Free Legally Wasted by Tommy Strelka Page A

tales of so many conquests, he could probably recite them
better than Trevor at this point.
    As his friend carried on about a tattoo on
someone’s inner thigh, Larkin allowed his attention to stray to a
nearby table of young attorneys. He could tell by their dress and
composure that they were all associates at one of the larger law
firms in Big Lick. He was at first puzzled why these legal eaglets
had landed at Marty’s at a time of the day when they still should
have been billing hours, but their joyous high-fiving demeanor
broadcasted appropriate clues. Though Trevor nearly shouted in his
left ear, Larkin heard the words “mediation” and “settlement”
repeated more than once from the table. Fresh from the kill, the
eaglets had gorged themselves on either the ultimate billed hour of
high-dollar defense work or they had forced someone to send a
bloated settlement check to their already wealthy client. Whatever
the reason, they surely had spent months, perhaps years, of long
hours at the firm in anticipation of a moment that had occurred
hours earlier. And to their satisfaction.
    “What a feeling,” muttered Larkin. He swigged
the rest of his drink and continued to watch the eaglets. Trevor
carried on and on about his sexual escapade. The Vice Mayor waved
his hand and a new drink was poured. The bartender placed it by
Larkin’s hand. The cool wet glass slid against his fingertips and,
without looking and acting purely on instinct or reflex, he began
to drink.
    He hated the eaglets almost as much as he
wanted to sit and be among them. University of Virginia, Washington
and Lee, and maybe even Ivy League law degrees, he thought.
Pedigrees. He had qualified to take the bar exam through a backdoor
apprenticeship loophole that most attorneys could not believe still
existed in the twenty-first century. He shook his head. They had
certificates of merit framed in exotic wood upon their walls.
Larkin was going to have to stop at K-Mart on the way home to pick
up a replacement frame for his false, misspelled ethics award.
    He sipped again, dribbled on his shirt, and
looked up to see two of the eaglets looking intently in his
direction. He coughed and attempted to straighten a tie that he no
longer wore. They approached quickly until one of them stood only
inches away.
    “L-Larkin Monroe,” Larkin said with
trepidation, his voice cracking. He extended his hand, but the
eaglet ignored it and looked over Larkin’s shoulder. Trevor shoved
Larkin sharply in the arm. “Ouch!”
    “Shhh!” someone in the bar hissed. More
people approached Larkin.
    “What the hell?” asked Larkin.
    “Turn it up!” one of the eaglets called.
    Larkin swiveled in his chair to see the
bartender scrambling to find the remote control that operated the
television hanging above the bar almost directly behind him. The
television was tuned to the local news. The camera focused on a
bleached-blond reporter standing in front of a large dark green
body of water. The caption below her read, “Local Attorney Found
Drowned at Smith Mountain Lake.”
    The bartender began pulling apart the rail,
looking nervously for the remote.
    “Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Trevor as he
placed his drink down, hoisted his legs, and stood atop the bar. He
wobbled a bit before stretching his right arm and smacking the
volume button on the television.
    “Hell yeah, Meeks!” a constituent applauded.
Trevor gave a little wave and rather gracefully returned to his
seat.
    “Do you ever do anything wrong?” asked Larkin
but those around him quickly “shhhed” him.
    “—with more questions than answers,” said the
reporter as the camera now focused only on a quiet cove of the
lake. “Here is where two local fishermen found the body of Alex
Jordan.”
    “Who?” asked Larkin.
    The shot cut to a Smith Mountain Lake local
wearing a stained ball cap. “We was hittin’ the water this morning
looking for bass when I seen something on the shoreline,” he said.
“I first