Toby Parke stood at six-two, beefy with all muscle, and showed off a chest of ginger hair, leprechaun green eyes, and a bush of red hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in three or four weeks. He shook my hand, called me a pretty boy like Sander, and said in a baritone voice, “You’re the box of chocolates Sander has told me about, sweet and delicious.”
I placed Toby at two-hundred and twenty pounds and in his early thirties. He had orange scruff on his chin and cheeks, unshaven and handsome. He gave me his beer, which probably was missing an ounce or two.
He instructed Sander, “Give me a hit,” referring to the joint Sander was holding between his lips and puffing on.
Sander and I followed Toby into his Tudor. The smell of m*******a reeked in the place. Carpets were dirty, walls
