Legally Wasted (25 page)

He screamed and held his chicken high in the
air. The dog, an ugly mix between a Rottweiler and a large chainsaw
bared its teeth and struggled to extend the length of rope that had
prevented the dog from mauling Larkin.

“Hush up!” cried the woman to the dog, but it
just ignored her command and continued to bark at Larkin and gnaw
at the empty air. The poor chicken’s heart beat so rapidly, Larkin
was certain the poor ghastly thing was about to go into cardiac
arrest.

“He won’t be a bother,” said the woman. “Come
on then.”

Larkin made a wide arcing turn around the dog
and followed the woman to the rear of a log cabin. As soon as they
turned a corner, the bright orange light of a bonfire blinded him.
He had been in the woods for hours.

As they neared the fire, Larkin made out five
or six men sitting on split log benches. He could not immediately
see if Terry was among them.

“Over here,” said the woman with a wave.
Larkin followed her voice to a chicken wire circular enclosure that
appeared to have been hastily constructed. Seven equally bald
chickens stumbled around the inner perimeter of the fence. They
bumped into each, clucked insults or drunken salutations, and
staggered on their way. Larkin gently placed his catch into the
pen.

“That’ll be the last of them,” said the woman
as she crossed her arms and stared at the sad flock. “Say, why did
the chicken cross the road?”

“Why is that?”

“Because she wanted to show that old fool the
possum how it’s done that’s why.”

“Ha,” said Larkin without really considering
what her punch line could possibly mean.

“Millie,” said the woman with an extended
hand.

“Larkin,” he said as he shook it.

“Mr. Monroe!”

Larkin turned. Terry galloped toward them
from the bonfire. “How in heckfire did you know where I live?”

“I’ve been sending you unpaid legal bills for
three or four years now.”

“But I don’t have a mailbox.”

“I know.”

“So is this visit for socializing?” asked
Millie. Her rough voice didn’t so much as pierce the night as it
sandpapered it to the death. It was quite obvious that she was
getting a bit of a kick from Larkin’s presence.

“This is my aunt Millie,” said Terry.

Larkin smiled. “We’ve met. I picked up a
chicken.”

Terry skipped to the side and looked through
the fence. “Well good for you. Did you get them all?” His pointer
finger bounced up and down as he counted heads.

“All of them,” said Millie. “Though, it
should have been your dumbass out scooping them up that’s for sure.
Should I be setting up a plate or coffee?” she asked.

Terry turned. “Well, I’m supposing that Mr.
Monroe is here because he’s in some sort of hot water over
something. Maybe we should ask him.”

“That’s who I was asking,” spat Millie.

“Me?” Larkin thought. His needs transcended
anything the woman could provide. But his throat was dry. “Maybe
something to drink? Water?”

Terry grinned. “She’ll go on and get you
fixed up with some water, Mr. Monroe. Come on over here and you can
sip on something with a kick in it.”

“You in hot stew, lawyer?” asked Millie.

“You could say that.”

“And what kind are they cooking you in?”

Terry banged the butt of his palm to the side
of his head and rolled his eyes. One of the chickens fell on its
face. “Ain’t you been up on the news?” asked Terry. “I thought you
read the paper.”

“Last week’s,” said Millie. I get last week’s
from Ms. Higgenbotham down in the holler.”

Terry grinned. “Well you’re going to enjoy
reading about Mr. Monroe next week--he’s wanted for murder.”

“Murder?” Millie squawked. Her fingers
tightened about the stock of her weapon.

Larkin raised his hands, palms outward, in
the universal sign of
I’m too pathetic to kill anyone
. He
was about to speak when Terry cut him off.

“He’s done been framed,” he said.

“Framed you say!” Millie shouted. “Framed by
who?” She looked earnestly to each man. The orange spark of the
fire in the distance glowed brightly in her bifocals. Her eyes
remained hidden behind the bright reflection, but Larkin knew she
stood wide-eyed and curious as hell.

“The government,” said Larkin.

Millie nodded slowly as if in agreement. “The
government.” She clucked her tongue and more than one of the
chickens answered in kind. She reached out to shake Larkin’s hand
for a second time. Apparently, being pursued by Uncle Sam and Aunt
Virginia was all Millie needed to hear. She shook vigorously.

“I’ll go on and fetch you some water and
maybe a towel to clean up,” said Millie. “You look like you been
hanging out in a tree all night. I sure hope everything works out
with you being framed and all.”

“You can read all about it next week,” said
Larkin.

Millie shook her head and sighed before
turning back to the log cabin.

Not even waiting for Terry, Larkin began
lumbering toward the benches by the fire. The thought of sitting
down overrode everything else. He dropped himself upon a vacant
spot next to a shirtless man covered in tattoos. The night was not
cool, but the fire was still comforting in a way. Five men, in
various stages of grizzle turned to inspect the new addition.

“This is my lawyer!” Terry shouted. He
reached the periphery of the fire and literally skipped in the air
before pointing to Larkin. “Larkin Monroe.”

The men responded with head nods and mumbled
greetings.

“Come again?” asked the older man with the
attractive ebony pipe perched at the corner of his mouth.

Terry cleared his throat and took a deep
breath. “This here is my lawyer, Uncle Donnie,” Terry bellowed.
“His name is Mr. Monroe.”

Uncle Donnie scowled at Terry. “You yelled
like a damn fool the first time, and now you done deafened me the
second time.”

“It’s his lawyer,” said the man next to
Larkin. “Monroe.”

“That’s what I thought he said.”

Larkin rubbed his aching calf muscles. He ran
his fingers down the length of each shinbone but winced in pain. He
grazed a laceration set deep beneath his left knee. With a curse
caught in his teeth, Larkin pitched his head back. The stars shone
bright and clear overhead, but his watering eyes quickly blurred
them all away. He counted to ten before lowering his head and
returning his attention to the fire to see Uncle Donnie pointing
directly at him from across the flames.

“I know you,” said Uncle Donnie.

“Oh?” asked Larkin. “Speeding ticket? Public
intoxication?”

“Nah, nah. This was back, oh, maybe ten years
ago. You was handling that case for those brothers . . . the
Wolford boys.”

“Wolford,” said Larkin. “Can’t say I
recall.”

The man to Larkin’s left leaned forward.
Clear liquid splashed from his half-full mason jar. “You mean,
Billy and Jarrett Wolford?” the man asked Uncle Donnie.

Uncle Donnie nodded.

Larkin wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his
shirt. When he opened them he saw that someone, most likely Terry,
had placed a mason jar filled to the brim with a tan liquid right
in front of his feet. “Don’t recall,” said Larkin as he gripped the
jar in his right hand. He held the jar to the fire and noticed that
a cinnamon stick and two apple slices bobbed in the liquid.

“That there’s apple pie,” said the tattooed
man. Larkin looked at the man’s right arm and had trouble
discerning whether the man had a really large bicep, or just a
really large tattoo of a confederate flag on his bicep.

Larkin sipped his drink. It tasted like
Fourth of July and burned like a sparkler in his gut. “Goddamn,”
said Larkin. He held the drink away from him in an act of
caution.

“That might be the best one,” said the
tattooed man. “There’s a peach cobbler too, but the apple is the
best.”

“Since when is moonshine made from the
dessert menu?” gasped Larkin. Though masked by concentrated apple
pie flavoring, the drink still burned in his stomach.

“Careful you don’t get that too near the
fire,” said one of the other men. “She’s a bit high octane,” he
said with a grin.

“Damn, Mr. Monroe,” said Terry. “It looks
like your legs done been cut up pretty good. Did someone do that to
you?”

“Myself,” said Larkin. He raised his jar to
Terry. “This is incredible. How strong is this stuff?”

“Strong. You want me to go tell Millie to get
some bandages and first aid?”

Larkin took another sip. It tasted exactly
like a slice of apple pie followed by napalm. “Sure,” he said with
a cough as his limbs warmed. Terry took off toward the cabin.

“Don’t treat it lightly,” said the man in the
red baseball hat. He raised his jar and swirled the contents with a
cinnamon stick. “It will knock your dick in a creek.”

Larkin nodded, slightly confused. He sipped
it again. He felt a bit of energy return to his limbs, but he knew
it was false energy. The devil’s vim. While he still had most of
his wits, he reached into his pants pocket and retrieved the two
folded judicial opinions that he had swiped from the Justice’s
home. The firelight cast the documents in a golden light and he
could clearly read the two timestamps at the top of the pages.

“What you got there?” asked Uncle Donnie.

“Judicial opinions,” said Larkin. “Decisions
from on high.”

“Just like a lawyer,” said Uncle Donnie.
“Never stop working even round fireside.”

Larkin half-smiled and scanned the pages. The
opinions were complicated. The case, the same for each opinion,
seemed to involve a large freight rail station to be constructed
just north-east of Big Lick. Bedford County had apparently
contested the station and the right for the railroad to use the
land. The opinions were crammed with land-use legal gobbledy-gook
that even he had a difficult time understanding. But when he
finally reached the end, one thing was clear. The opinions
contradicted each other. The longer opinion found for the railroad.
It reversed the trial court’s decision and allowed the railroad to
build the multi-million dollar station on a plot of land currently
used as an apple orchard. The language was dense, but even Larkin
could see that the author had performed some judicial acrobatics to
reach a reversal. The shorter opinion was coherent and logical.
More significantly, it affirmed the trial court’s decision and
seemingly prevented the railroad from going anywhere near that
apple orchard.

“What’s it say?” asked Uncle Donnie.

Larkin shook his head. He took another
sip.

“If it wasn’t clear before, son,” said Uncle
Donnie, “more of that ain’t going to help. He done defended them
Wolford brothers after they got caught by the feds,” continued
Uncle Donnie to everyone and no one. “They was arrested and no
bail. They had to stay in for four months until their trial. They
had no criminal record mind you.”

“That ain’t Billy and Jarrett,” said one of
them. Larkin folded the opinions and placed them back in his
pocket. He shrugged his shoulders and took another sip.

“This was years ago,” said Uncle Donnie. He
made a swatting motion with his left hand before gripping his pipe
and drawing slowing from the mouthpiece. A smoke ring popped out of
his mouth but disappeared somewhere above the flames. “It was
before all that mess with the knife out at the Snuggery.”

“Isn’t Billy dead?” asked one of the men.

“So how did you tear up your leg?”
interrupted the man in the red hat.

Larkin took another sip. He raised his right
leg and held it before the fire. His jeans clung to the wound, but
the bloodstain was huge. Fortunately, the apple pie had already
begun chasing the pain away. “I was escaping a bunch of cops. I had
to run in the woods for hours trying to find this place.”

“For real?” asked the tattooed man.

Larkin nodded. “I fell down . . . more than
once.” Larkin took another sip. With a fire now burning in his
chest, perspiration dotted his brow. He gazed at each man for a
moment. “Yep. This place is my last bastion of hope.” He turned to
the tattooed man. “You can ask Millie all about it next week.”

“So the cops are looking for you?” asked the
tattooed man.

“Afraid so.” He lightly elbowed the
confederate flag to his left. A few drops flew from the open mouth
of Larkin’s jar and into the fire. “So what the hell is with the
chickens, anyway?”

The men laughed softly and shot knowing
glances to one another but Uncle Donnie crossed his arms and
frowned as if he had just swallowed horseradish-flavored shine.
“Terry knocked over a barrel of mash,” he said. “Idiot didn’t clean
it up in time and the chickens done pecked a good amount away.”

“Mash?” asked Larkin. “You mean like the
stuff used for fermenting?”

Another soft round of laughter complimented
the crackling of the fire. “You darn right,” said Uncle Donnie.
“Corn mash. Chickens loved it. By the time he done remembered to
clean it up, the chickens was all down for the count. He thought
they were dead. Truth is, that was some potent mash because not
even Millie could tell they was still alive. They was just sleeping
it off you see.”

Larkin nodded. “And because you thought they
were dead already . . .”

“You got it, counselor,” said one of the men,
grinning sideburn to sideburn.

Uncle Donnie cleared his throat. He was
obviously a man who demanded center stage. “They thought the best
thing to do would be to pluck and clean them. Maybe cook a few and
freeze the others. So Millie hung ‘em on the clothesline and set to
plucking them and was nearly done with the lot when they started
rousing. They woke up still drunk and bald as a trailer hitch.”

Two of the men erupted in laughter. Larkin’s
neighbor laughed so hard he nearly shook him off of the log.