Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  “Where did you get that?” asked Larkin.

  “I went all the way to Eagle Scout. Always be prepared. I got my vice badge.”

  “Quiet,” snapped Bianca. “Do you not know how not to interrupt?” She faced Larkin. “Please continue.”

  “So he or she is a young attorney,” continued Larkin. They typically work for a judge for a year and help the judge research and write the opinions. It’s supposed to be a funnel to high-paying jobs with big law firms.”

  “So,” said Bianca as she leaned back in her seat. A distinct popping sound to her left signaled the uncorking of the wine. “She could have been murdered because of her profession.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Larkin.

  “Well, most murders result from personal relationships, like scorned lovers.”

  “What’s to say that didn’t happen here?” asked Trevor. He turned up the bottle and took a swig before passing it to Bianca.

  “Is this cabernet?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Trevor. Like Trevor, she placed the bottle to her lips. Unlike Trevor, she drank more than a few sips. She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, managing to look somehow delicate in the process, and held out the bottle to Larkin.

  “God bless mother Russia,” said Larkin.

  “That is not cabernet,” she said. Her accent sounded threatening and sexy at the same time. “What I am saying,” said Bianca, “is that she worked for a very important person, a judge. She could have been killed because of a case.”

  “Oh, I like it,” said Trevor. “There was some big case, like a power company that wanted to put a dam somewhere . . . or a power plant or a wind farm, whatever. She wants to protect the environment - - no!” He slapped his knee. “She wants to protect an endangered squirrel that lives in the trees about to be torn down.”

  Larkin laughed lightly but Trevor’s theory, half-baked as it was, did not sound utterly improbable. The Supreme Court of Virginia regularly decided big cases. It was not unusual for millions of dollars to change hands with certain rulings. “So it was the power company,” said Larkin, “or an oil company, a huge corporation discovers that she’s been assigned to help her boss with a particular opinion. They’re scared. She’s from California, hell, she even went to Berkley. With a well-crafted argument and a sweet smile, she was going to convince the judge to protect the Blue Ridge pygmy squirrel.”

  Bianca laughed. “It is like Pelican Brief.”

  “What?” asked Larkin.

  “Like Jim Grisham?” asked Trevor.

  “John Grisham,” corrected Larkin.

  “No,” said Bianca. “He was not in Pelican Brief. Denzel Washington and Julia Roberts.”

  Larkin drank some of the wine and handed the half-empty bottle to Trevor. “Good Lord,” said Trevor as he lifted the surprisingly light bottle. “Did you . . . ?”

  Larkin pointed to the inebriated Russian goddess.

  “Nice.”

  “You know,” said Larkin, “it might be crime related. Suppose there were some illegal shenanigans. This girl is going to screw them.”

  “What?” asked Trevor, “like the mob?”

  “That is Tom Cruise,” said Bianca as she raised her hand high in the air like a good student. “I mean, The Firm. That is The Firm.”

  “There you go,” said Trevor.

  Larkin shook his head. “She’s right. This isn’t movie magic. None of those things ever really happen. We’re missing the obvious.”

  “Such as?” asked Trevor. “She fell off a dock?”

  “She’s a guy!” shouted Larkin. “Come on, Trevor. This ain’t San Francisco. Notwithstanding her package, this was a hottie.”

  “I love,” said Trevor in a deep and very serious tone, “love that you just said that.”

  “Shut up, Rooster,” snapped Larkin. “It makes more sense. Let’s say she’s out for a romantic moonlight cruise on the lake. One thing leads to another and all of a sudden her good ‘ole boy date discovers that he just made out with a boy named Sue.”

  “Now we’re talking skinemax,” said Trevor. “I bet it was the judge.”

  “Justice,” said Larkin. “On the Supreme Court of Virginia they’re called justices.”

  “Did her boss have a house at the lake?”

  “He does,” nodded Larkin.

  “So he’s out there,” said Trevor. He gave the bottle back to Larkin and spaced his hands apart as he set his scene. “He’s a big powerful man in society on his boat, which probably has some god-awful lawyer name like Habeas Corpus or Black Acre or something. Anyway, he’s out there on his boat and he discovers that he should have asked Ms. Jordan a few more questions during her job interview.”

  “Doesn’t she - -” began Larkin as he looked back to Bianca. Her head hung against the back of her chair. Even in the dim light, it was clear that she had shut her eyes and abandoned her efforts to hear the remainder of the story.

  “That layover in St. Petersburg is a bitch,” said Trevor, scanning Bianca’s still form.

  “This is making sense,” said Larkin. “Justice Byrd is one of the most conservative judges in the state. He’s got an eye on the Fourth Circuit bench too.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Larkin shook his head. “Just rumor. But think about it for a second. If it ever came out that this guy was involved in such a relationship, his career would be sunk. No self-respecting conservative would associate with him after that kind of PR nightmare.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Trevor, “but being convicted of murder can also kill your career. And any relationship with another woman would likewise kill a career. Forget the part about . . . about her part”

  “True,” said Larkin. He gave the bottle back to Trevor and indicated that he wanted no more. “I just can’t figure out how she got my business card.”

  “Your business card?” asked Trevor.

  “She had it in her pocket.”

  “When she died?” asked Trevor, stopping mid-swig. “Are you a suspect?” The surprise in his voice was unmistakable. The story was no longer particularly humorous.

  “A detective talked to me. I think I convinced him that I’m not a murderer.

  “Why the hell did she have your business card?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The words had barely left his lips when a loud hissing sound nearly made Larkin jump out of his shoes. A full second passed before they realized that the golf course sprinkler system had activated and they were getting soaked. Trevor howled with laughter as the men scrambled into the cart. Larkin tried to mount the rear of the cart, but Trevor smacked his hand.

  “Hold her!” he shouted. After a very few awkward moments, Larkin and Trevor were seated in the golf cart with a beautiful, semi-conscious Bianca sprawled across their laps. The cart accelerated rapidly from the green. Larkin tried to point through the blinding curtain of water toward the paved path, but as he raised his hand, he nearly dropped Bianca’s head. Water sprinkled on her forehead and she opened her eyes for a moment.

  “Adam Sandler,” she murmured. “Happy Gilmore.” Her eyes shut.

  “What did she say?” asked Trevor as he aimed the cart in the general direction of the club house.

  “She watches way too many movies, I think.”

  “You know,” said Trevor as the cart escaped the splash zone, “we might want to check out this whole penis thing, in case it might be contagious.”

  Larkin did not need to turn to know that Trevor was staring at Bianca’s revealing dress. “Shut up and take me the hell home, Rooster.”

  60 Proof

  A plume of WD-40 mist surrounded the dogwood tree as the can emptied itself onto the silky tent caterpillar nest. The strong chemical smelling cloud swirled around Larkin and drifted toward the big green lawnmower that sat motionless in need of a sparkplug for over a month. Two spent cans of the lubricant lay scattered around the trunk of the tree. This exterminator was not messing around. Larkin tossed the third em
pty can down among the others. Standing on his tiptoes, he peered through the lower branches.

  Lubricant beads covered the large nest like small pearls of morning dew. The hundreds of caterpillars inside squirmed over, into, and under one another. The constant inner struggle slightly shifted the nest in slow sways. Larkin pictured the figure of an attractive woman stretching under sheets.

  Backing his face away, he gingerly raised the hissing blowtorch. The thought that he had used far too much lubricant crossed his mind immediately before the nest exploded and a small fireball enveloped the center of the dogwood tree.

  Blasted by the sudden heat, he dropped to the ground as the sky rained blackened and charred caterpillars. Some landed dead on the ground like cooked tidbits of meat. Others writhed and wiggled in the grass.

  “Good gracious!” shouted a feminine voice. “Are you okay?

  Larkin opened his eyes and despite the brightness of the mid-morning sun, he could make out a familiar silhouette. As his vision adjusted, he watched a growing look of concern cross Madeline’s face. Though his back hurt, especially after having been hurled from a golf cart and a three-foot step ladder all within about ten hours, Madeline’s worry warmed him. Pity. Delicious, semi-nurturing pity. Maybe he was reading too much into the slight furrow of her brow, but he didn’t care. He did not want to say anything. If he did, he knew he would ruin the moment and it was perfect.

  “What did you do? Larkin, can you hear me?” She looked at the seared dogwood. “Oh it smells. What is that?”

  “The tree exploded,” he said. “Sap leak. Boom.” The moment had expired. He extended his hand. Though Madeline continued to regard the tree, she gripped his fingers and pulled. Unlike Bianca, she struggled to bring Larkin to his feet.

  “I thought I saw fire,” she whispered. She spoke as if Larkin’s statement had just been validated.

  “Barbecued caterpillar,” said Larkin as he flicked charred pieces of the bugs off of his clothes. After straightening himself, he asked the question that he did not wish to ask. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “It was a long night.”

  “Hmmm.” Her big brown eyes squinted, but not at the sun. “Did you have to bail Trevor out of jail?”

  “Not exactly. So were you planning on breaking in and stealing my golf clubs?”

  “No,” she said with an eye roll, “I wanted to see Rusty.”

  “Oh. You mean before the Sheriff comes and seizes him for auction? He’s inside.”

  Madeline stared at him before crossing her arms and quickly pivoting. She stepped toward the house.

  “I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk,” he shouted. “But you are suing me for my goddamn cat.” He looked down at his feet. “Fare thee well,” he whispered to the scattered dead. He wanted to run after her, but a smoldering bunch of leaves near the dogwood trunk demanded immediate attention. As he stomped out the cinders, he surveyed the damage. The tree was scorched. For a moment, he considered whether the abject hatred of all things caterpillar that had struck him upon waking that morning had actually worked to the tree’s detriment. He had begun picking at the blackened bark when a scream from within his home got his feet moving. He crossed the yard in less than a second and flung open the screen door. “What’s wrong!?” he asked, already out of breath.

  “Larkin,” spat Madeline as she turned. Rusty was clutched tightly to her bosom. “What is this?”

  Larkin was silent and clueless. He had no clue what she meant. She knew it and it made her even angrier. “He’s fat, Larkin. Obese. Look at this.” She wiggled her left arm and a blob of orange fur oozed out from the crook of her arm.

  “I feed him well. He’s a cat of leisure.”

  “He’s going to die, Larkin.” Rusty purred like a well-oiled husqvarna. “Won’t do.” Larkin mouthed her catchphrase just as she uttered it, but he made sure she could not see him. Madeline placed Rusty on the beige kitchen tile.

  “You left him with me, Madeline.”

  “Won’t do,” she repeated as she retreated into the hall closet. She flicked on the light and began hunting through Larkin’s accumulated chaos. “Where is it?” Again, Larkin remained silent. He knew that she would fill in the blank spaces. “The leash,” she continued. Unknown items crashed onto the closet floor. “Tell me you didn’t throw it out.”

  “I should have,” he mumbled. He eyed the freezer and imagined that x-ray vision permitted him a view of the frost-covered bottle of gin next to the ice trays. Rusty meowed. “Sorry, buddy,” he whispered. “It’s in the blue cookie tin,” he said. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Yes!” she shouted. Madeline exited the closet and literally pounced upon Rusty. With one deft maneuver, Rusty had been leashed. He looked to Larkin with wide glimmering eyes, each one like a glowing votive candle.

  “Real sorry,” he said.

  Madeline snapped her fingers like she had done ten thousand times before in that same room. And like the last five hundred or so times, Rusty summoned his girth and plodded slowly to the door.

  “Dead cat walking,” said Larkin. “You know he hates this.”

  “You hate it,” said Madeline. She placed her hand on the door knob and paused. Her doe eyes trained on his and hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Will you come?”

  More silence. Was this really going to happen?

  “To the theatre and back. Thirty minutes.” She looked down at Rusty and immediately sniffed. Her face turned away for a moment and it was obvious that she was trying to wipe away a tear. “He . . . he,” she said, her voice cracking. “He doesn’t know that we’re separating.” She refused to look at Larkin. He studied her ponytail. A single gray hair was finely woven into the honey brown. They had been separated for years, but the statement somehow still had some punch left in it.

  With a gentle push, Larkin held the door open. Rusty ambled outside with Madeline in tow. Larkin brought up the rear. Though Madeline did not turn back, Larkin knew that she smiled at least once.

  For a while they walked without speaking. They both watched Rusty because that was the easy thing to do. Though portly, Rusty still managed to walk with a smooth and somewhat graceful gait. Like all cats big and small, he kept his head low and bobbed while his orange and white striped shoulder blades protruded, giving him the appearance of having bad posture. They passed homes that they had passed hundreds of times before. The Raleigh Cross neighborhood was about as old as industrialized Big Lick itself. Years ago, a rail-based trolley would take the middle and upwardly mobile working-class citizens on a six-minute ride over the sloping hills that filled outer Appalachia to downtown Big Lick.

  As they made their way toward the quaint Grandin Village area, Larkin could hear Madeline humming softly to herself. His heart felt like it was swelling in his chest.

  “It’s a beautiful day, right?” he asked, keeping his eyes glued firmly on Rusty’s tail.

  Madeline stopped humming. In fact, she stopped walking altogether. Larkin looked up. A woman in her thirties sat upon a nearby porch swing clutching a fat healthy pink baby to her chest. Her fingers ran through her child’s black curly hair and patted his diaper. Larkin’s heart sank.

  “Come on, honey,” he said.

  Madeline continued to stare.

  “To the theatre and back. We can make it.”

  Madeline closed her eyes as she breathed rapidly. Even Rusty seemed concerned as he turned to see why his minder had paused.

  “It’s here,” she said, her teeth still clenched. “It’s always here. I’m fine when I’m away. I can see this,” she nodded toward the mother and child, “and I can go about my day. But when I’m here . . . when I’m where I should be with my baby.” She shook her head.

  “Honey,” said Larkin. He dared to put his hands on her shoulders and she did not flinch. He was the happiest and saddest he had felt in a year or more.

  “Hey!” shouted a voice surprisingly close to the
m. A Chevy pickup rumbled in place at a nearby stop sign. A man in a camouflage baseball hat leaned out of the driver’s window. Larkin recognized him. He had sued the man three years earlier after the pickup driver had broken a barstool at Marty’s. The case was successful and Larkin was able to momentarily bottle his bar tab.

  “I guess it takes a pussy to walk one,” the man yelled. Tried as he could, Larkin could not remember the man’s name. The man’s lips curled back into a yellow-stained smile.

  Larkin clinched his fists. Madeline dropped the leash and quickly pivoted on her heels. She began walking at a brisk pace back toward the house. Larkin stooped to pick up the leash.

  “Awww,” said the man in mock sorrow. “Did I upset your squaw?”

  Larkin pointed at the man. It was his toughest stance. He sucked up his chest, squinted his eyes, and jutted his finger toward the man’s truck like a rapier. But appearing foreboding while holding a cat on a leash was nigh impossible.

  “Don’t scratch me with your kitty cat!” shouted the redneck as he punched the accelerator. Tires squealed and Rusty leaped behind Larkin’s legs to shield him. The terrible sound must have alarmed the baby because he wailed in his mother’s arms. The mother looked at Larkin with venom in her eyes as if he and his stupid cat had somehow harmed her child. When the truck disappeared in the distance, Larkin scooped up his cat and began double-timing it to catch up with Madeline. She steadily shuffled down the sidewalk, her head hung low.

  “Are you okay?” he asked when he reached her.

  “I want you to sign the papers,” she said, her eyes not leaving the sidewalk.

  “How do you know I haven’t already?” He struggled for a moment to get a better grip on his cat. It was like cradling a greased and jiggling bowling ball.

  “I know. I . . . look, Larkin. I could really get into this with you. We could have it all out in the street right now, but that’s not going to happen. I was strong yesterday. Now I’m not. Now I’m just beat.”

  “Please stop running,” he said.