Legally Wasted (19 page)

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.

“Please my ass, Pillsbury,” said Trevor. “Why
the hell were you breaking into this building?”

“I wasn’t!”

“Bullshit,” said Larkin. “We both saw it. You
were striking the door with your shoulder.”

“I did do that,” said the man. “But - -”

“What’s your name, doughboy?” asked Trevor.
The tag team stood less than a foot away.

“Anthony,” said Anthony. “Anthony Swain.”
Perspiration glistened on his pink face. His puffing cheeks looked
like small glazed hams. “I was trying to see if the door was, you
know, jammed. It is office hours.”

“Sure you were,” said Trevor. “Unlock your
office, Larkin. We’re going to take Tony for some
interrogation.”

“It’s Anthony,” said Anthony. He eyed Trevor
nervously as Larkin unlocked the door. “The sticker on the door
said that it was open. These are business hours.”

“Sure, kid,” said Trevor. “Interrogation will
get the truth.” Once Larkin had unlocked the door, Trevor grabbed
Anthony by the collar and pushed him into the office. “Duct tape
and screw driver time,” Trevor shouted as Larkin closed the door
behind them.

Anthony again reached for his inhaler. “Dear,
Lord, please no! This is all a great misunderstanding!” Anthony
pressed his back against the wall of the hallway that led to the
lobby and secretary’s desk. He perspired heavily.

“Get his wallet,” said Trevor.

Larkin took a step toward Anthony, but rather
than be pummeled or forced to suffer the pains of duct tape and a
screw driver, Anthony grabbed his wallet from inside his jacket and
threw it toward Larkin. Larkin caught it and handed it to
Trevor.

“What’s in the briefcase?” Larkin asked.

“Just my things,” he said, “some things I was
working on. I carry it with me. I’m a lawyer, Mr. Monroe, I’m -
-”

“He’s Anthony Swain,” said Trevor, “and he
works for the Supreme Court of Virginia.” Trevor held up an
identification badge. A picture on the badge showed Anthony smiling
like an eighth grader in a yearbook photo. The seals of Virginia
and the Supreme Court were printed about half an inch above his
neatly combed hair.

Larkin raised his eyebrows. “That’s right,”
said Anthony, “I’m - -”

“Byrd,” said Larkin. “Your Justice Byrd’s
other law clerk.”

Trevor continued digging through the wallet.
“I thought Justice Byrd’s law clerk was a hottie. For a guy anyway.
And dead too.”

“Every Justice on the Supreme Court - -”
began Anthony before Larkin held up his hand.

“Quiet,” he snapped. “We’re talking here.
We’re asking the questions.” Anthony nodded. “Every Justice on the
Supreme Court gets two law clerks,” said Larkin. “Anthony is the
surviving law clerk.”

“Hmmm,” said Trevor. “He’s got a discount
club card in here from Yankee Candle. What kind of guy has a
discount card at Yankee Candle? Like scented candles do you now,
son? Scented candles? Is that your thing?”

Larkin squinted at Anthony.

“Should I answer that?” asked Anthony, “or
was it intended to be rhetorical hyperbole?”

Larkin shook his head. “This is going too
fast.” Despite the adrenaline surge that had accompanied street
fighting, his tired brain was processing things barely above idle
speed.

“All the limeade’s gone, right?”

Trevor nodded.

“Get the Bowland’s.”

Trevor whistled and shook his head. “Talk
about torture.”

“It’s needed.”

“Right boss.” Trevor retreated into Larkin’s
inner office.

“What is a Bowland?” asked Anthony. His
glasses fixated on the inner office door.

“Tonic?” Trevor called.

“Sure.”

Anthony eyed the two fizzy drinks that Trevor
clasped upon his return. “I’m not drinking that,” he said.

Trevor laughed.

Larkin took his drink and drank half. The
Bowland’s did not taste as horrible as he had recalled. Perhaps
because he had been jail earlier.

“Ouch my liver,” said Trevor.

Larkin drank and thought. “Keep an eye on
him, Trevor. Don’t move, Anthony. We’re going to get to the bottom
of this in a minute, but I need to check something first. One thing
at a time.” He hustled past Charisma’s vacant desk and headed into
his inner office.

“Refill already?”

“What’s he doing?” asked Anthony.

“He’s getting pliers to pull your teeth out.
Never know who’s been bugged, or where they might have stuck the
bug for that matter.”

Anthony wrinkled his brow, however, given the
flat expanse of his forehead, only one long wrinkle formed. “I
believe now that you’re speaking in jest,” he said haltingly.

“Why do you talk like a damn Klingon?”

The line in Anthony’s forehead deepened. “I
am not broadcasting aggression.” He shook his head.

Trevor wiped his nose with the back of his
hand and glared. “I think I’m going to have to kick your ass now.
Don’t take it the wrong way, but it’s my . . . what do they call
it? My moral compass, that’s it. My moral compass demands that I
should kick your butt and take your milk money. I’m not
responsible, you see. It’s just instinct at this point. Maybe even
reflex.”

Anthony remained surprisingly calm. “I heard
you speak earlier outside. Just after Mr. Monroe finished his
assault, you stated that you don’t fight . . . ever.”

“It’s not a fight if you don’t hit back,
junior.”

The two men stared at each other. Rhetorical
hyperbole was certainly Trevor’s stock and trade. Most people could
grasp that within five or ten minutes after meeting him. But recent
alcohol abuse had bestowed upon him a pair of eyes shot to bloody
hell. Coupled with his stubbly beard, Trevor still looked dapper,
but also a bit batshit. Like Mickey Rourke in 1989. Anthony seemed
unsure of his next move.

“I knew it,” shouted Larkin. He pounded his
fist upon his desk and headed back to the hallway. “It’s all
bullshit.”

“Precisely put,” stated Anthony. “You have
most likely concluded - -”

“Stuff it,” said Trevor. “What is it?”

“This whole thing is bullshit,” said Larkin.
He lifted his arms in exasperation as he walked by Charisma’s desk.
His left hand grazed a picture frame and knocked it a bit askew. He
quickly straightened the picture of the three large black women
smiling beneath three huge and nearly identical yellow hats.

“Well didn’t we already kind of know that?”
asked Trevor.

“Yeah, but now we can prove it.”

“How’s that?”

“It was the evidence that Detective Kincaid
showed me at the police station. He showed me an email that he and
the Justice claimed I had written and sent to Alex Jordan. It was
the bit of evidence that alleged that I had known her for quite a
while. I didn’t write it.”

“Okay,” said Trevor, though it was clear that
he was not fully on board. “We knew that already, right?”

“It was from a bogus free email account that
just so happened to have my name in it. Larkin dot Monroe at H-Mail
dot com or something. I just checked my internet history. My
computer has never surfed to that site. If they were going to
doctor my computer, they haven’t. Not yet anyway.”

“How in the hell were you able to find that
out?” asked Trevor.