Free Legally Wasted by Tommy Strelka

paper.
Losing steam, he leaned forward and placed his head on the desk.
His hands massaged his scalp and he suddenly felt like Mr.
Powers.
    The door reopened.
    “Please come back,” he said, his voice
muffled a bit by his hands.
    Twenty or thirty seconds passed.
    “You left your tie outside,” she said. “You
need to dry clean this. I’ll put it . . . here.” He did not look
up. He only listened to the door shut.
     
     
     
     
    “There’s the man of the hour,” said Trevor
Meeks as he hopped onto the barstool next to Larkin. Larkin
continued to stare at his half-empty gin and tonic. He had let all
of the ice melt until the slice of lime simply bobbed in the liquid
like wreckage after a storm. Out of the corner of his eye, he
noticed Trevor’s hyper-expensive platinum watch and was a bit
shocked to discover how long that he must have been staring at the
drink. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening.
    “Rough day in court?”
    “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,”
Larkin muttered just as some business-suited gentleman appeared
behind them and smacked Trevor on his back.
    “Mr. Vice Mayor!” said the suck-up.
    Trevor made some sort of shooting gesture
with his hands, laughed and sent the man walking away with a grin
on his face. Everyone grinned when they spoke with Trevor, the
bastard was too damned charming. In fact, if Trevor was truly in a
great mood, which was not infrequent, a five-minute conversation
left you with the same feeling you had when you returned from
vacation and look approvingly in the mirror at your new tan.
    “What was that you were saying about court?”
asked Trevor. His perfectly set teeth gleamed even in the dim bar
light.
    Larkin leaned back. “I said, you wouldn’t
believe it if I told you.”
    “Oh yeah? How much time did he get?”
    Mr. Powers’ tears seemed to burn on the
fabric of Larkin’s shirt. “Six months,” he said, “for not paying
his child support.”
    Trevor snapped at the bartender and pointed
to Larkin’s drink. “Beefeater?” Larkin shook his head. “Make mine
Beefeater,” he told the bartender. “You know, his first mistake was
to get married in the first place. Six months is half a year.
Marriage is a life sentence.”
    “The sentence came down after I threw
up.”
    “You what?” asked Trevor.
    “I threw up. Passed out.” He took a sip. “It
was horrible.”
    “Jesus Christ, Larkin,” said Trevor with a
laugh. Larkin repeated most of his day to his friend. He left out
the bit about Madeline and the separation agreement. Trevor was a
serial tomcat and devout bachelor ever since his bitter divorce.
Larkin did not want his friend to dwell upon his past. As the two
chatted, the bar became busier. More lawyers and businessmen
entered and many, like the man earlier, smacked Trevor on the back.
Handsome, rich, and politically connected, Trevor nearly lived the
life that many fourteen year-old boys dreamed for themselves: fast
cars, a steady stream of younger women, and the incredible ability
to navigate difficult situations with little more than a winning
smile. Larkin had always been amazed by his friend’s uncanny
ability to talk his way out of a DUI charge despite the bottles
lining the floorboard or the passed out girl in the back seat. Down
deep, Trevor was a devious bastard, but Big Lick just loved him for
it.
    “Fuck Deveraux,” said Trevor as he withdrew a
black pipe from his coat pocket. “Why is it that only you have days
like this?” He struck an expensive and thick wooden match that
hissed for several seconds before the flame curved to light the
tobacco.
    “Born under the worst sign, I guess,” he
said. He pointed to Trevor’s pipe. “If I had lit that pipe in here,
they would have tossed me out before I could blow out the
match.”
    Trevor laughed before sucking on the pipe for
a minute. “So there’s this blonde who works for the city,” he
began. Larkin swiveled in his chair and feigned attention. He had
heard