Free Legally Wasted by Tommy Strelka Page B

thought it was deer, but then I could see a hand and I
knowed it was somethin’ awful.”
    The scene changed again, this time showing a
still picture of a remarkably attractive young red haired woman in
her mid twenties. At the sight of her, Trevor stiffened.
    “Do you know her?” asked Larkin.
    Trevor shook his head and continued to stare.
She wore a conservative business suit and a bright smile. “She’s
smoking hot though. Am I right?” he asked.
    “Alex Jordan, a law graduate from Berkley in
California,” the reporter stated, “had until recently worked as a
law clerk for Justice Lloyd Byrd of the Supreme Court of
Virginia.”
    “No shit,” someone uttered.
    The picture of Alex Jordan was replaced with
that of a serious looking man with salt and pepper hair wearing
judicial robes. “Justice Byrd could not be reached for comment at
the time of this broadcast.”
    “I wonder what happened?” asked Larkin.
    “Wouldn’t be the first time someone drowned
in that lake,” said Trevor.
    The reporter continued. “The police at this
time are still investigating the incident and will not comment on
whether they can rule out foul play.” The camera then focused on a
thin, bearded policeman in his forties. His brow cut sharply across
the corners of his eyes, giving him a permanent squint. “Detective
Kincaid of the Big Lick Police is coordinating an investigation
with Bedford Police at the lake.”
    “I know that name,” said Larkin. He took
another sip. Where had he heard that name before?
    “It’s too early to say what happened,” said
Kincaid, “other than to say it’s a tragedy. We have a lot of ground
to cover before we make any decisions as to how this may have
happened.”
    “You know him?” asked Trevor.
    Larkin set his glass down. An image of his
soon to be ex-wife slamming a telephone book of expertly crafted pro-se work product upon a desk flashed through his mind and
his stomach turned. “Yes,” he groaned. “Dear God,” he muttered, “am
I going to get sick again?”
    “You better not,” said Trevor. “I’m meeting
someone later on.”
    “Of course,” said Larkin as he wiggled his
wrist and swirled his drink. He stared at the small whirlpool of
gin he had created while concentrating on his breathing.
    “Do you own an ugly home?” Madeline
asked.
    Larkin looked up. Madeline stared at him from
the television screen. Her brown hair fell upon her shoulders in
broad attractive curls. A charcoal business suit and a strand of
pearls did very well to diminish her look of vulnerability. She
looked like a million bucks. The screen blinked and showed a home
with a sagging roof. A cartoon frowny face bounced across the
screen.
    “No matter the home,” said Madeline as the
advertisement showed a series of dilapidated homes, “no matter the
condition, Simmons and Associates can make the dreams of a sale,
become a reality.” The screen blinked again before showing Madeline
hanging a “SOLD” sign in someone’s front yard.
    “Thanks,” said Larkin to Trevor after the
commercial had ended.
    “Your welcome,” said Trevor. It had been
agreed upon that Trevor would no longer comment on how hot Madeline
looked in her commercial.
    Larkin slid off of his bar stool and headed
for the bathroom. He pushed against the door and raced for the
small sink. With his lips locked tight to prevent anything from
coming up, he repeatedly splashed cool water against his face.
After a minute, he turned off the flow and stared at himself in the
mirror. Water droplets slid down his tired face.
    Suddenly, a loud snarling noise forced him to
jump. He spun, but no one else had entered the bathroom. As he
grabbed a paper towel to dab at his face, he heard the noise again,
but this time, it was unmistakable. Someone was snoring.
    Larkin crept slowly to the only closed
bathroom stall and peaked through the crack between the scuffed
door and the frame. A man sat fully clothed on the toilet seat with
the back of his