Legally Wasted (12 page)

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 bee-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 difficult 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.

“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.