Legally Wasted

by Tommy Strelka

  The silhouette cocked her head to the right. “What’s worse than that?”

  “I’d lose my license.”

  “Your license?” The woman laughed. “I don’t see how that’s exactly worse.” She laughed again. “But I suppose it only matters if you think it’s worse, right?”

  “Right.”

  “No license, no big money, right?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Lawyers,” said the woman. “Leaping lawyers.” She smacked her knee. “Well come on then.”

  She reached her free hand toward Larkin. Larkin grasped it. Her fingers were strong and her skin felt like worn canvas. Yanking on his hand, she forcefully directed him toward the ghost chicken.

  “Go on and grab that bird yonder,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman smacked Larkin in the shoulder and pointed to the ghost chicken haunting the nearby tree stump.

  “You’re serious?”

  “It’s what I was fixing to do until I found lawyers crawling round my trees. Once I saw you, I went back and grabbed the gun, figured you to be trouble. You ain’t that are you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I thought so. Now just go and grab that bird and I’ll lead you back to the fire.”

  “I could hold the gun,” offered Larkin. The chicken stepped into a shaft of moonlight revealing the featherless hide. Dozens of small divots pockmarked the chicken’s flesh where the plumage had once taken root.

  “I ain’t letting some city lawyer hold my gun,” said the woman. “You’ll trip and kill us both.”

  “You have a point there.”

  “Oh I have my points. Don’t try none of that arguing with me, lawyer. I always get right to my points. Sides, if I go back to the house to set down the gun, that bird will be halfway down the mountain or some mountain cat’s dinner.”

  “Right. Did it get out of your stew pot or something?”

  “Just grab it round the breast. She won’t peck you or nothing.”

  “Jesus,” whispered Larkin as he approached the bird. The chicken regarded him for a moment before stumbling over a stick. Sad featherless wings flapped for balance as the bird continued to falter.

  “What’s wrong with it?” asked Larkin. “Is it sick? Bird flu?”

  “Nah, the poor thing’s drunk. Come on then. She’ll be easy to get.”

  “Right,” Larkin repeated.

  “Don’t you like picking up drunk chicks?” asked the woman. She cackled at her joke all the while sounding like a backfiring lawn mower.

  Larkin approached the bird. Though he lumbered and made plenty of noise, his quarry seemed somewhat oblivious. It regarded the dark world through the same glassy eyes that Larkin had sometimes viewed the courtroom.

  Holding his breath, he lunged. Surprisingly, he was able to get his hands around the chicken’s torso without much difficulty. He immediately felt that he was gripping the bird too tightly and relaxed just a bit. The skin felt warm and smooth. A tiny heart furiously beat beneath his fingers. The fragility of the small animal gave him pause. It was much lighter than he had imagined.

  “There you go, lawyer man,” said the woman with satisfaction. “On with you,” she said as she pointed the gun up the hill.

  Rather than blaze the trail with a chicken, Larkin waited for the woman with the gun to begin her trek up the hillside. He held the chicken’s warm and wiggling body as far from himself as his arms would allow. To prevent another fall, he carefully studied the woman’s steps and tried to mimic her footstep placement. Eventually, they reached the top. Larkin was squinting at his surroundings when a large dog leaped at him from the shadows.

  He screamed and held his chicken high in the air. The dog, an ugly mix between a Rottweiler and a large chainsaw bared its teeth and struggled to extend the length of rope that had prevented the dog from mauling Larkin.

  “Hush up!” cried the woman to the dog, but it just ignored her command and continued to bark at Larkin and gnaw at the empty air. The poor chicken’s heart beat so rapidly, Larkin was certain the poor ghastly thing was about to go into cardiac arrest.

  “He won’t be a bother,” said the woman. “Come on then.”

  Larkin made a wide arcing turn around the dog and followed the woman to the rear of a log cabin. As soon as they turned a corner, the bright orange light of a bonfire blinded him. He had been in the woods for hours.

  As they neared the fire, Larkin made out five or six men sitting on split log benches. He could not immediately see if Terry was among them.

  “Over here,” said the woman with a wave. Larkin followed her voice to a chicken wire circular enclosure that appeared to have been hastily constructed. Seven equally bald chickens stumbled around the inner perimeter of the fence. They bumped into each, clucked insults or drunken salutations, and staggered on their way. Larkin gently placed his catch into the pen.

  “That’ll be the last of them,” said the woman as she crossed her arms and stared at the sad flock. “Say, why did the chicken cross the road?”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because she wanted to show that old fool the possum how it’s done that’s why.”

  “Ha,” said Larkin without really considering what her punch line could possibly mean.

  “Millie,” said the woman with an extended hand.

  “Larkin,” he said as he shook it.

  “Mr. Monroe!”

  Larkin turned. Terry galloped toward them from the bonfire. “How in heckfire did you know where I live?”

  “I’ve been sending you unpaid legal bills for three or four years now.”

  “But I don’t have a mailbox.”

  “I know.”

  “So is this visit for socializing?” asked Millie. Her rough voice didn’t so much as pierce the night as it sandpapered it to the death. It was quite obvious that she was getting a bit of a kick from Larkin’s presence.

  “This is my aunt Millie,” said Terry.

  Larkin smiled. “We’ve met. I picked up a chicken.”

  Terry skipped to the side and looked through the fence. “Well good for you. Did you get them all?” His pointer finger bounced up and down as he counted heads.

  “All of them,” said Millie. “Though, it should have been your dumbass out scooping them up that’s for sure. Should I be setting up a plate or coffee?” she asked.

  Terry turned. “Well, I’m supposing that Mr. Monroe is here because he’s in some sort of hot water over something. Maybe we should ask him.”

  “That’s who I was asking,” spat Millie.

  “Me?” Larkin thought. His needs transcended anything the woman could provide. But his throat was dry. “Maybe something to drink? Water?”

  Terry grinned. “She’ll go on and get you fixed up with some water, Mr. Monroe. Come on over here and you can sip on something with a kick in it.”

  “You in hot stew, lawyer?” asked Millie.

  “You could say that.”

  “And what kind are they cooking you in?”

  Terry banged the butt of his palm to the side of his head and rolled his eyes. One of the chickens fell on its face. “Ain’t you been up on the news?” asked Terry. “I thought you read the paper.”

  “Last week’s,” said Millie. I get last week’s from Ms. Higgenbotham down in the holler.”

  Terry grinned. “Well you’re going to enjoy reading about Mr. Monroe next week--he’s wanted for murder.”

  “Murder?” Millie squawked. Her fingers tightened about the stock of her weapon.

  Larkin raised his hands, palms outward, in the universal sign of I’m too pathetic to kill anyone. He was about to speak when Terry cut him off.

  “He’s done been framed,” he said.

  “Framed you say!” Millie shouted. “Framed by who?” She looked earnestly to each man. The orange spark of the fire in the distance glowed brightly in her bifocals. Her eyes remained hidden behind the bright reflection, but Larkin knew she stood wide-eyed and curious
as hell.

  “The government,” said Larkin.

  Millie nodded slowly as if in agreement. “The government.” She clucked her tongue and more than one of the chickens answered in kind. She reached out to shake Larkin’s hand for a second time. Apparently, being pursued by Uncle Sam and Aunt Virginia was all Millie needed to hear. She shook vigorously.

  “I’ll go on and fetch you some water and maybe a towel to clean up,” said Millie. “You look like you been hanging out in a tree all night. I sure hope everything works out with you being framed and all.”

  “You can read all about it next week,” said Larkin.

  Millie shook her head and sighed before turning back to the log cabin.

  Not even waiting for Terry, Larkin began lumbering toward the benches by the fire. The thought of sitting down overrode everything else. He dropped himself upon a vacant spot next to a shirtless man covered in tattoos. The night was not cool, but the fire was still comforting in a way. Five men, in various stages of grizzle turned to inspect the new addition.

  “This is my lawyer!” Terry shouted. He reached the periphery of the fire and literally skipped in the air before pointing to Larkin. “Larkin Monroe.”

  The men responded with head nods and mumbled greetings.

  “Come again?” asked the older man with the attractive ebony pipe perched at the corner of his mouth.

  Terry cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “This here is my lawyer, Uncle Donnie,” Terry bellowed. “His name is Mr. Monroe.”

  Uncle Donnie scowled at Terry. “You yelled like a damn fool the first time, and now you done deafened me the second time.”

  “It’s his lawyer,” said the man next to Larkin. “Monroe.”

  “That’s what I thought he said.”

  Larkin rubbed his aching calf muscles. He ran his fingers down the length of each shinbone but winced in pain. He grazed a laceration set deep beneath his left knee. With a curse caught in his teeth, Larkin pitched his head back. The stars shone bright and clear overhead, but his watering eyes quickly blurred them all away. He counted to ten before lowering his head and returning his attention to the fire to see Uncle Donnie pointing directly at him from across the flames.

  “I know you,” said Uncle Donnie.

  “Oh?” asked Larkin. “Speeding ticket? Public intoxication?”

  “Nah, nah. This was back, oh, maybe ten years ago. You was handling that case for those brothers . . . the Wolford boys.”

  “Wolford,” said Larkin. “Can’t say I recall.”

  The man to Larkin’s left leaned forward. Clear liquid splashed from his half-full mason jar. “You mean, Billy and Jarrett Wolford?” the man asked Uncle Donnie.

  Uncle Donnie nodded.

  Larkin wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. When he opened them he saw that someone, most likely Terry, had placed a mason jar filled to the brim with a tan liquid right in front of his feet. “Don’t recall,” said Larkin as he gripped the jar in his right hand. He held the jar to the fire and noticed that a cinnamon stick and two apple slices bobbed in the liquid.

  “That there’s apple pie,” said the tattooed man. Larkin looked at the man’s right arm and had trouble discerning whether the man had a really large bicep, or just a really large tattoo of a confederate flag on his bicep.

  Larkin sipped his drink. It tasted like Fourth of July and burned like a sparkler in his gut. “Goddamn,” said Larkin. He held the drink away from him in an act of caution.

  “That might be the best one,” said the tattooed man. “There’s a peach cobbler too, but the apple is the best.”

  “Since when is moonshine made from the dessert menu?” gasped Larkin. Though masked by concentrated apple pie flavoring, the drink still burned in his stomach.

  “Careful you don’t get that too near the fire,” said one of the other men. “She’s a bit high octane,” he said with a grin.

  “Damn, Mr. Monroe,” said Terry. “It looks like your legs done been cut up pretty good. Did someone do that to you?”

  “Myself,” said Larkin. He raised his jar to Terry. “This is incredible. How strong is this stuff?”

  “Strong. You want me to go tell Millie to get some bandages and first aid?”

  Larkin took another sip. It tasted exactly like a slice of apple pie followed by napalm. “Sure,” he said with a cough as his limbs warmed. Terry took off toward the cabin.

  “Don’t treat it lightly,” said the man in the red baseball hat. He raised his jar and swirled the contents with a cinnamon stick. “It will knock your dick in a creek.”

  Larkin nodded, slightly confused. He sipped it again. He felt a bit of energy return to his limbs, but he knew it was false energy. The devil’s vim. While he still had most of his wits, he reached into his pants pocket and retrieved the two folded judicial opinions that he had swiped from the Justice’s home. The firelight cast the documents in a golden light and he could clearly read the two timestamps at the top of the pages.

  “What you got there?” asked Uncle Donnie.

  “Judicial opinions,” said Larkin. “Decisions from on high.”

  “Just like a lawyer,” said Uncle Donnie. “Never stop working even round fireside.”

  Larkin half-smiled and scanned the pages. The opinions were complicated. The case, the same for each opinion, seemed to involve a large freight rail station to be constructed just north-east of Big Lick. Bedford County had apparently contested the station and the right for the railroad to use the land. The opinions were crammed with land-use legal gobbledy-gook that even he had a difficult time understanding. But when he finally reached the end, one thing was clear. The opinions contradicted each other. The longer opinion found for the railroad. It reversed the trial court’s decision and allowed the railroad to build the multi-million dollar station on a plot of land currently used as an apple orchard. The language was dense, but even Larkin could see that the author had performed some judicial acrobatics to reach a reversal. The shorter opinion was coherent and logical. More significantly, it affirmed the trial court’s decision and seemingly prevented the railroad from going anywhere near that apple orchard.

  “What’s it say?” asked Uncle Donnie.

  Larkin shook his head. He took another sip.

  “If it wasn’t clear before, son,” said Uncle Donnie, “more of that ain’t going to help. He done defended them Wolford brothers after they got caught by the feds,” continued Uncle Donnie to everyone and no one. “They was arrested and no bail. They had to stay in for four months until their trial. They had no criminal record mind you.”

  “That ain’t Billy and Jarrett,” said one of them. Larkin folded the opinions and placed them back in his pocket. He shrugged his shoulders and took another sip.

  “This was years ago,” said Uncle Donnie. He made a swatting motion with his left hand before gripping his pipe and drawing slowing from the mouthpiece. A smoke ring popped out of his mouth but disappeared somewhere above the flames. “It was before all that mess with the knife out at the Snuggery.”

  “Isn’t Billy dead?” asked one of the men.

  “So how did you tear up your leg?” interrupted the man in the red hat.

  Larkin took another sip. He raised his right leg and held it before the fire. His jeans clung to the wound, but the bloodstain was huge. Fortunately, the apple pie had already begun chasing the pain away. “I was escaping a bunch of cops. I had to run in the woods for hours trying to find this place.”

  “For real?” asked the tattooed man.

  Larkin nodded. “I fell down . . . more than once.” Larkin took another sip. With a fire now burning in his chest, perspiration dotted his brow. He gazed at each man for a moment. “Yep. This place is my last bastion of hope.” He turned to the tattooed man. “You can ask Millie all about it next week.”

  “So the cops are looking for you?” asked the tattooed man.

  “Afraid so.” He lightly elbowed the confederate flag to his left. A few drops flew from the
open mouth of Larkin’s jar and into the fire. “So what the hell is with the chickens, anyway?”

  The men laughed softly and shot knowing glances to one another but Uncle Donnie crossed his arms and frowned as if he had just swallowed horseradish-flavored shine. “Terry knocked over a barrel of mash,” he said. “Idiot didn’t clean it up in time and the chickens done pecked a good amount away.”

  “Mash?” asked Larkin. “You mean like the stuff used for fermenting?”

  Another soft round of laughter complimented the crackling of the fire. “You darn right,” said Uncle Donnie. “Corn mash. Chickens loved it. By the time he done remembered to clean it up, the chickens was all down for the count. He thought they were dead. Truth is, that was some potent mash because not even Millie could tell they was still alive. They was just sleeping it off you see.”

  Larkin nodded. “And because you thought they were dead already . . .”

  “You got it, counselor,” said one of the men, grinning sideburn to sideburn.

  Uncle Donnie cleared his throat. He was obviously a man who demanded center stage. “They thought the best thing to do would be to pluck and clean them. Maybe cook a few and freeze the others. So Millie hung ‘em on the clothesline and set to plucking them and was nearly done with the lot when they started rousing. They woke up still drunk and bald as a trailer hitch.”

  Two of the men erupted in laughter. Larkin’s neighbor laughed so hard he nearly shook him off of the log.

  “They got away when Millie’s back was turned,” said Uncle Donnie. He shook his head, but it was unclear whether this was because of his displeasure with Terry or the simple absurdity of the situation. Perhaps neither. “The two of them have spent half the evening hunting naked chickens.”

  Larkin turned and gazed in the direction of the chicken coop. “Will they survive?”

  Uncle Donnie leaned back and chewed on the end of his pipe. He seemed disinterested in answering Larkin’s question. His tale had finished and that was that.

  “Maybe,” said the confederate. “It’s better that it happened in warmer weather. Poor things would have died of cold in the winter. Feathers won’t grow back neither.”

  “Sure will,” said the man in the red hat to Uncle Donnie’s right.