Legally Wasted (14 page)

“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
them. 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.

She stopped and turned. If tears had been
welling, they had turned to steam. Flames blazed within the depths
of her brown eyes. “How dare you say that? I am
not
running
away.” She looked away. “Maybe it’s been you the whole time. Maybe
it’s your fault we could not have a child.”

“I meant,” said Larkin as he placed Rusty
back to the sidewalk, “please stop running away from me right now.”
He tried to make his voice sound as soothing as possible. “He’s
damn heavy.”

It was Madeline’s turn to point as she stuck
her index finger directly in his face. “That’s because you’re
overfeeding him and not taking care of his needs!”

Larkin closed his eyes and sighed. He
listened to the clip clop of her shoes as she retreated. When the
sound had diminished somewhat, he led Rusty down the sidewalk. He
cursed and spat on the ground. Man and cat made their way back to
the house. He picked up his blowtorch before opening the side door
and entering the kitchen. Madeline took her time. She walked
slowly, her face a mess of worry.

Rusty seemed pleased as punch to be finally
released from his leash. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the tile
kitchen floor and became an indiscernible blob of orange fur.
Larkin waited a moment for the kitchen door to swing open. His
fingers nervously fidgeted with the blowtorch nozzle.

“I’ll sign the papers,” he said without
looking her in the eye. “I’ll get them to you. I have a bit of a
mess on my hand right now, but I’ll get them to you.” He paused.
Madeline said nothing. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said.
Without even thinking to find a proper place for the blowtorch, he
waited for another awkward moment to pass before turning and
heading down the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom.

He rushed to turn on the faucet. With the
water roaring, he would never hear the door slam. He placed the
blowtorch on the back of the toilet and twisted the bathtub faucet
knob. He made sure the water was blazing hot before stepping in.
Steam rose around him as he began scrubbing his body. But no matter
how hard he worked his bar of soap, the small and powerfully
painful moments of the morning would not fall away and sink into
the drain.

Suddenly, the shower curtain was pulled
aside. Larkin gasped and covered himself. Madeline held onto the
edge of the curtain. Before Larkin could even register that she was
fully disrobed, she was standing in the shower with him. With a
flick of her wrist, the shower curtain slid along its rail and
closed them off from the rest of the world. Steam swirled and
collected inside the shower. Larkin instinctively wrapped his arms
around her and kissed her. Hot water dripped over them.

As the water slid over Madeline’s small and
fit body, so did his fingers. With a very slight gasp from
Madeline, they were making love. She turned in the shower, and
allowed him to take her. Her fingers curled around the towel bar
and Larkin closed his eyes. The hot water nearly burned his skin,
but he paid no mind. Madeline groaned. Larkin squeezed her hips.
Words of affection waited impatiently upon the tip of his tongue
but he said nothing.

After they had finished in the shower, they
dried and silently moved to his bedroom. They passionately made
love a second time on Larkin’s tousled bed. Afterward, they lay
atop wrinkled sheets, his hand upon hers. Her cinnamon skin
intoxicated him. He twisted in bed and delicately caressed her
cheek. She closed her eyes.

Suddenly, both of them shifted as they heard
the kitchen door open and close downstairs. Larkin sat upright.

“Larkin,” whispered Madeline. Her bright eyes
widened. Larkin pressed his finger to her lips. He quietly turned
and placed his feet on the floor. The sound of footsteps on kitchen
tile was easily audible.

“Larkin!” she said in her loudest whisper.
“Someone’s in your house.”

His stomach flipped. Perhaps it was a bit of
pot residue from the night before, but his paranoia crescendoed. He
imagined corporate hitmen stalking through his home planting just
enough evidence to nail him for the law clerk’s murder before
double-tapping the trigger of a silenced nine millimeter Glock
pointed at his forehead. He must have broadcasted these thoughts
fairly clearly because Madeline gasped.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice a hissed
whisper. “You know something,” she said. “What is it? What’s going
on? Should I call the police?”

Larkin shook his head too emphatically.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you? What did you
do?” Her voice rose. He lifted his hand in a gentle halting motion,
but one head shake too many had jumpstarted her anger. “What did
you do, Larkin?”

“Madeline,” snapped Larkin in a hoarse
whisper. “Just stay here for a minute. I’m going to check this
out.”

He threw on some clothes and silently stood
in the hallway. He wished his only gun was not sitting uselessly in
his law office. Thinking quickly, he snatched the blowtorch from
the back of the toilet. He opened the medicine cabinet and found a
pack of matches used for lighting the scented candle behind the
toilet. His heart was doing its hardest to beat right out of his
chest and scuttle away like something from a horror movie.

His fingers shook as he turned the valve and
fumbled with the matches. As one of the matches finally hissed to
life and lit the blowtorch, he exhaled.

He had no plan. His mind raced but reached no
conclusions. The blowtorch emitted a persistent low growl as the
bluish flame pointed from the nozzle like an arrowhead. How long
had it been since he had replaced the gas tank? Fearful that his
weapon of choice might fizzle at any moment, Larkin sucked in a
breath, counted to three, and entered the hallway. It was now or
never.

He bounded down the stairs and leaped into
the hallway connected to the kitchen. “I got you!” he roared as he
lifted the blow torch.

A tall slender black woman in a glittery gold
dress screamed. A small plate bearing two muffins fell from her
hand to the floor where it promptly shattered. She clutched at her
heaving augmented breasts and stared at the small flame pointed in
her direction.

“Melody?” asked Larkin. “What the hell are
you doing?”

Melody said nothing. Her painted eyes stared
at the blue flame.

“Sorry,” said Larkin. He turned the valve and
the flame sputtered before disappearing.

Melody shook her head. “Heavens, Larkin!” Her
husky voice hinted at her secret. She looked down at the plate
fragments and muffins. “I had just warmed them in the microwave.”
She returned her gaze to the blowtorch. “Did you think I was a
crème brulée?”

“No, I . . .,” he placed the blowtorch on the
kitchen table. As he regarded it, he realized that the tiny torch
would have been nearly useless in a fight. He should have grabbed
the spade. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“Well I was trying to be sweet and warm you
up some muffins, but I am not eating anything off the floor.” She
reached down and with the same dramatically feminized flare that
she used for nearly every action, she picked up the muffins.
“Banana nut,” she said. “One of the new girls made them. I think
she’s trying to carb me up so I get even more junk in my trunk.”
She placed the muffins on the kitchen counter. As she turned back
to Larkin, she leaned forward and peeked over his left shoulder.
“My word. Is that your cat? Speaking of junk in the trunk.”

Madeline stood in the doorway. She held Rusty
tightly to her chest. “The cops are on their way,” she said. She
had hastily dressed. Her hair was a wet tangled mess. “Larkin,
what’s going on? Who is this person?”

“Melody Saint Vincent,” said Melody Saint
Vincent as if her name was more than a name, but a brand.

“Melody,” repeated Madeline to herself. “That
voice . . .”

“Everything’s fine, Madeline. I know her.” He
faced Melody. “I don’t know what the hell she’s doing in my home,
but I know her.”

Melody put her hand on her hip. “I was making
us up some fine muffins when he came all up in here with a
flamethrower. You know how much product is in here, Larkin?” She
ran her fingers through the lower strands of her blonde highlighted
dark hair. “I would have lit up like the Fourth of July.” She
looked back at Madeline. “Gave a girl a heart attack is what he
did.”

“I know that voice,” said Madeline. She
crossed her arms and glared. “Larkin, is that Melvin? Melvin what’s
his name?”

“Oh, please, sister,” said Melody. “Ain’t no
one been calling me that for years now.”

Larkin nodded at Madeline. Melody Saint
Vincent had left Melvin Hughes, sometime auto mechanic and fulltime
pot dealer in the past. Looking at her now, if she had not dressed
like a post-operative transsexual
superstar
, you would never
have guessed that she was a post-operative transsexual. Clearly she
was a superstar.

“You told me you didn’t buy drugs anymore,
Larkin,” said Madeline. Her voice was saturated with spite. She had
reopened herself to Larkin just moments ago. It had been quite a
reach for her, a sign of trust and understanding. That
understanding was over. There was no hope of going back, especially
with a six-foot transsexual pot dealer breaking dishes in the
kitchen. “You told me that before and I believed you. Get this
person out of my house.”

Larkin raised an eyebrow but it was Melody
who spoke the exact words that glowed like hot embers in his mind.
“Your house?” Melody’s other hand found her hip and she adopted her
best “bitch, please” stance.

Madeline gasped. “The police are on their
way. I bet that they’d just love to see what illegal substances you
have with you.”

“If a fine man in uniform wants to search my
body, I’ll be happy to oblige him,” said Melody.

“I’m leaving, Larkin. Rusty is coming with
me. We’ll sort out the details in court.”

Larkin held up his hand. “Madeline, wait” he
said, “I did not invite her over here. Tell her, Melody.”

Melody crossed her arms. Madeline turned and
stomped down the stairs with Rusty struggling to keep pace. He
turned to glance back at Melody as Madeline hurried across the yard
and disappeared from sight.

“Christ, Melody! What are you trying to do to
me?” Melody waved her arms over the broken plate as if it was all
the explanation she needed. “Don’t give me that shit. What are you
doing in my house?”

Melody sighed and fanned herself with her
right hand. “This is too much damn hostility.” She took a few deep
breaths. Her breasts threatened to burst through her dress. “You
weren’t at your office,” she said. “I even called the courthouse
and Theresa said you weren’t on the schedule or docket or whatever
they call it today.”