Kristmas Collins Read Online Free PDF Page B

New York, who’d made it his mission to clean up Times Square. As a business owner in the area, Duma found this commendable. At least until they tried to shut him down as part of the clean-up plan.
    We argued that besides being the owner of a legal business, Justin Duma had courage to invest in the seedy, pervert-filled area known for its peepshows, and had been bringing upscale clients into Times Square long before the mayor’s grandstanding began. He was one of the few who’d been trying to upgrade the area on the 364 days a year when Dick Clark didn’t show up to count down the New Year. The fight went on for years, but in the end, Temple of Duma’s was still here, the mayor was long gone, and Times Square, by any definition, had been scrubbed clean.
    Duma spoke over the music, explaining that he needed to attend to some business in his office, and we could meet there in about an hour. In the meantime, he suggested we do some window-shopping, and he wasn’t talking about the storefronts on Fifth Avenue.
    He called over a girl named Jade, one of the few women in the place wearing clothes. She led us passed smaller stages that were scattered throughout the club like islands. They were surrounded by tables of gawking men, who appeared desperate to get their lifeboat to land.
    Our destination was the VIP area right in front of the large rotating stage in the center of the room. It reminded me of sitting in the front row for Fashion Week, as a favor from a supermodel that I’d represented on cocaine charges. But I’m the first to admit that her winks at the jury played a bigger role in her acquittal than my lawyering.
    There appeared to be a Christmas theme tonight, as the dancers gyrated to seasonal music, uniformed in Santa hats and not much else. A slow, rhythmic version of “Santa Baby” accompanied the bumping and grinding.
    The uniformity was typical, as Duma ran a tight ship that more resembled boot camp than your usual strip club. Every dancer must be enrolled in college or grad school, and be passing their classes. There was no fraternization with customers outside of work, and there was a zero policy for drugs, which included weekly testing.
    Some have called Duma a Father Flanagan figure who saved girls from the street, just as his own mother had gotten him and his siblings out of their crack infested neighborhood in Oakland, California, by stripping. And maybe the son of one of these dancers would turn out like this Berkeley educated, financially independent businessperson, who once inspired seventy thousand fans to chant Doooooma! when he’d sack the quarterback.
    Others would say that’s a bunch of sanctimonious bullshit—that he’s profiting off naïve girls who flaunt their naked bodies in front of men, many of whom should be home with their wives and families.
    But having worked with Justin Duma over the years, I knew that the only thing he cared about is the bottom line of his business, and having disciplined, reliable, and upwardly mobile employees was good for business. It was this emotionless business sense that made him a perfect partner for my plan.
    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