Legally Wasted (13 page)

“God bless mother Russia,” said Larkin.

“That is not cabernet,” she said. Her accent
sounded threatening and sexy at the same time. “What I am saying,”
said Bianca, “is that she worked for a very important person, a
judge. She could have been killed because of a case.”

“Oh, I like it,” said Trevor. “There was some
big case, like a power company that wanted to put a dam somewhere .
. . or a power plant or a wind farm, whatever. She wants to protect
the environment - - no!” He slapped his knee. “She wants to protect
an endangered squirrel that lives in the trees about to be torn
down.”

Larkin laughed lightly but Trevor’s theory,
half-baked as it was, did not sound utterly improbable. The Supreme
Court of Virginia regularly decided big cases. It was not unusual
for millions of dollars to change hands with certain rulings. “So
it was the power company,” said Larkin, “or an oil company, a huge
corporation discovers that she’s been assigned to help her boss
with a particular opinion. They’re scared. She’s from California,
hell, she even went to Berkley. With a well-crafted argument and a
sweet smile, she was going to convince the judge to protect the
Blue Ridge pygmy squirrel.”

Bianca laughed. “It is like
Pelican
Brief
.”

“What?” asked Larkin.

“Like Jim Grisham?” asked Trevor.

“John Grisham,” corrected Larkin.

“No,” said Bianca. “He was not in
Pelican
Brief
. Denzel Washington and Julia Roberts.”

Larkin drank some of the wine and handed the
half-empty bottle to Trevor. “Good Lord,” said Trevor as he lifted
the surprisingly light bottle. “Did you . . . ?”

Larkin pointed to the inebriated Russian
goddess.

“Nice.”

“You know,” said Larkin, “it might be crime
related. Suppose there were some illegal shenanigans. This girl is
going to screw them.”

“What?” asked Trevor, “like the mob?”

“That is Tom Cruise,” said Bianca as she
raised her hand high in the air like a good student. “I mean,
The Firm
. That is
The Firm
.”

“There you go,” said Trevor.

Larkin shook his head. “She’s right. This
isn’t movie magic. None of those things ever really happen. We’re
missing the obvious.”

“Such as?” asked Trevor. “She fell off a
dock?”

“She’s a guy!” shouted Larkin. “Come on,
Trevor. This ain’t San Francisco. Notwithstanding her package, this
was a hottie.”

“I love,” said Trevor in a deep and very
serious tone, “
love
that you just said that.”

“Shut up, Rooster,” snapped Larkin. “It makes
more sense. Let’s say she’s out for a romantic moonlight cruise on
the lake. One thing leads to another and all of a sudden her good
‘ole boy date discovers that he just made out with a boy named
Sue.”

“Now we’re talking skinemax,” said Trevor. “I
bet it was the judge.”

“Justice,” said Larkin. “On the Supreme Court
of Virginia they’re called justices.”

“Did her boss have a house at the lake?”

“He does,” nodded Larkin.

“So he’s out there,” said Trevor. He gave the
bottle back to Larkin and spaced his hands apart as he set his
scene. “He’s a big powerful man in society on his boat, which
probably has some god-awful lawyer name like
Habeas Corpus
or
Black Acre
or something. Anyway, he’s out there on his
boat and he discovers that he should have asked Ms. Jordan a few
more questions during her job interview.”

“Doesn’t she - -” began Larkin as he looked
back to Bianca. Her head hung against the back of her chair. Even
in the dim light, it was clear that she had shut her eyes and
abandoned her efforts to hear the remainder of the story.

“That layover in St. Petersburg is a bitch,”
said Trevor, scanning Bianca’s still form.

“This is making sense,” said Larkin. “Justice
Byrd is one of the most conservative judges in the state. He’s got
an eye on the Fourth Circuit bench too.”

“How do you know that?”

Larkin shook his head. “Just rumor. But think
about it for a second. If it ever came out that this guy was
involved in such a relationship, his career would be sunk. No
self-respecting conservative would associate with him after that
kind of PR nightmare.”

“Yeah,” nodded Trevor, “but being convicted
of murder can also kill your career. And any relationship with
another woman would likewise kill a career. Forget the part about .
. . about her part”

“True,” said Larkin. He gave the bottle back
to Trevor and indicated that he wanted no more. “I just can’t
figure out how she got my business card.”

“Your business card?” asked Trevor.

“She had it in her pocket.”

“When she died?” asked Trevor, stopping
mid-swig. “Are you a suspect?” The surprise in his voice was
unmistakable. The story was no longer particularly humorous.

“A detective talked to me. I think I
convinced him that I’m not a murderer.

“Why the hell did she have your business
card?”

“I have no idea.”

The words had barely left his lips when a
loud hissing sound nearly made Larkin jump out of his shoes. A full
second passed before they realized that the golf course sprinkler
system had activated and they were getting soaked. Trevor howled
with laughter as the men scrambled into the cart. Larkin tried to
mount the rear of the cart, but Trevor smacked his hand.

“Hold her!” he shouted. After a very few
awkward moments, Larkin and Trevor were seated in the golf cart
with a beautiful, semi-conscious Bianca sprawled across their laps.
The cart accelerated rapidly from the green. Larkin tried to point
through the blinding curtain of water toward the paved path, but as
he raised his hand, he nearly dropped Bianca’s head. Water
sprinkled on her forehead and she opened her eyes for a moment.

“Adam Sandler,” she murmured. “
Happy
Gilmore
.” Her eyes shut.

“What did she say?” asked Trevor as he aimed
the cart in the general direction of the club house.

“She watches way too many movies, I
think.”

“You know,” said Trevor as the cart escaped
the splash zone, “we might want to check out this whole penis
thing, in case it might be contagious.”

Larkin did not need to turn to know that
Trevor was staring at Bianca’s revealing dress. “Shut up and take
me the hell home, Rooster.”

A plume of WD-40 mist surrounded the dogwood
tree as the can emptied itself onto the silky tent caterpillar
nest. The strong chemical smelling cloud swirled around Larkin and
drifted toward the big green lawnmower that sat motionless in need
of a sparkplug for over a month. Two spent cans of the lubricant
lay scattered around the trunk of the tree. This exterminator was
not messing around. Larkin tossed the third empty can down among
the others. Standing on his tiptoes, he peered through the lower
branches.

Lubricant beads covered the large nest like
small pearls of morning dew. The hundreds of caterpillars inside
squirmed over, into, and under one another. The constant inner
struggle slightly shifted the nest in slow sways. Larkin pictured
the figure of an attractive woman stretching under sheets.

Backing his face away, he gingerly raised the
hissing blowtorch. The thought that he had used far too much
lubricant crossed his mind immediately before the nest exploded and
a small fireball enveloped the center of the dogwood tree.

Blasted by the sudden heat, he dropped to the
ground as the sky rained blackened and charred caterpillars. Some
landed dead on the ground like cooked tidbits of meat. Others
writhed and wiggled in the grass.

“Good gracious!” shouted a feminine voice.
“Are you okay?

Larkin opened his eyes and despite the
brightness of the mid-morning sun, he could make out a familiar
silhouette. As his vision adjusted, he watched a growing look of
concern cross Madeline’s face. Though his back hurt, especially
after having been hurled from a golf cart and a three-foot step
ladder all within about ten hours, Madeline’s worry warmed him.
Pity. Delicious, semi-nurturing pity. Maybe he was reading too much
into the slight furrow of her brow, but he didn’t care. He did not
want to say anything. If he did, he knew he would ruin the moment
and it was perfect.

“What did you do? Larkin, can you hear me?”
She looked at the seared dogwood. “Oh it smells. What is that?”

“The tree exploded,” he said. “Sap leak.
Boom.” The moment had expired. He extended his hand. Though
Madeline continued to regard the tree, she gripped his fingers and
pulled. Unlike Bianca, she struggled to bring Larkin to his
feet.

“I thought I saw fire,” she whispered. She
spoke as if Larkin’s statement had just been validated.

“Barbecued caterpillar,” said Larkin as he
flicked charred pieces of the bugs off of his clothes. After
straightening himself, he asked the question that he did not wish
to ask. “What are you doing here?”

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“It was a long night.”

“Hmmm.” Her big brown eyes squinted, but not
at the sun. “Did you have to bail Trevor out of jail?”

“Not exactly. So were you planning on
breaking in and stealing my golf clubs?”

“No,” she said with an eye roll, “I wanted to
see Rusty.”

“Oh. You mean before the Sheriff comes and
seizes him for auction? He’s inside.”

Madeline stared at him before crossing her
arms and quickly pivoting. She stepped toward the house.

“I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk,” he
shouted. “But you are suing me for my goddamn cat.” He looked down
at his feet. “Fare thee well,” he whispered to the scattered dead.
He wanted to run after her, but a smoldering bunch of leaves near
the dogwood trunk demanded immediate attention. As he stomped out
the cinders, he surveyed the damage. The tree was scorched. For a
moment, he considered whether the abject hatred of all things
caterpillar that had struck him upon waking that morning had
actually worked to the tree’s detriment. He had begun picking at
the blackened bark when a scream from within his home got his feet
moving. He crossed the yard in less than a second and flung open
the screen door. “What’s wrong!?” he asked, already out of
breath.

“Larkin,” spat Madeline as she turned. Rusty
was clutched tightly to her bosom. “What is this?”

Larkin was silent and clueless. He had no
clue what she meant. She knew it and it made her even angrier.
“He’s fat, Larkin. Obese. Look at this.” She wiggled her left arm
and a blob of orange fur oozed out from the crook of her arm.

“I feed him well. He’s a cat of leisure.”

“He’s going to die, Larkin.” Rusty purred
like a well-oiled husqvarna. “Won’t do.” Larkin mouthed her
catchphrase just as she uttered it, but he made sure she could not
see him. Madeline placed Rusty on the beige kitchen tile.

“You left him with me, Madeline.”

“Won’t do,” she repeated as she retreated
into the hall closet. She flicked on the light and began hunting
through Larkin’s accumulated chaos. “Where is it?” Again, Larkin
remained silent. He knew that she would fill in the blank spaces.
“The leash,” she continued. Unknown items crashed onto the closet
floor. “Tell me you didn’t throw it out.”

“I should have,” he mumbled. He eyed the
freezer and imagined that x-ray vision permitted him a view of the
frost-covered bottle of gin next to the ice trays. Rusty meowed.
“Sorry, buddy,” he whispered. “It’s in the blue cookie tin,” he
said. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Yes!” she shouted. Madeline exited the
closet and literally pounced upon Rusty. With one deft maneuver,
Rusty had been leashed. He looked to Larkin with wide glimmering
eyes, each one like a glowing votive candle.

“Real sorry,” he said.

Madeline snapped her fingers like she had
done ten thousand times before in that same room. And like the last
five hundred or so times, Rusty summoned his girth and plodded
slowly to the door.

“Dead cat walking,” said Larkin. “You know he
hates this.”

“You hate it,” said Madeline. She placed her
hand on the door knob and paused. Her doe eyes trained on his and
hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Will you come?”

More silence. Was this really going to
happen?

“To the theatre and back. Thirty minutes.”
She looked down at Rusty and immediately sniffed. Her face turned
away for a moment and it was obvious that she was trying to wipe
away a tear. “He . . . he,” she said, her voice cracking. “He
doesn’t know that we’re separating.” She refused to look at Larkin.
He studied her ponytail. A single gray hair was finely woven into
the honey brown. They had been separated for years, but the
statement somehow still had some punch left in it.

With a gentle push, Larkin held the door
open. Rusty ambled outside with Madeline in tow. Larkin brought up
the rear. Though Madeline did not turn back, Larkin knew that she
smiled at least once.

For a while they walked without speaking.
They both watched Rusty because that was the easy thing to do.
Though portly, Rusty still managed to walk with a smooth and
somewhat graceful gait. Like all cats big and small, he kept his
head low and bobbed while his orange and white striped shoulder
blades protruded, giving him the appearance of having bad posture.
They passed homes that they had passed hundreds of times before.
The Raleigh Cross neighborhood was about as old as industrialized
Big Lick itself. Years ago, a rail-based trolley would take the
middle and upwardly mobile working-class citizens on a six-minute
ride over the sloping hills that filled outer Appalachia to
downtown Big Lick.

As they made their way toward the quaint
Grandin Village area, Larkin could hear Madeline humming softly to
herself. His heart felt like it was swelling in his chest.