Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  “Saw her on the news tonight,” said Larkin.

  Kincaid rolled his eyes. He walked toward the doors.

  “Hey,” called Larkin, “when do I get to post bail here?”

  “Hold your horses, Monroe,” said Kincaid as he rushed out of the room. “I’m checking on a few things,” he said before the doors shut.

  Twenty minutes later, after Kincaid located, interviewed, and educated the fiery nurse on the procedures for filing a warrant with the magistrate for assault and battery, two cops came into Larkin’s room and uncuffed him. Thirty minutes after that, he was driven to the police department, inked, photographed, and cited for drunk in public, a petty violation, but one the state bar would not look kindly upon. Kincaid most likely had believed Larkin’s story, nutty as it was. Still, the cop thought that a weekend in lockup might be the best for all concerned parties.

  The cops snickered at him as he was handed a phone to place a call. Larkin recognized all of them from traffic court and they likewise remembered him. “Just wait until I cross-examine some of you wise-acres,” he imagined himself saying in a tough-guy tone to the assorted men in uniform. But he kept his mouth shut until a phone was handed to him. He dialed the only man with enough clout to help him, that is, if he wasn’t passed out in the back of his Mercedes with the hot local news anchor’s panties in his pocket.

  Fortunately, the night seemed to be just beginning for Trevor Meeks. After five minutes on the phone, much of it filled with Trevor laughing like a hyena, Larkin did as he was told and handed the phone to the nearest deputy.

  About fifteen minutes and a few more jokes at Larkin’s expense passed before a surly deputy escorted him out of the police station. The crickets were chirping at full capacity as he flung open the door of the taxi awaiting his arrival. Larkin flopped into the backseat. Trevor had worked his magic.

  His head still stung like hell. He wondered whether he could sleep on it. His watch told him that it was already approaching two in the morning. He vaguely remembered something someone had told him about not sleeping after suffering a concussion and he was half-mad that the hospital staff had not seemed to have cared one way or the other.

  He groaned as he stretched his legs as far as he could manage. Part of him wanted to simply ask the cabbie to drop him off at home. “Hells bells,” he mumbled as he felt his car keys in his coat pocket, “might as well be done with it. Excuse me,” he said, “driver? Can you take me to the hospital please?”

  The wooly old man behind the wheel winked at Larkin in the rearview mirror. He smiled and his reflection depicted a smattering of teeth and gaps. “I got instructions, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m to take you down to the country club to see Mr. Meeks.”

  “Bullshit,” said Larkin. “Mr. Meeks can go kiss my foot. It’s almost two in the morning. I need my car.”

  The driver turned on Melrose Avenue and played with the radio a bit, ignoring Larkin. Agitated, Larkin leaned forward but the driver raised his hand. “He said you’d be feisty.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Larkin as he reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay you.”

  “Mr. Meeks already paid me. And he said that whatever you would offer me, he would double.”

  “You’re going to trust that tom cat? I offer you two million dollars.”

  “This wouldn’t be the first time that we’ve done some business.”

  “Wonderful,” said Larkin. The lights of a nearby donut shop forced him to cover his eyes. “You ever kill somebody for Mr. Meeks?”

  “It’s a nice night,” said the driver.

  “It’s false imprisonment.” Larkin sunk back into the frayed tan fabric of his seat. “You know, I’m a lawyer. I could sue. You could lose this job.”

  “Mr. Meeks said you’d say some of that, the suing business that is.”

  “Yeah?” asked Larkin. “And what did he tell you to do when I said it?”

  “In his words?”

  “In anyone’s words.”

  “He said, I don’t care what the little shyster tells you. He ain’t gonna sue nobody. He said your law license was pulled on account of your public drunkenness.”

  “Drunkenness? What the hell, Meeks? Look,” said Larkin as he gripped the fabric of the front passenger seat. “I have my law license and I’m not afraid to use it.” He smiled a bit, impressed with the toughness of his words.

  “That was the police department we was just at, right?” asked the driver.

  “Of course it was, but—”

  “And what pray tell were you arrested for?”

  “Jesus!” Larkin wailed. He smacked the back of the passenger seat. A cloud of dust rose and sank.

  “I ain’t trying to offend you,” said the driver.

  Larkin looked out the window. “Well we’re almost there anyway. He shook his head. “What a night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You did some pretty good cross examination there,” said Larkin as he rubbed his eyes.

  The taxi pulled up to the Big Lick Country Club. A few decades earlier, the area surrounding the club was only notable for a few rolling hills and several sleepy neighborhoods. Now, the club was an island of Southern Aristocracy surrounded by a neighborhood beset with high crime. Larkin had himself represented at least three individuals who had picked up criminal charges for drug deals or violent altercations that had occurred at the convenience store located not two hundred yards from the club’s nearest security camera. He always got a kick imagining the well-heeled of Big Lick rolling their windows up and driving their luxury SUVs above the speed limit in order to feel secure. Like the train tracks that crisscrossed town, the club had rusted some in recent years.

  The taxi slowed as it reached the club and began passing partygoers seemingly leaving the last hours of a late night soiree. The driver pulled to the front where a doorman quickly opened Larkin’s door.

  “We’re preparing to close, sir,” said the doorman.

  “Thank God,” said Larkin. He turned to the driver. “Take me to the hospital.”

  “He’s here to see Mr. Meeks,” said the driver.

  “Ahhh,” nodded the doorman.

  “Shit,” hissed Larkin.

  Larkin extended his arm. The doorman gripped his hand and yanked. “Thanks,” said Larkin as he was hauled to his feet. He actually appreciated the gesture. The driver beeped his horn and waved, but Larkin ignored him and attempted to straighten his non-existent tie. He knew he would look out of place among the high muckety-mucks, but he also considered that they might be too drunk to notice.

  “Vice Mayor Meeks is on the patio,” said the doorman.

  Larkin buttoned his coat and flung open the door. A small black cricket scuttled around the threshold. With a well-aimed motion from his left foot, Larkin sent the bug hopping through the doorway and into the lobby. “At least he’s dressed for the occasion,” he whispered.

  He carefully stepped over the cricket as he made his way through the brightly lit lobby. The heady aroma of spicy hors d’oeuvres and spilled red wine hung in the air. Members of the wait staff hustled over thick maroon carpet carrying empty bottles, lipstick-stained glasses and the like. Larkin caught two waiters shooting him sideways glances.

  He gripped the handle to the broad glass door at the back of the building and left the air conditioning for humid night air. Cricket choruses sang as Larkin scanned the multi-tiered patio. It was littered with the signs of a good party. A beautifully manicured golf course glowed under soft light and disappeared in the dark horizon. Larkin approached the wrought iron railing. A half-empty glass of brown liquor upon a nearby table called his name, but he ignored the invitation.

  Movement in the distance, somewhere just behind the third green, caught his eye. He squinted and made out an off-white golf cart zigzagging over the golf course at high speed. A woman’s voice shrieked in delight.

  “Of course,” said Larkin as the golf cart circled a sand trap before be
e-lining toward the patio.

  “Larkin!” shouted Trevor from behind the small plastic steering wheel. “Who the hell invited you?”

  Larkin was about to curse a blue streak but the $10,000 smile flashed from the supermodel in the passenger seat stole his breath.

  “Is this man your friend?” asked the woman to Trevor. Her thick eastern European accent stirred Larkin’s sensibilities.

  “I know,” said Trevor. “Doesn’t she sound just like a James Bond villain?”

  “Yes,” said Larkin as he walked toward the golf cart. He was caught in a 5’10” blonde tractor beam.

  “Bianca Valamova,” said Trevor, “this is Larkin, one of our town’s greatest legal brains.”

  “Hello, Mr. Larkin,” said Bianca as she extended her hand. Like a European duke from a day time television show, Larkin gripped her hand delicately and kissed the area just behind her knuckle.

  “Evening, Ms. Valamova,” he replied.

  “Nice move,” said Trevor. “You know she knows we don’t do that here.”

  “I don’t care,” said Larkin.

  “Get in the back. This night is not over.”

  “There’s not really an extra seat,” said Larkin as he regarded the golf cart. Dark blotches of mud, sand, or whatever dripped from the wheels and wheel wells. “Did you guys tear up the place?”

  “Go where the clubs go,” said Trevor as he kept a watchful eye on the clubhouse patio.

  “You mean this platform back here?” asked Larkin. An eleven-inch wide piece of plastic jutted out from underneath the cart, in-between the rear wheels. He placed his right foot gingerly on the surface. The plastic felt thick enough to support his weight. With his eyes on the glowing skin of Ms. Valamova, Larkin mounted the cart and immediately slipped, but quickly caught his balance. “What is this? Mud?”

  “Bit of a water hazard,” said Trevor. “Grab hold, Larkin. I don’t want anyone coming out of that building and putting red tape on our fun.”

  Larkin white-knuckled the waist-high metal bar used as a prop for golf clubs. “I think I’m - -”

  Trevor floored it and Larkin nearly flew off of the cart. He bit his tongue as the cart whipped around in a tight circle before shooting out over the nearest fairway.

  “What is dis ‘red tape?’” asked Bianca.

  “It’s what we use to tie up communist spies,” said Trevor.

  Larkin’s jacket buffeted behind him like a poor man’s cape while his collar flitted about like a wounded animal. “Given the neighborhood we’re in, don’t you think they’d have some security around the course?”

  “Who?” asked Trevor. “You mean Sam and Dennis? Allies.”

  “Nice work,” shouted Larkin before ducking as a nearby tree branch sailed overhead.

  “Maybe you should remain on the path, Trevor,” said Bianca. “You do not want to injure Larkin.”

  “I love the way she says my name,” said Larkin.

  “I know, isn’t it awesome?” asked Trevor. If the golf cart had been going any slower, they would have high fived.

  “Yes it is. Now do what she says.”

  Larkin braced himself as Trevor cut the wheel and the golf cart swerved sharply to the right. After a few bumpy seconds, the tires connected with the thin paved trail that carved a smooth path through the course. As the ride became considerably less insane, Larkin took a moment to look about. They had left the lights of the clubhouse behind them. A nearly full moon blanketed the course in pale blue. The grass glowed an unearthly color and Bianca’s finely sculpted back looked ethereal.

  “You are so naughty,” she said. She smacked Trevor’s left leg. A large exotic gem stone marked her ring finger. “It is the same in any country.”

  “What?” asked Larkin as he leaned closer. “Are smart asses common in Russia too?”

  Bianca turned; her eyes easily outshone her ring. Larkin nearly fell off of the cart. “In my country,” she stated, “they are not asses. They are roosters. And they strut around like this one here,” she said as she pointed to Trevor. “They walk around small tables that are too high to sit at with strong drinks. That is how they show you their feathers.”

  “I’m the cock of the walk,” said Trevor.

  The cart hit an unseen bump and Larkin was launched into the air. His fingers grasped for a golf club railing that was already far from reach and he yelped like a child as he landed squarely on his backside. Perhaps it was his karma for striking the nurse. Fortunately, the golf cart had been turning at the time they hit the bump. Inertia had sent him onto the ninth green and not the pavement. As he laid back and looked at the stars above, he realized that ultimately he was fortunate that he would not have to return to the hospital for treatment.

  “The nurses would poison my IV,” he said quietly to himself. His voice was easily drowned out. The night was filled with a symphony of insects, frogs, and other unseen critters. As he counted the stars in what he believed to be the handle of the big dipper, the golf cart returned and came to a stop not a yard from Larkin.

  “Good place as any,” said Trevor as he set the parking brake and kicked his feet back over the front dashboard. “You okay, good buddy?”

  “Fine.”

  Bianca stepped out of the vehicle and approached Larkin. She extended her hand and wrapped her long fingers tightly around his.

  “Jesus,” said Larkin as she pulled him quickly to his feet. “Are you wonder woman?”

  “What would I wonder?” asked Bianca, but Larkin heard, Vat vould I vonder.

  He grinned. Bianca was in on the joke. “We have comic books as well,” she smirked. Larkin began wiping grass off of his pants when he noticed that Trevor had pulled a joint seemingly from the night air.

  “Superheroes don’t smoke,” said Trevor as he fished in his coat pocket for a lighter.

  “No, but the best heroes smoke. Like Bruce Willis in Die Hard.”

  “She loves action movies,” said Trevor. “All Russians do. She’s hung out with Steven Seagal.”

  Bianca also began swatting at clods of dirt and grass dotting Larkin’s pants. He spread out his arms like a scarecrow and remained transfixed on the glowing orange tip of the joint as a calming frame of reference. “Is she cool with that?” he asked.

  “How else do you think he was able to convince me to go with him?” asked Bianca as she smacked Larkin’s rear end. It still stung from the fall.

  Trevor passed the contraband to Bianca. “Well,” he said as she pressed the tightly rolled paper to her lips, “I was also promised a good story.”

  “Oh?” asked Larkin. He casually approached Bianca to send her the unspoken signal that he was also part of the cool kids club. “Am I going to hear about the time you ruined the Big Lick Symphony’s spring concert because you hijacked the violinist with the solo?”

  Bianca exhaled and a thick cloud of sour smelling smoke wafted over the green. “No,” she said as she handed the contraband to Larkin. “He said that you would tell us a wonderful story.”

  Larkin regarded the joint for a moment and briefly considered whether his lack of temperance was a result of nature or nurture before placing it to his lips.

  “You did just get boosted from jail,” said Trevor. Bianca laughed and clapped her hands.

  “So I have,” said Larkin. He tried to speak while holding in the smoke, but the effort gave his voice a pronounced Kermit the frog effect. He passed the joint back to Trevor thus completing and perpetuating their little circle of mischief. Bianca sat in the passenger seat and reclined a bit. She crossed her legs and both men stared at the four inches of exposed skin above her right knee. Trevor shook his head.

  “Here’s to hot blond Russians who smoke weed,” he said. He held up his lighter like a concertgoer begging for an encore. As the glowing orange tip of the joint cycled amongst them, Larkin recalled and recounted the last several hours of the evening to his audience. It was not an easy tale to tell. The image of Larkin in the morgue was particularly difficul
t to articulate without doubling over and surrendering to the throes of laughter. In fact, it seemed all Larkin needed was a bit of time and a Schedule I drug for him to see the humor in the situation. When he reached the point where he discovered Alex Jordan’s secret, Bianca gasped and kicked a high heel across the green. Trevor was crying.

  “I can’t . . . I can’t,” stuttered Trevor as he wiped at his eyes. With the joint still in his hands, he grazed his left nostril with the burning tip. He cursed and dropped the remains of the contraband. It disappeared in the pale blue grass as surely as if it had been dropped in the lake.

  Larkin hustled to the edge of the green looking for Bianca’s shoe. “Got it!” he declared as he held her shoe high in the air.

  “Bravo!” clapped Bianca. She extended her leg and allowed Larkin to play Prince Charming. “I can’t believe that she - -” began Bianca before Trevor began beating his fists against the steering wheel.

  “She’s a he!” he shouted. He yelled so loudly that he must have woken half the neighborhood. “Unbelievable. Un-fucking believable.”

  Bianca turned and smacked Trevor on his leg. She did it with enough force to demand everyone’s attention. “She was murdered,” said Bianca. “It is a sad, sad thing. And do not interrupt me.”

  Trevor smiled. Even in the dark, it was evident that his teeth were damn perfect. “Yeah, but come on,” he said, “she was a guy. I mean can you believe that?”

  “I do not believe you, Rooster,” said Bianca.

  “What does that mean?” asked Larkin.

  Bianca smiled. “I do not know.” She turned back to Trevor and her expression flipped. “It is the taking of a life. You must respect the seriousness of this. And yes it is amazing that this woman was born a man, but it is brave thing for her to be herself. It is very sad, Rooster.”

  “So sad,” agreed Trevor.

  “What is this job?” asked Bianca. “What is a law clerk?”

  “A law clerk,” began Larkin, “is typically a young attorney who graduated high in her class. Or was politically connected to the court for some reason.”

  “His class,” said Trevor as he clutched a wine bottle in his right hand. He continued to rummage through the basket.