Page 134 of Parrish

Knocking back the booze, I cringe as the vodka slides down my throat.

“How the fuck do you drink this shit?”

“Who is this gentleman?” One of the stiffs questions, forcing my gaze onto him.

“Nobody Mr. Crimmons,” Schwartz says quickly.

“Now, is that nice?” Wolf fires back, taking a seat next to this Crimmons character. “That there is Jack Parrish. Maybe you’ve heard of him. If not, I’m sure you’ve seen his mugshot countless times.”

“He needs to shave,” Pipe adds. “But there he is, in the fucking flesh.”

Flashing the stiff a grin, I raise my glass to him.

“Here’s to you, motherfucker. I’d salute your dick too, but you look a little uptight.” Turning my head, I elbow Schwartz. “What the fuck you doing hanging out with a guy like this? He can’t be good for your game.”

“Mr. Crimmons is a client of mine,” he spats. “A very fucking rich client who as of five o’clock this evening has retained me for a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Well, shit,” I mutter. “Did Blackie get this kind of treatment when he filled your pockets with cash?”

“Petra paid me peanuts,” he hisses. “Now, if you idiots don’t mind…”

“That why you ignoring my fucking calls?” I growl, shoving a hand towards Crimmons. “This cunt greases your palm and you decide to let Blackie rot?”

“There is nothing more I can do until his next court date,” he fires back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m entertaining a client.”

Entertaining a client.

This motherfucker did not just say that.

Slamming the glass on top of the table, I slide out of the booth and rise to my full height.

“Get up,” I order.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” he asks, spreading his arms as he leans his back against the plush seat of the booth.

“Do I look like a motherfucker who jokes around?” I sneer, diverting my eyes to the girls who are clearly looking to run. “This party is over. Keep the train moving, I’m sure the poor fucks in the next booth won’t mind putting you through school if you rub your tits in their faces. Mr. Crimmons, congratulations on hiring Schwartz to represent you, he’s the best bullshit artist in the tristate area but for the next twenty-four hours I fucking own him.”

“David, should I call security?” Crimmons asks.

Raising an eyebrow, I turn to Schwartz.

“Yeah, Davey, should he call security?”

Grinding his teeth, he leans over and empties his drink before turning to Crimmons.

“No need, Mr. Crimmons,” he replies, sliding out of the booth. I watch as he dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. “Order whatever you like and enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ll be in touch tomorrow,”

“No, you won’t,” Wolf corrects. “Don’t lie to the man.”

“For fucks sake, you assholes are grating on my last nerve.”

“Good, then we’re even,” Pipe retorts, undoing his tie. “Fuck this thing,” he grunts, tossing it into the bucket of ice. “Bottoms up,” he adds before tipping his chin in the direction of the exit. “Move it, Davey boy. Time’s a wasting.”

“I have to take a piss,” Schwartz declares.

“I would’ve stayed home if I knew we were going to spend most of the night congregating in bathrooms,” Pipe complains as we follow Schwartz down some fancy hallway, bypassing the line that stretches to the main dance floor.

Inside we clear out the restroom, sending every man with their dick in their hand away. Pipe locks the door and Schwartz rolls his eyes as he whips out his cock and takes a leak.

---