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to slice his finger, he
retrieved the framed certificate and scanned the text. The broken
glass completely obscured the language regarding Larkin’s
consummate professionalism and the words “role model.” The text
beneath the signature line remained visible. “Hugo P. Winthorpe,”
the line read, “Chairman of the East Coast Trail Attorneys
Association.”
    “Fucking ‘trail’ association,” Larkin
grumbled as he considered tossing the award from the fictitious
“trial” organization that he had misspelled late one night at a
Lynchburg copy center into the trash. “That gal should have caught
that,” he said as he remembered the judging glare from the girl
behind the print shop’s counter. Who was she to judge a man
drafting his own ethics award?
    “Almost there!” Margie bellowed.
    Larkin looked at his watch. He had only
minutes. “Shix!” he spat as he combined an obscenity with the
number of shots he was required to take. With a final swig, he
grabbed his brief case and wallet, straightened his tie in the
mirror, and raced past the secretary’s desk and out the door.
    Although autumn had begun creeping through
the trees in the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains, the outside air
near the law office still felt saturated with the heat and humidity
of a persistent summer. The standing water left over from the
morning’s rain had nearly evaporated but filled the air to the brim
with hot moisture. As he double-timed it over the uneven sidewalks,
he scowled at the very stickiness of the air. It was as if someone
had created a bonfire of post-it notes and vaporized adhesive still
hovered above the sidewalk.
    Nestled in a muggy valley surrounded by
ancient mountains, Big Lick was the largest city in the Western
half of Virginia. Although surrounded by largely rural areas, quite
a handful of glass and steel buildings had sprung up within the
shadows of the gently sloping mountains. Originally a bustling
railroad town, the city had stagnated some since its industrial
heyday. Rusted tracks crisscrossed the neighborhoods
stereotypically separating the relatively affluent from the
impoverished.
    Beads of sweat trailed down Larkin’s temple.
As he made his way down the street, he tried not to think about the
god-awful liquor that was both numbing his senses and eating away
at his stomach. He passed Tudor’s Biscuit World and the usually
pleasant aroma of hot buttered bacon egg and cheese biscuits forced
him to close his eyes and lock his throat in a half-swallow lest
some of the Bowland’s find its way back to his mouth.
    He reopened his eyes after the tip of his
left shoe banged against a fire hydrant. The shock shook his
constitution and he immediately shuffled to an alley where he
coughed and hacked into the side of a brownstone for a precious
minute. He looked at his watch. “Damn,” he croaked.
    From his pocket, he withdrew the kind of
wrinkled red bandana that wannabe outlaws carried and dabbed at the
corner of his mouth.
    “Are you all right, man?” asked a city
employee clutching a trash bag in one hand and a spiked pole for
litter collection in the other.
    “Fine,” Larkin lied as he waved his bandana.
“I’m fine.”
    The man stood for a moment and regarded him.
Larkin could sense the pity and it swelled him with a putrid mix of
anger and sadness. He was a licensed attorney, a professional in a
city without much of a professional class, while the other man
clutched refuse and wore a blaze orange vest. He waved the bandana
again, in an insulting “shoo” gesture. The man shrugged and
continued about his business.
    More gin burned a hole in his stomach lining,
but as it entered and cooled his bloodstream, he felt a second
wind. The alley was shaded from the heat of the day and that
pleasant moss-on-stone smell filled his nostrils.
    “There she is,” said Larkin as his second
wind flushed him from the alley. “Deveraux had better match me,” he
said as he straightened his tie. He strode quickly