The Adventures of Slim & Howdy (13 page)

32

LATE THE PREVIOUS NIGHT, IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE
Piggin’ String, Boone Tate stole a set of plates off another Ford Taurus and swapped ’em with the plates off the one he’d stolen in Beaumont. He got an hour out of town, then pulled into a rest stop for the night.

He got a late start Tuesday afternoon, stopped in San Antonio around five, went to a place he knew with a two-for-one drink special and free snacks. A couple of hours later he was headed west with a good buzz and a pocket full of chicken wings.

Boone got to Del Rio around nine Tuesday night. He knew the town well enough to drive straight to the Lost and Found. Got out there and saw Slim’s and Howdy’s names on the sign out front, but he didn’t go in. He stayed in the Taurus. Didn’t want to tip his hand. Wanted to figure out how he was going to make those two pay for the trouble they’d caused him before they knew he was there.

Boone sat there awhile, thinking. He knew the woman who ran the place, that Jodie Lee. He remembered her from when he used to live here. He never liked the way she looked at him. Like she felt sorry for him, like he was pitiful, and that chapped him good.

Boone started coughing and he hocked one out the window as he let his foot off the brake and pulled slowly out of the parking lot. He doubled back toward town and pulled into the lot at Diablo’s Cantina. He stayed in his car again, looking at the front door with a mix of nostalgia and spite. He thought about going in—just to see their faces—but he wasn’t sure if that restraining order was still in effect, so he decided against.

He was about to drive away when the front doors of Diablo’s blew open and spit out these two big Mexicans along with an even larger Anglo who very quickly gave the impression of being mostly about brute force. Boone watched them swagger into the parking lot, getting ready to face off. Looked like they had ten or fifteen years in the prison yard between them. The fight was brutal. The hulking Anglo, who was known to police as Lloyd Brickman, aka Bricks, worked the two Mexicans over pretty good at first, but they got in their share of shots toward the end. Nobody walked away clean.

Eventually, Bricks stopped and spit a bloody tooth at his opponents. He huffed, then turned and walked off like he just remembered he had better things to do.

The two weary Mexicans caught their breath and limped back inside.

As Boone watched Lloyd Brickman lurch toward the main road, he had an idea, or at least part of one. Whatever he ended up doing to Slim and Howdy, it couldn’t hurt to have some muscle and/or a fall guy. He pulled the Taurus alongside the lumbering brute and said, “Need a ride?”

Bricks leaned his cinder block of a head toward the window, blood trailing down the side of his face. He shook his head and said, “Need a drink.”

“Hop in, I’m buyin’.”

They went to a rundown watering hole under an overpass near the river, place called Whiskey Under the Bridge, a bar of last resort, a stinking joint swarming with tattooed miscreants and feral-eyed thugs.

Boone and Bricks fit right in. They sat at a table in a dark corner with two glasses and a pint of cheap whiskey. Turned out Bricks had just finished doing a nickel at Huntsville for a failed extortion scheme. “Just walked in, told the manager my partner was holding his wife hostage,” Bricks said. “He popped that safe right open. I figured worse charge they could get me on was unarmed robbery.” He shrugged. “You know, since I didn’t have a gun or a partner.” He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe he got caught. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Yeah,” Boone said, “that’s a good plan. Damn good.”

“Yeah, except for the five years.”

“Well, yeah, except for that.” The scheme had given him an idea. Boone poured another glass of whiskey and said, “Maybe it just needs the edges smoothed a little.”

“Might be.”

Boone nodded, then drained his glass before he said, “So, I’m just thinking . . .”

“’Bout what?”

“A little business proposition.”

The guy gulped his whiskey. “I’m listenin’.”

33

IT WAS BUSINESS AS USUAL FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK.
During the day Howdy hung around the Lost and Found, working on songs when he wasn’t helping Jodie with one thing or another. He’d be hooking up a fresh keg or something when a lyric would occur to him, like on Tuesday afternoon when he turned to Jodie and said, “Can you think of anything that rhymes with Talladega?”

Slim helped out around the bar, too, except one afternoon when he took the truck and went across to Mexico, said he was just going over to do some sightseeing, by which Howdy figured he meant he was going for a stroll down memory lane, which he was, but there was no call for him to explain that, so he didn’t.

Duke was the only constant. Showed up every night to collect Uncle Roy’s envelope. Never had a drink, never made small talk, always polite, strictly business.

Tuesday night was typical. These three young bucks showed up, tails up and stingers out. Hardworking types ready for some middle-of-the-week fun. And why not? They’d started with a little sundown buzz, probably sucked down a forty on the drive into town and smoked a little of that homegrown too. By the time they hit the Lost and Found they’d doubled their personality and couldn’t wait for some excitement. Figured if it didn’t happen on its own, they’d do their best to make some.

They were shooting pool and shooting shit, drunker and louder by the hour. One of ’em, by the name of Bobby Earl, took to grousing about how he was always the best dressed but his buddy J.C. somehow always ended up with the prettiest girl. Wasn’t fair, he said. J.C. just shrugged and asked what fair had to do with anything. Wasn’t his fault he had that Eastwood grin. That Tulare swagger. Chicks dig it. You ought to get you some, he said.

Slim was up on the stage, just finishing a tender-sweet ballad he had written, not classic country, whatever that is, but something more in the realm of Willis Alan Ramsey than Bob Wills. It was a medium-slow acoustic ballad fueled by sadness, wisdom, and chord changes that made you close your eyes and believe this was the truth. It ended after a dramatic pause with the song’s lyrical hook, which Slim rendered in his most wounded tenor: “Sometimes the heart heals faster than others . . . but there’s alwaaays . . . a little . . . scar.”

Just as the crowd was giving it up for the brokenhearted singer and his song, J.C.’s friend Billy got into it with this spunky—if somewhat undersized—cowboy who had something dumb to say that he would soon have to regret. One thing led to another, and before anybody knew it, Billy threw a punch and,
bam,
that cowboy’s lights went out.

In an attempt to keep things from going bad to worse, as they tend to in circumstances like this, Slim hopped off the stage to help Howdy escort the boys roughly from the club. Left them out in the parking lot arguing about whether they ought to (a) go back in there and kick some ass, (b) go to that place down the road where Ricky and the Redstreaks were playing, or (c) head over to Cotton-Eyed Joe’s for ladies’ night. They finally settled on the latter but didn’t get a mile down the road before they got pulled over by a Val Verde County constable who seemed intent on asking a series of embarrassing questions, the answers to which were both obvious and incriminating.

Wednesday night was different. It was the first time there was reason for anybody to think there might be trouble on the horizon. Problem was, no one noticed the two men sitting in the truck in the far corner of the Lost and Found’s parking lot.

They were Mutt and Jeff on many levels. The older, smaller guy had to be considered the Boss Man, the brains of the outfit. That made the much larger guy the Big Goon. He did what the Boss Man said, but he didn’t like having to do so.

The two of them had been out there watching a while, seeing who came and went, generally figuring things out.

At one point the two men saw this guy walk some big-hipped beauty out to her car for some sweet talk followed by what they figured was a little begging and a couple of hollow promises that didn’t seem to be getting him very far.

After the girl deftly blocked a series of the guy’s moves, Boss Man said, “Gotta hand it to that boy, he doesn’t give up easy.”

The Big Goon was unimpressed by the guy’s gentle methods. He said, “Shit, it was me? I’d just thow the bitch in the backseat and bust a nut.”

Boss Man gave the Big Goon a disapproving glance. “Yes, I s’pect you would.”

The Big Goon sniggered while he thought things through. “Hell yeah,” he said. “I’d stick my head up under that girl’s T-shirt and see what’s what. Just put my nose in between ’em and go—” He shook his bulbous head back and forth like a dog with a wet snake in its mouth making slobbery sounds with his rubbery lips. He laughed and said, “Hell yeah, I like me some big ones.”

Even though the Boss Man was having similar, which is not to say identical, thoughts, he came off with an air of superiority when he said, “Shut up.”

The Big Goon didn’t like being told to shut up, especially by someone so much smaller than him, but he was stuck. He’d made his bed, as the Boss Man tended to point out on a regular basis, and now he had to sleep in it. Maybe he’d beat the crap out of him after their deal was over.
That’d
shut him up.

It was moments like this when doubt crept in and gave the Boss Man second thoughts about his whole idea. No, he thought, correcting himself, the idea itself was a good one. Solid gold. Easy money.

What gave him the second thoughts was his choice of partner or, as a district attorney might say in an indictment, his accomplice. There was no doubt he needed someone to do the actual deed. And while he knew the big, scary son of a bitch could pull off the physical aspects of the crime, there was always the distinct possibility he would screw up something else, something unforeseeable in its idiocy, something so pig-ignorant that no amount of planning could prevent it.

“What if she tries to get rough?” the Big Goon said.

“Do what you have to,” the Boss Man said. “Short of killing her.” As soon as he said this, he was hit with another wave of doubt. But, he reminded himself, he’d made his bed and now he had to sleep in it. If he tried to back out now, the big knucklehead would probably try to do it on his own, get caught, and roll over on him in a deal with the prosecutor. Jesus, he needed a drink. But first he wanted to go over things one more time in the hope that it would make a difference. He slapped the dashboard and said, “Let’s get outta here, check her house one more time.”

The Big Goon shook his head. “How many damn times’re we gonna go through this shit?”

“As many times as I say.”

“Hell, this ain’t exactly brain surgery. All I gotta do is—”

“It’s a got-damn federal crime,” the Boss Man said between clenched teeth. “And you’re not a two-time loser because you were so
scrupulous
in planning your previous escapades. Now start the got-damn truck and let’s go check her house one more time.”

The Big Goon keyed the ignition and mumbled, “You ain’t exactly one to be talking about scruples.”

The Boss Man gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to explain the difference between the two words, so he said, “Just . . . drive.”

34

THE OTHER NOTEWORTHY EVENT THAT WEEK HAPPENED
around ten Thursday night when a guy, somewhere in his early forties, Slim guessed, walked in wearing a classic western suit consisting of a chestnut jacket with brown suede front yokes and drop-arrow detailing, a tan felt hat, and a gleaming silver bolo with the initials GH in raised gold letters. It was the first time Slim could recall seeing anybody wearing a suit in the Lost and Found, but that’s not what made it noteworthy.

The guy gave Slim a slight nod and tried to walk right past him without paying the cover charge. Slim thought that was pretty cheeky since he figured it was plenty obvious that he was sitting there for the sole purpose of taking money from people, not to mention the large sign printed in perfectly good English that said it cost five bucks to get in the club. Slim held his arm out like a warning gate at a railroad crossing, said, “Just a second, Slick.” He used a thumb to point at the sign but the guy didn’t bother to look at it. He just stood there looking past Slim, toward the bar.

“Five bucks to get in,” Slim said, aiming his dark glasses at the suit.

“Hmmm? What?” Now he looked at Slim and said, “No.” He waved to Jodie and said, “I’m Jodie’s brother.”

Slim turned and saw Jodie waving at the guy like he was the sort of family that you didn’t want to kill, at least not yet. Slim pointed at him and said, “You’re the lawyer.”

“Guilty,” he replied. “Grady Hobbs.” They shook hands. He pulled a business card from his pocket and gave it to Slim. “Pleasure’s mine. Give me a call if you find yourself in legal trouble.”

Slim gave a noncommittal nod. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, letting Grady pass. Still, he stuck the card in his pocket thinking that you just never know.

Jodie came out from behind the bar to greet her brother. She looked pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless. She gave him a warm hug before stepping back to get a look at him. “You look great,” she said, as if he usually didn’t. “What brings you in here all dressed up?”

Grady put on a face like his feelings were hurt by the implications of everything coming out of her mouth. He said, “A man needs a reason to visit his sister’s place of business?”

Jodie was tempted to make a snarky comment about how he hadn’t been to the club more than two or three times since she took over the place and how he never even seemed to have time to meet her for lunch and how he always had an excuse for not accepting her invitations to Sunday dinner, but she held her tongue, gestured at the bar, and said, “Well, it’s good to see you. Can I get you something?”

“How ’bout a Shiner Bock,” he said, mounting a bar stool and reaching for his wallet.

She slid a cold one in front of him. “On the house.”

“Thanks, sis.” He tipped it in her direction, took a pull on it, then looked around the club and gestured with the neck of the bottle. “Business looks good,” he said.

“Stayin’ above water,” Jodie said. “How about you?” She gestured at his suit. “You look like you’re prospering.”

“Can’t complain,” he shrugged. “Busy enough to keep the wolves from the door.” He pointed at her as if he hadn’t planned on mentioning it, but it had just dawned on him to say, “Fact, I’m heading up to Abilene tomorrow, take a bunch of depositions in this big class-action suit I filed against a pharmaceutical manufacturer.”

From the corner of her eye, Jodie noticed a crowd gathering at the bar. “Hold that thought,” she said. “I gotta go serve some drinks.” She held up her finger to put Grady on pause. “Be right back.”

Grady didn’t miss a beat. He just turned to his right and engaged the stranger sitting next to him as though he would naturally be interested in hearing about his grand adventures in jurisprudence. “You mighta heard about this case on the news,” Grady said, as if CNN had been all over this thing from the start. “Yeah, the damn president of the company knew from the get-go that the stuff caused kidney damage. You believe that shit?” Grady talked about how he’d probably be up in Abilene half of next week deposing witnesses and how he figured the settlement would end up in the range of fifty or sixty million dollars, not that he’d get all of it, of course, there were other attorneys involved, but his percentage was enough to make him waggle his hand. And yada yada yada.

Jodie listened to her brother with a mixture of amusement and recognition as she put up three drafts, two bourbons, and a margarita. Grady had always been a big talker. Had the same fondness for promise and disregard for delivery as a six-term senator. At fifteen, when he could finally jump high enough to touch the basketball rim, Grady swore he could dunk. And people believed him. He should’ve run for office. Jodie wasn’t sure if all the big talk stemmed from insecurity or if Grady just liked to bullshit people because he was good at it.

The guy sitting next to Grady asked if he could somehow get in on the class-action suit, but then he added that he was just joking. Grady handed the guy a card and said, “Listen, you ever need a good lawyer, give me a call.”

Jodie was drawing a pitcher of beer just as Howdy was finishing his second set with a song about a guy who gave up his job on a gas pipeline to go chasing a girl across the country in a westerly direction, which was a theme in more than one of Howdy’s compositions. Over the applause that followed, Howdy said, “Thanks, y’all, that’s one of mine called, ‘Baby, When Your Heart Breaks Down.’” He propped his guitar in the stand, said he was going to take a short break, and headed over to the bar where Jodie introduced him to Grady.

“Hey, we were talking about you just the other night,” Howdy said with enthusiasm.

“Uh-oh,” Grady said. “Probably complaining about what a bad little brother I am.”

Howdy waved that off. “No, she was saying she wished she got to see you more often. Said you’re pretty busy with your work so it was hard for the two of you to hook up.”

“Yeah, well that’s all true enough,” Grady said with a smile. “But here I am.”

“Sure enough.” Howdy slapped the bar. “Let me buy you a drink and get you to tell me some stories on your sister.”

“Nothing I’d rather do,” Grady said. “But I’ve got to get out of town at o-dark-thirty tomorrow morning. Gotta be in Abilene by ten, so if you don’t mind, I’m gonna take a rain check on the drink.” He slid off the stool and handed one of his cards to Howdy, said, “But listen, you call me if you ever need a good lawyer.”

Jodie saw Grady preparing to make his exit. She said, “You can’t leave, you just got here.” She came out from behind the bar, knowing that he was leaving no matter what she said.

“I tell you what,” Grady said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you as soon as I get back from Abilene. We’ll go out to dinner. My treat. I promise.”