Legally Wasted Read Online Free PDF Page B

there a month or two ago. Or was it last week? Larkin
half-remembered a lot of things.
    Drugs were Sam Wexler’s poison of choice, not
booze. If only Judge Wexler had known that her son’s would-be
apprentice was palming a Jim Beam when they first met. Larkin
likely would never have been offered the position with Sam. Shortly
after beginning his apprenticeship with Sam, Larkin became
accustomed to Sam’s frequent “trips” to Richmond. He’d disappear
for a day here or there early on. A few years later, that became
weeks at a time. One time, Sam left and he never came back. The
local paper wrote a story about his disappearance. A special lawyer
was appointed by the courts to handle Sam’s leftover cases left to
scatter without a shepherd. Larkin, though a fully licensed lawyer
at the time, was seemingly not trusted to handle the task by the
powers-that-be-robed. He had, after all, not even attended law
school. Another law firm received Sam’s entire book of
business.
    A year later, Larkin drank a large bottle of
Kettle One vodka, slowly, next to a river, in honor of Sam when
police found his body in a Norfolk alley. As the story went, Sam
got to owing some bad people a lot of money. Another version added
that Sam had engaged in selling things aside from legal advice. He
shed some tears when he thought of poor Judge Wexler. If only her
son had possessed one-tenth of her pluck.
    Out of respect for Sam’s mother, Larkin had
left the original sign hanging above the sidewalk, despite the fact
that no one named Wexler worked at the Wexler Law Firm. Larkin had
even paid to replace the sign with an exact copy when a windstorm
sent it into Luck Avenue.
    “Four,” said Larkin, like a golfer, as a drop
of gin launched from his mouth and landed on his business card
holder at the edge of his desk. He remembered that he was running
dangerously low on cards after having entered into that new
marketing strategy with one of his former clients.
    “Keep it up ladies!” Margie audibly shouted
from the dance studio.
    “Lose those love handles!” answered Larkin,
truly meaning the encouragement, as he stooped to retrieve his gun.
He leaned back in the chair and took aim at the office door leading
to the hallway where the vacant secretary’s desk sat collecting
dust.
    “I don’t think so, asshole,” he said. He
erased his Southwest Virginia accent and tried to echo a poor Clint
Eastwood. He pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped back. His
lips pursed and he made a fairly decent imitation of a gunshot. “I
told you, we’d fuck you in this divorce,” he said to no one.
    Larkin pulled the trigger again. “Defendant
to decedent.” He said. “One shot.” What he would not give to blow
away an angered divorcee. He imagined his picture on the front page
of the Big Lick Times. Larkin Monroe: Deadeye Badass, Esquire.
    He reached for the gin. “Five,” he squeaked
as he felt the accumulated booze beginning to swirl uncomfortably
in his stomach. He placed the gun back in his desk drawer and
attempted to forget that, while sleeping, his groping fingers may
have attempted to end his life. Standing, he quickly felt the
Bowland’s simmering in his bloodstream.
    “Probably pickling my liver,” he muttered as
he approached the small mirror that hung over one of his black
aluminum file cabinets. His reflection, a once nearly-handsome
early middle-aged man stared back with vivid green eyes that shone
despite being mostly bloodshot to hell. With his fingers, he
delicately sculpted his dark hair which was in dire need of a
haircut.
    “One more time!” wailed Margie. In response,
someone dropped all of her considerable weight on the dance floor
above and Larkin’s reflection shook as the mirror rattled against
the wall.
    A nearby frame leaped from the wall and
smacked the edge of the metal file cabinet before falling to the
floor. Larkin looked down to see that a spider web of cracked glass
now obscured his ethics award. Careful not