“Dick,” Ann snorted and marched away, almost knocking down the only legal secretary the Parrish-Townsend firm had.
“Harold,” Ben sighed, looking sternly at their legal secretary, “Take a piece of advice from me. Never, ever, do what Matt does in a courtroom. Better still,” he continued, as Harold nodded solemnly, “never take on loser cases like this if you want to feed your family . . . or whatever.”
“Oh, you mustn’t worry, Mr. Townsend,” Harold said brightly. “I have no intention of ever becoming a lawyer.”
Ben missed that remark; he was too busy frowning at Matt. “Look, I don’t want to get called on the carpet anymore by Gambofini. Hell, I remember when he couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag, let alone preside, but he thinks he can, so when you bring a case before him—”
“Ah, I beg your pardon, Mr. Townsend,” Harold politely interrupted before Ben could go off on what was a regular rant about Matt’s cases, “but I need to inform Mr. Parrish that Senator Masters has called three times today.”
“Masters?” Ben said, surprised, his rant suddenly forgotten. “Hey, that reminds me—what was that about you being a hotshot big gun?”
“Hell if I know,” Matt shrugged, and took the cell phone from Harold to call Senator Masters.
When happy hour rolled around, Matt drove his silver Jaguar XK to the warehouse district in downtown Austin. He screeched to a halt in front of Stetson’s, a popular steakhouse, tossed his keys to the valet, strode inside like he owned the joint, and flashed his most winsome smile at the hostess. “How’re you doing, Maria?”
She, in turn, lit up like a Christmas tree. “Great, Mr. Parrish! Are you by yourself tonight?” she asked, as Matt was rather notorious for bringing his many dates here.
“Just me. I’m meeting some friends—is Tom Masters here?”
“Right this way,” she said and, picking up a menu, asked him to follow her.
Matt followed her and her ass, which jiggled side to side in black spandex pants as she led him to the back of the restaurant and the table usually reserved for big shots. Matt should know—he sat there often enough. With a reputation for being one half of the best litigation team in town, his clients included CEOs of multinational corporations and heads of state and local governments who liked to be wined and dined. Matt spent almost as much time here as he did in the downtown loft he called home.
Tom Masters was the first of three men to come to his feet when he saw Matt behind the pretty hostess. “Parrish!” he called, sticking out his enormous hand. Tom had been one of the best high school lineman in Texas, but in recent years, he had gotten a little thick, both figuratively and literally. “Glad you could make yourself available tonight,” he said, shaking Matt’s hand with enthusiasm.
Right. Like he was foolish enough to turn down a state senator, even if it was one of his old college fraternity brothers. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. How are you, Senator?”
“Shit, Parrish! Call me Tom!” He laughed, slapped Matt on the shoulder. “Hey, you know Doug Balinger? And Jeff Hunter?” he asked, indicating his two companions.
Matt knew them by name only, and that they were the powerhouses behind the state Democratic Party. He shook hands, took a seat next to Tom, and asked Maria to bring him a bourbon, neat. The four men watched her walk away; Tom sighed longingly. “Now that’s a fine looking girl,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Matt, I read you did pretty well on that theater deal,” Jeff Hunter said. “What was it again?”
“The Cineworld case? We sued them over access for the handicapped,” he said with a shrug and left it at that. He was loath to talk shop in situations like this, because everyone and their dog was an armchair attorney.
“The paper said you did pretty well for the plaintiffs,” Jeff continued. “Didn’t the court rule that Cineworld had to provide so much handicapped seating on par with the rest of the crowd? And added a cool five mil for being inconvenienced?”
Doug snorted into his vodka tonic. “Must be nice.”
Actually, it wasn’t very nice at all—it was textbook discrimination, and Matt couldn’t stand seeing the little guy get trounced by big Cineworld-type conglomerates. Maybe his father was right about him—Matt could be a bleeding heart. “The deal was that Cineworld made it clear they weren’t changing business practices for a bunch of gimps in Austin, Texas,” he said coolly. “But my clients have severe handicaps that confine them to wheelchairs. If they want to see a movie like all the rest of us, they have to wait for video because Cineworld puts them down on the floor where they have to crane their necks just to see the damn screen. My clients asked them nicely, but Cineworld got pretty arrogant about it.” And Matt hated arrogance more than anything.
“I guess Cineworld’s thinking a little differently about it now, huh?” Tom said with a laugh.