between him and the woman who runs the day-to-day operations of the club, his mother. Also present was a former feature dancer at the club who went by the name Wintry Mix. She was now in charge of the dancers. She also happened to be Duma’s longtime girlfriend and the mother of his two sons.
The minute they left the room, the smile vanished from Duma’s face. “I told you two to do some window shopping, not throw a rock through the damn window,” he barked.
I tried to explain that it wasn’t our fault, but he cut me off with the raise of his large hand. “That’s the problem with you two—trouble always seems to find you.”
When he finally allowed me to speak, I got down to business, providing him all the information he’d need to complete his role, including detailed information on all the former Kerstman employees. The office was one of the few places I felt secure to talk these days without feeling the need to hire an exterminator to remove the listening bugs.