Charlie Barret: I'm going to give you an opportunity: get out of this. Now. Before it gets so fucked up nobody could ever recover.
Lono Veccio: A busket?
Marty: Don't go dying on me. Remember, I'm a lawyer. I've got friends in hell.
Ira Reder: Why is this man here? Why is he taped to my father's favorite chair?
Charlie Barret: Well, I'm wondering, how come a day and a half ago Max can't navigate his way around Harlem with a Sherpa guide, but tonight he knows the place like his backyard?
Charlie Barret: I'm bleeding to death. Humor me.
Charlie Barret: Ira, come here. You are the man. Remember that. Okay.
Ira Reder: That's fresh ice. That's very cold.
Charlie Barret: Anybody wants to hold hands with my dick, I insist they buy me a drink first. I mean, after all, I'm not asking for dinner and dancing.
Lono Veccio: Don't even mention the fuckin' boots to me again. You got that?
Mickey: Sorry Lono.
Lono Veccio: It's not fuckin' funny.
Mickey: I know! I'm kidding.
Lono Veccio: I don't wanna hear about any fuckin' kinda footwear from you again. Don't even talk about fuckin' socks to me.
Ira Reder: I want you and your weird fuck junkie friend out of my house.
Charlie Barret: I think I'm done on this side.
Answer: I found a google hit showing it was released as a short story for Cosmopolitan in Aug 1953.