Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  “Well, you know how the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office always wants to consider that interest in every case and - -”

  “Good,” said the Judge. “This case would be included in ‘every case.’” He nodded at Larkin. “You may proceed with your bond hearing, Mr. Monroe. The Court will entertain argument on your oral motion. Anything from the Commonwealth before I hear Mr. Monroe’s motion?”

  “I . . .” The poor prosecutor sifted through the folders. The audience was stunned into complete silence. “Um.” The prosecutor glanced at the full house.

  “I could short circuit this, your Honor,” said Larkin.

  “Oh?”

  “Your Honor, I proffer to the Court that I’m a licensed attorney and that I work as an attorney on a fulltime basis. I’ve never been convicted of any crime and I’m currently not on probation of any kind. I grew up in this area and I still have family here.” Madeline’s hurt face flashed in his mind. “I am fully aware of the necessity of returning for the next proceeding in my case.”

  Judge Wallace nodded.

  “And I might also add,” said Larkin, “that I don’t believe I’ve ever been late for a hearing in front of you, your Honor.”

  “Well that’s good,” said the Judge. He turned to the prosecutor. “Any objection?”

  “Yes, your Honor,” said the prosecutor. He puffed out his chest a bit as his second wind buffeted his sails. “We object to the very scheduling of this hearing. It has not been placed upon the docket today and – -”

  “Any objection to the defendant’s proffer?” asked the Judge. “I’ve already ruled as to whether we’ll be having this hearing.”

  “Your Honor, I do not have a sufficient basis to form an opinion as to the veracity of Mr. Monroe’s - -”

  “I don’t give two figs about your opinion. Overruled.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand before picking up his pen. “I’m going to set the bond amount for Mr. Monroe at ten thousand, secured.” He began writing, but paused and peered over the rim of his glasses at Larkin. “You won’t be going anywhere, will you Mr. Monroe?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Judge nodded. A ten thousand dollar secured bond meant that with the assistance of a bail bondsman, Larkin would only have to cover one thousand dollars in order to be released. Fortunately, he knew just the man to help him with the funding. The only difficulty would be in getting Trevor on the phone.

  “Thank you, your Honor,” said Larkin as he nodded to Judge Wallace. The Judge nodded again and Larkin returned to his table. Wendy McAdams, eat your heart out.

  “Hot damn, Mr. Monroe,” whispered Terry. His reddened eyes could not have opened any wider. “That was impressive as all get out.”

  “Thanks,” said Larkin. He had left himself half-impressed at least. But five minutes later, after he had made an about-face, grabbed the podium, and successfully argued as Terry’s attorney for a $500.00 bond for his fellow bondsman, he felt like king of the world. The reporters flipped through their spiral bound pages filling them with excited scribbles. With Judge Wallace allowing him such a long leash, Larkin had become the star of center ring, or at the very least, General District Courtroom Four. Wendy McAdams raised her eyebrows and Larkin imagined it was due to the onset of sudden sexual attractiveness traditionally coupled with such acts of alpha male awesomeness. He also knew what a loser this thought made him, but he didn’t care.

  He nodded to the sad mess of a prosecutor and headed toward the door that led to the holding cell. His city’s Vice Mayor, and hopefully bail money, was only a phone call away. Soon, he would be back on the street.

  Terry smacked his attorney approvingly on the shoulder. “That was something. I’ll get you back for all of that.”

  “Sure you will, Terry.”

  “Now are you going to need help on getting out of the murder fix’n?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  90 Proof

  “There she is,” said Trevor with a grin as large as a billboard, “the prize.” He set a large foam cup overflowing with shaved ice upon the bistro table and slid it toward Larkin. The limeade looked damn good, especially after eighteen hours in jail. “You drink that,” said Trevor, “and you’ll be right as rain, so they say.” He sunk into the metal and plastic chair across from Larkin. Like Larkin, he was a bit worse for the wear. Trevor had neither shaved nor washed the Jim Beam out of his shirt. “It will keep you free from scurvy too.”

  Larkin nodded and Trevor smiled. “You know,” said Larkin, “when you’re hungover, you look like Miami Vice.”

  “I know.” A revolving rack of postcards sat immediately behind Trevor in the Star City Pharmacy. The post card closest to his half-closed eyes depicted a fat cat dangling by his paws from a tree limb. It probably had a line inside like, hang in there.

  Larkin’s right hand darted for the limeade while his left lowered the rim of a Hokies baseball hat on sale for $5.99. “You see that?” he whispered after sipping the limeade. He pointed through the glass of the pharmacy’s storefront window to some obscure shadows that lurked across the street. “That stretch of darkness by the stairs has grown. I bet we’ve been here for forty minutes now.”

  “Who the hell cares?” said Trevor, although he also found himself staring at shadows. “I’m telling you,” he said after a few more minutes of surveillance, “we can do this with a two-man infiltration.” He took a gulp of his nearly finished limeade and wiped his chin. “Right now.”

  “No.”

  “Right, bloody now.” Trevor’s cell phone rang but he quickly silenced it.

  Larkin sipped again. “What did you add?”

  “Two Grey Gooses. Grey Geese, I guess. Why do you think I took our drinks to the bathroom?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention.” He continued to look out the window.

  Trevor followed his gaze. “Hey,” he said as he squinted. He placed his hand at his brow to block ambient light. “That bench across the street . . . is that?”

  “Yes,” said Larkin.

  Trevor’s jaw dropped. He nearly tipped over his shaved ice. “You mean to tell me that your wife’s face is plastered to the bench right across from your office?”

  “She’s a realtor.”

  Trevor shook his head. “I know,” he said, “and believe me, I hear she can move some properties, but I mean, her face . . . her face, man, is right next to your office.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, she’s looking at your office. Her picture is literally staring at your office. Isn’t that odd? There are other benches. Look at her eyes. Look where they’re looking. Who even poses for a picture like that?”

  “You acquisition tax dollars to fund a giant neon star on top of a mountain that everyone can see from anywhere in the city.”

  “So the hell what?” asked Trevor. “We’re the Star City of the South. Don’t change the subject, counselor.”

  “I’m just saying that there’s a lot of quirky things happening in this town. That bench is no different.”

  Trevor shook his head. He stabbed his straw repeatedly into his shaved ice and vodka. “I tell you what,” he said after a quiet moment. “If my ex-wife had a giant permanent poster of her face right next to my office, I’d probably go batshit crazy.”

  “Too late,” said Larkin as he stared at the front door of his office. It was closed and presumably locked as it had been since the stakeout began. There was no real reason to fear exploring his home turf. Despite this, Larkin had ducked into the pharmacy across the street with visions of car bombs and gun men dancing in his head. Conspiracy theories of corporate-sponsored hit men and covert federal agents had sounded fairly absurd a day ago, but that was a day ago.

  As Larkin drank his limeade, the voice of reason/vodka became clear. This was his own turf for crying out loud; he held the upper hand. He nodded. He felt confident, emboldened even. And yet, he had barely touched his fritter.

  “I meant to ask,” said Trevor as his fork slid ste
adily toward the plate near Larkin. “Are you going to finish that?” Without waiting for a reply, he stabbed the pastry and violently dug out a heaping mouthful of flaky, gooey, cinnamon goodness. “You’ve got to taste that,” he murmured with his cheeks bursting with pastry. His words were barely discernable.

  Larkin studied a man carrying a small brown package walking his dog. “They’ve been there too long.”

  “The dog’s sniffing the hydrant,” said Trevor. “Wait.” Trevor leaned closer to the window. “Who’s that guy?”

  Larkin spun. “What guy?”

  “That little chubby guy there.”

  A pear-shaped young man in a tweed suit stood directly in front of the office door. He turned and checked over his shoulder. The man wore large thick glasses that obscured his face. A sentient pair of spectacles bobbing down the sidewalk.

  “Young guy,” said Larkin. “What do you think? Twenty-three?”

  “He’s got a briefcase,” said Trevor

  They watched the man return his gaze to the office. He leaned in close and put his face to the glass. The man’s left hand rose and wiggled the locked door knob.

  “Another lawyer?” asked Trevor.

  “Maybe. Never seen him before.”

  “Right now,” said Trevor. “He’s not knocking. He’s trying to get in.”

  “Shit,” snapped Larkin. The last shot of adrenaline in his body electrified his limbs.

  The two men stood. Though tired, Larkin’s legs were resolute.

  “Right now,” Trevor repeated, this time with his mouth full of food.

  “Yes.” Larkin stormed through the pharmacy. His shoulder struck a counter top and a bottle of ibuprofen fell from a cardboard display. Trevor caught it and watched Larkin march toward the exit.

  “You read my mind.” Trevor caught up with his friend. As they headed toward the door, Trevor held up the bottle of pills to the cashier and gave him some sort of nod.

  Larkin pushed open the double doors. The man across the street continued to peer into his office. He had placed his briefcase on the sidewalk and began bumping the door with his shoulder.

  “He’s testing it, I think,” said Trevor as they stepped quickly through the pharmacy parking lot. “To see if there’s a deadbolt. Watch out!”

  The driver of a red Volvo wagon slammed on her brakes as Larkin bolted in front of her on a direct path toward his office. A young teenage girl, rolled up her window as the man with the Terminator gaze and baseball hat with a large visible price tag still affixed to the bill passed by her car.

  “Warpath,” said Trevor. “I like it. But don’t kill my voters.”

  “That’s my home,” said Larkin as he stomped through a flowerbed and onto the sidewalk. The man across the street continued to push his body into the door. “So how do we do this?”

  “We grab his ass,” said Trevor. “Two against one. We grab him, take him into the office.”

  “Right,” said Larkin. “Two against one.”

  Larkin focused his anger on the man’s back.

  “A bit hot for tweed don’t you think?” asked Trevor from a few feet behind. Neither man knew why this made him even more suspicious. Their hearts beat hard and heavy.

  Trevor whistled. “Now you are going to look both ways before - -”

  Larkin entered traffic. Trevor dove ahead of his friend. As he spread his arms to halt oncoming cars, a half-finished limeade and vodka flew from his right hand and sailed through the open sunroof of a nearby SUV.

  “Shit!” shouted Trevor. First the SUV, and then other vehicles, slammed on their brakes as either Larkin and/or limeade gummed up the works.

  The tweed man in front of the office turned to view the commotion.

  “He’s turning, Trevor!” shouted Larkin. “He’s sees me.”

  “Two against one!” yelled Trevor.

  A car door slammed. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked the driver of the SUV as he headed straight for Trevor. The driver’s bicep muscles bulged from beneath a tight white t-shirt. A snake sat coiled on his license plate. Don’t tread on me. “Hey, asshole,” he shouted as he pointed to Trevor.

  “Sorry, I uh . . .” began Trevor. “It was an accident and I - -”

  “You’re going to come apologize to my wife for ruining her goddamned new three hundred dollar purse. You can come right now, or I’ll drag you.”

  “Trevor!” screamed Larkin. “He looks like he might run!” Larkin reached the sidewalk and held out his arms and legs like a football player on defense in the 1950’s.

  “Sorry, Larkin,” shouted Trevor. “I’ve got to handle this.”

  “What?” cried Larkin. The man in the tweed suit shuffled frantically. He made a quick step to the right, but Larkin scooted laterally. “I’m boxing him out, Trevor!”

  Trevor did not reply. Larkin suddenly realized that if the man in the tweed suit was to be captured and questioned, it would not be two against one.

  The tweed suit shuffled left, but Larkin was on it. The man looked frantic. He was young, no older than twenty-five. His short dark hair was perfectly parted in that Clark Kent style. Sweat glistened from his broad forehead in the midday sun.

  “I’m going in!” shouted Larkin, though he knew Trevor was MIA.

  “Wait,” said the tweed man as he dropped his briefcase. He fanned his stubby fingers and flashed the universal sign of ‘please don’t tackle’.

  Larkin bit his lip. “I’m going in!” The narration was self-serving at this point. Bolstered with his own false confidence, Larkin lunged.

  Both men screamed. Larkin wrapped his arms about the man’s mid-section and they tumbled to the ground. A button of the man’s tweed vest pressed against Larkin’s left eye as he buried his fist into the man’s side.

  “Oh!” the man shrieked. It gave Larkin pause. He pushed himself off of the sidewalk. His Hokie hat flew from his head. Despite the fact that he was embroiled in a fight, he suddenly wondered if he had committed petit larceny by not paying for the hat.

  The man’s hands struggled to center his glasses. The lenses seemed an inch thick. His flushed cheeks puffed in and out as he struggled to breathe. Though he had the stylings of an older man, upon closer inspection, he appeared even younger.

  “Don’t hit me!” the young man shrieked. Even through the thick glasses, Larkin could see that his eyes were squeezed shut.

  Larkin looked at his fist. His knuckles ached. The adrenaline surged higher than ever before. He was either going to pass out or leap into orbit. “Who are you working for?” he growled. Spit smacked the man’s glasses.

  “No one!” he cried. He straightened his glasses and blinked. “I’m not here to do anything!”

  “Who are you? Why were you trying to break into my office?” Larkin raised his fist.

  “I’m Anthony,” the man gasped. “Anthony Swain. I’m . . . please lower your hand.”

  “Why were you trying to break into my office?”

  “I wasn’t. I just wanted to see if you were in there.”

  “Why?” Larkin shouted. “You don’t look the type who just happens to need a good fender bender lawyer.”

  The man’s breaths came out in quick succession. His cheeks bloomed red and as he breathed, the redness spread over his face. His right hand swatted at his coat, but Larkin kept his knee firmly planted.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Larkin. “You got some sort of gun in there?”

  “He’s having an asthma attack,” said a booming voice in Larkin’s ears. Arms that might as well have been attached to a forklift extended below Larkin’s armpits.

  “Huh?” asked Larkin as he was suddenly picked up like a child and tossed to the ground. He landed on his shoulder and whelped like a scolded dog. With his teeth gritting away the pain, he rolled onto his back and swiveled his head. The hulking beast that had threatened Trevor over a limeade-covered purse was assisting the man in the tweed suit.

  Someone tapped Larkin’s foot
and he looked up. The man standing over him blocked the sun, but Larkin only knew one man who looked handsome even dark and featureless. A shadowy hand reached out. Larkin grabbed hold. “I thought you were getting your ass kicked,” he said.

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Trevor. He pulled Larkin to his feet and nodded toward the bison-sized man. “I don’t fight . . . ever. That can be dangerous. Everything okay, Roy?” Trevor called to the large man.

  “What about two against one?” asked Larkin.

  “Well, that’s just a show of strength,” said Trevor. “You know, deterrence and for morale.”

  “He’s okay,” said Roy as he stood. The man in the tweed suit sucked on the end of a small plastic inhaler. “Probably didn’t help that your buddy used him as a punching bag.” Roy smiled at Trevor. “I tell you what, Mr. Meeks, it’s true what they say about you.”

  “What do they say about him?” asked Larkin.

  “You know,” said Roy. “He’s a wild man.”

  “Right.”

  “Did I hurt your shoulder?” asked Roy.

  “No,” Larkin lied.

  Roy enveloped Trevor’s hand in a firm handshake. “Take care, Mr. Meeks.”

  “You too, Roy,” said Trevor. He looked to Larkin.

  “What? He’s a fireman. It helps when you personally spearhead more funding for fire and rescue salaries. Roy got a bonus last year. I think I bought his wife that purse. Nice punches by the way. What’s his name?”

  Larkin glared at the man in what was now clearly a much used and drab tweed suit who had just tucked his inhaler back in his pocket. His knees bent as if he was about to stoop to retrieve his briefcase, when he noticed Larkin and Trevor approaching.

  “Two against one,” said Larkin to the man. His words were tough, but his shoulder ached and he worried that he had broken a finger.

  “Please,” said the man as he again held up his hands.