Page 97 of College Town

Tommy’s lips compress. “If you downsize the order, then you’ll no longer get the discount.”

“I told Frank I thought we could work something out.”

“Or maybe you’d like to find another supplier,” Tommy suggests, and, while Walter’s digesting that, grips Lawon’s elbow and tows him forward.

“Does that usually work?” Lawson asks. “Encouraging people to buy from somebody else?”

“Usually.”

“You’re late,” Frank greets when they arrive.

Tommy signals with two fingers to the bartender and leans sideways against the bar between Noah and Frank, rather than sit, which leaves Lawson hovering awkwardly behind him.

The back of his neck crawls, too aware of eyes on him; he feels too-tall in here in this den of sharks. Too conspicuous, out of place.

Noah gives Lawson an up-down look and snorts. “Shit. You didn’t,” he tells his brother.

Tommy glances over his shoulder, and frowns – but Lawson sees color bloom high along his visible cheekbone before he turns back. “We look like a unit, this way,” he says as the bartender slides over two tumblers full of ice and what looks like whiskey.

“He looks like the other half of your wedding cake topper,” Noah says, and Frank snorts into his drink.

Clearly blushing now, Tommy turns and hands Lawson one of the drinks. “Get that in you.”

“That’s what he said,” Noah mutters, and Frank has to dab his mouth with his little red cocktail napkin.

Tommy ignores them, though a vein pops in his temple. “Just the one, though,” he cautions, as Lawson drains off his glass in two long swallows. “Don’t get sloppy – shut the fuck up, Noah,” he hisses, and punches his brother in the leg, right above the knee.

Noah curses and swivels away from him.

“Tom!” a gruff voice calls from across the room.

Tommy turns to look, his jaw tenses, and he drains his own glass. “Sit,” he tells Lawson, pointing to the stool between Noah and Frank. “I’ll be back.” He strides off without waiting for a response.

With nothing better to do, Lawson sits. He fishes an ice cube out of his glass and crunches it in his teeth. The whiskey was good stuff: expensive, smooth, warming, and he can already feel it loosening the knots in his belly. It makes him relaxed enough to nod toward Tommy’s retreating back – and the knot of men he approaches – and say, “Who are they?”

To his surprise, Frank answers readily, leaning in and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial level. “That’s Bruno Givens and his business partners. They own half of Philadelphia.”

“The shit half,” Noah puts in.

“Both halves are shit,” Frank counters.

“What do you guys sell them?”

“Blow, mostly. Kids and junkies like to get blackout fucked up, but suits always go for stimulants.”

“Good to know.”

Givens and his business partners comprise a ring of some seven men, all of them taller and clearly older than Tommy; they encircle him like vultures, though Tommy stands erect and firm and makes a negative gesture toward the man who must be Givens.

“Is he okay over there by himself?” Lawson asks. “I mean, safety wise?”

Frank uses his glass to point to a spot off to the left, and Lawson clocks two guys in simple black suits with hands like hams. “The whole place is crawling with security – everyone’s security. Nobody ever pulls anything stupid at a parlay like this. Too big a risk of getting your own head blown off to try and take out someone else’s.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Lawson would really like another drink. “When’s the Zoom call happening?”

Noah checks his watch. “Half an hour.”

Which means he has half an hour to fuck things up.

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