The Adventures of Slim & Howdy (16 page)

39

IT SEEMED LIKE EVERY FEW HOURS JODIE WOULD REGAIN
enough consciousness to remember another detail, however fuzzy. It was like trying to work a jigsaw puzzle in the dark without knowing what the image was supposed to be. The whole thing lacked context. She’d try to fit the new piece into the puzzle before the guy lumbered into the room and sent her reeling off again.

She wondered how many times that had happened, let alone why.

Time and again she found herself in a murky area where she wondered if she was dreaming, and then she wondered if she could wonder if she was dreaming in her dreams. And she tried to pinch herself, but nothing changed because you can pinch yourself in your dreams too. At least that’s how it seemed.

She was almost home. No, she was there. In her yard. Her head hurt. Was she in the bathtub when it happened? No, never got that far. She was on the way.

It was always dark. It felt like she was trying to put a stained-glass mural together with a few shards from a Coke bottle. She was never clearheaded enough to use the materials she had, and they were inadequate anyway.

He was big. Masked. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. Came from behind her with surprising quickness. Standard nightmare stuff. Grabbed at her, but she dodged that first one. He kept coming. Determined. Something in his hand. Not a gun or knife. Nothing metal. Soft. White.

What happened to her gun? He must have known about it somehow. Did he take it at some point? Must have. Not a clue. Unless this was a dream and she didn’t have the gun in her dream.

But her necklace. She had that in the dream. Broken, spilled on the ground. So why not the gun? She gave up on that. Might as well ask why can you fly sometimes in your dreams. But not always.

Tried to call for help. Made sense. Had the phone out. Managed to push a button. Hoped it was redial. All the while trying to dodge her attacker and the century plant and the cacti in the yard. He finally got a hold on her. He was angry. That’s why her shoulder hurt so bad. He just grabbed her and gave her a punch. More like he wanted to than needed to.

She was kidnapped? Really? She was clear enough to wonder why anyone would want to kidnap her.

He got her. A vice grip. Too strong to escape. Then that punch. Twice her size, or so it seemed. The white thing in his hand over her mouth. Soft cloth soaked in something. Struggle became useless. She was a rag doll. Game over.

Regained semiconsciousness in the dark more than once, but how many more? Hands tied. The big guy, again with the smelly cloth. Then gently, back to sleep.

40

SLIM AND HOWDY LEFT OFFICER HERNANDEZ TO MOP UP
after Antwan and the heaving drunk. They spent the rest of the night repeating their story to the folks at the Val Verde sheriff’s station, the Texas State Trooper headquarters, the Texas Rangers’ station, and the Border Patrol.

None of whom did squat.

The sheriff and the state troopers said it wasn’t unusual, let alone illegal, for a woman to get mad and go off without telling anybody where she was going. The Rangers and the Border Patrol said even if a crime had been committed, it was out of their jurisdiction. And, although neither Slim nor Howdy asked their opinions, the Rangers and Border Patrol guys said they had to agree with the assessment of the sheriff and the state troopers about the way women act.

Slim and Howdy returned to the Lost and Found around dawn, bewildered and disappointed by their inability to spur the local constabulary to action. Their expressions were as grim as their moods. Neither of them wanted to say it out loud, but both were thinking the same awful thing. If Jodie was still alive, she was probably being put through hell. But there was the real possibility that she might already be dead. Either way, they figured it was up to them to do something about it. They weren’t sure what, but they couldn’t just sit around doing nothing.

They left a message on Grady’s voice mail, then looked through Jodie’s office until they found Uncle Roy’s address. They grabbed some breakfast to go, two large coffees each, then returned to Jodie’s house to see if they’d missed anything. They found another piece of the necklace but otherwise came up empty, so they went to see Uncle Roy.

He lived on the outskirts of South Del Rio in a sprawling old-style ranch hacienda built in the 1930s when it was the main house for a two-hundred-thousand-acre cattle ranch. Uncle Roy bought the property thirty years ago, after previous owners had sold off all but seven acres. But the house, surrounded by a tall adobe wall topped with shards of glass, was a thing to see.

As they cruised up the long, cactus-lined driveway, Slim said, “Nice place.”

“Yeah,” Howdy agreed. “The wages of sin look like they’re pretty good in this part of Texas.” As they approached the apex of the circular drive, Howdy pointed at the four men who were already approaching the truck. “You think that’s valet parking?”

“Kind of doubt it,” Slim said.

The moment Howdy put it in park, the security guards pulled them out and frisked them. “Gun,” one of them said when he found the .22. “But not much of one.”

After explaining who they were and why they were there, Slim and Howdy were escorted into a vast living room. It looked like a museum of the old Southwest, the walls lined with an astounding collection of weapons, saddlery, and artwork.

Howdy was drawn to a glass case featuring a pair of silver-overlay, drop-shank spurs of the old California style, with heel chains and large snake-and-eagle conchos on the straps. Across the room, Slim admired a parade saddle with a thousand silver mountings, matching headstall, reins, breast collar, full-length serape, rump cover, and a silver-mounted bit.

Slim and Howdy looked up a moment later when the large wooden doors at the far end of the room swung open. The man who came in was the last of a dying breed, like one of the antiques on display. He was a tough-looking old coot, short and bristly, with an expression about as welcoming as barbed-wire. His gait was hobbled, pain in every step. Bad knees, bowed legs, ruined hips, and too much pride for a wheelchair or even a cane.

Underneath his silver belly hat was a face that looked like it had been carved from old boot leather. He had their .22 in his hand. He set it on a table.

“I’m Roy Hobbs,” he said, his voice craggy as his face. “What’s this about my Jodie?”

“Sorry about the hour,” Howdy said.

“Been up since five,” Roy replied, tapping an unfiltered cigarette from a pack. “Ain’t got much time left, don’t see any point in sleeping it away.”

“Yes, sir.” Slim and Howdy crossed the room to introduce themselves. “Mr. Hobbs, I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Roy said, lighting the cigarette. “Duke told me about that night at the Lost and Found when one of you took his gun.”

“That was me,” Howdy said. “I didn’t know he was supposed to be there.”

Uncle Roy blew a cloud of smoke and waved off Howdy’s concern. “Hell, I was glad to hear you did it,” he said, gesturing for them to sit. “Now, what’s this about Jodie?”

They told him the whole story, from the odd phone call to all the cops refusing to help. Roy was quick to agree that there was something wrong with the picture. Then he fell silent, looking off to one side, his thoughts running while the cigarette smoke curled around his gnarled right hand.

Howdy tried, but Roy Hobbs was a hard man to read. Despite his current wealth, he had a lot of tough years and lean times etched in his face. He looked like a man prone to expecting the worst and all too often having those expectations met. At the same time, he looked like the sort of man who would put up a fight for things he cared about without concern for the odds.

After a minute, Uncle Roy let out a sigh and said the words neither Slim nor Howdy wanted to. “Seems like there’s two possibilities,” he said, his eyes cutting back and forth between his two visitors. “She’s either dead or somebody’s kidnapped her and she
ain’t
dead. At least not yet.”

“Yes, sir,” Slim said. “I think that’s about it.”

“If it’s some psychopath, you know, some damn serial killer, like that one up in Juarez a couple of years ago—what’d they call him, the
Campo Algodonero
Killer? Dumped all those girls’ bodies in that cotton field . . . If it’s something like that, there’s nothing to do,” Uncle Roy said. “Her body’ll surface sooner or later and then all that’s left is huntin’ down the animal and killing it.” He looked at his cigarette and said, “But if she’s been kidnapped and she’s still alive, there’s a possibility it’s somebody she knows. Somebody she pissed off. And that’s somebody we might be able to track down.”

Slim turned slowly to look at Howdy. He said, “Link.” Howdy nodded.

Roy looked up at them. “Link? What do you mean, link?”

“A guy she fired last week,” Howdy said. “Big scary-looking sumbitch, calls himself Link. She caught him stealing, had to let him go.”

“At gunpoint,” Slim added.

“It’s a place to start,” Roy said with a nod. “You know where to find him?”

“I suspect we can find out,” Slim said. “Bound to have an address in the office.”

As Uncle Roy stubbed his cigarette out in a standing ashtray, he studied Howdy. “Son, you look like you got something to add. Spit it out.”

“All right,” Howdy said. “I’m wondering if you can think of anybody might be pissed off at
you.
Somebody you, uh, do business with.”

Roy nodded his head slowly as if the thought had crossed his mind already. He said, “What’d Jodie tell you about my business?”

“Not much,” Slim said. “But that was enough.”

“Look, we ain’t got time to be coy about this,” Howdy said. “Your man Duke collects an envelope of cash every night. But that ain’t near enough to pay for this hacienda. Doesn’t take a trained investigator to figure you for a man with a wide variety of business concerns, most of which are not openly discussed at chamber of commerce meetings. I figure you do some importing, some retailing, maybe some wholesaling. In other words, you’re the guy in this neck of the woods who provides the sorts of products and services that a lot of people want but can’t say they want to be legal.”

“That about sums it up,” Roy said.

Howdy looked Roy in the eyes, said, “And that means you deal with folks in some of the darker corners of Val Verde County. So I’m just asking if you can think of anybody who might try to get to you, using Jodie as leverage.”

“There’s always somebody,” Roy said, no shortage of regret in his voice. He damn sure didn’t want to bear any responsibility for whatever had happened to his godchild. “My boys’ll be out rattling cages within the hour.” He tapped another cigarette from the pack. “I guess one thing’s for sure,” he said. “If it is a kidnapping, a ransom note won’t be far behind.”

41

INDEED. WHEN THE TIME CAME, THE BOSS MAN SNAPPED
on a pair of latex gloves and composed the ransom note in the standard fashion. He kept it to the point:

Los Zetas
being the name of an infamously violent criminal organization in northern Mexico that had lately taken to beheading those who failed to follow any of their directives. The Boss Man figured nobody would try anything cute if they thought they were dealing with those guys. Just pay the ransom and hope for the best, that’s what they’d say.

The Boss Man slipped the folded note into an envelope he’d taken from the Posada Rosa Hotel months ago. Thought that was a nice touch, complete with a Mexican stamp. According to the plan, the Big Goon was to mail the ransom note in Piedras Negras, give the impression that maybe those black tar dealers down that way were branching out into the newest field of lawlessness. After all, kidnapping had become big business in that part of Mexico, might as well take advantage of their bad reputation.

He also figured a little geographical misdirection would throw any snoopy types off the scent. Even better, somebody follows the postmark down to Piedras Negras, starts sticking their nose in the wrong places, asking the wrong questions, even saying the words
Los Zetas,
probably ends up gutted on a dark side street, stuffed into a drainpipe, confirming, in a roundabout way, that
Los Zetas
actually
was
responsible for snatching Jodie.

Beautiful, he thought. Just beautiful.

And now the Big Goon was bouncing down a dirt road in a stolen El Camino, on his way to Piedras Negras to mail the note. He was just past Villa de Fuentes when he had what struck him, without doubt, as the best natural idea in his entire criminal career. It was so good it tickled him. So he started to laugh. He slapped the steering wheel and threw his head back like a braying mule. Ha! Boss Man wasn’t the only one who could cook up a scheme.

The Big Goon now had a plan of his own.

He stopped at the first store he came across, ran in, bought a stack of magazines and a glue stick. Then he crossed the street to a dim bar, the faded sign over the door featuring a pair of dancing shrimp with castanets and sombreros.
¡Camaron Que Baila!
He ducked into the darkness, slipped into a back booth, where he sat, so giddy about his scheme that he was soon drumming his fingers on the tabletop to the rhythm of “
Abre los ojos
” blasting from the jukebox.

The Big Goon pulled the magazines from the bag just as the waitress came over. She set a cocktail napkin on the table and said, “
Hola, señor.
”

Something about the way she said it gave the Big Goon a tingle. His eyes roamed all over as he took in her plentiful sights. She was patient and accommodating, full-bodied and brown as good whiskey, with long dark hair, and eyes to get lost in forever. Most important, she had
muy grande tetas.
Lord almighty, he couldn’t help but stare. He said “
Mamacita
” in a tone that managed to be both reverent and leering. He meant to add something about her being
muy caliente
but, at the moment, his brain lacked the follow-through.

She smiled at him the way she did, the way she’d smiled at a hundred others before turning on them. It never failed. She took his order and gave a sly look over her shoulder as she walked away with a little extra sway in the hips because she knew he was still looking. At the bar she popped an extra button on her blouse, then brought his beer and his shot of Jim Beam on the side. She leaned way over as she served him, lingering, to give him an eyeful. She half-whispered, “Enjoy.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he mumbled. The Big Goon put a twenty on her tray, said, “Keep the change,
mamacita.
”

“
Ooo, muchas gracias.
” She gave him a wink and, if he wasn’t mistaken, she licked her ruby-red lips just so.

The Big Goon threw back the shot of Jim Beam and said, “
¿Como te llamas?
”

She ducked her head, feigning some modesty, before she said, “
Me llamo Carmelita.
”

He tapped the twenty and said, “Well, Carmelita, there’s gonna be plenty more where that came from, and soon too.” He set the shot glass on top of the twenty and said, “
Uno mas, por favor.
” Virtually exhausting his Spanish.

As Carmelita went to get the drink, the Big Goon started flipping through a copy of
Vogue,
had a girl on the cover looked like Angelina Jolie except without all the crazy in her eyes. After the first thirty pages of advertising, the Big Goon realized he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for in a fashion magazine.

He was pulling the
Sports Illustrated
from the stack when Carmelita returned with two more shots. “On me,” she said.

The Big Goon gave her a ten this time along with the
Vogue,
which she seemed to appreciate. She asked if he wanted anything else and he said, “Oh you bet I do.” Nodding like a bobble-head doll, his eyes fixed on her two big prizes. “But right now, I’m working on a little something that’s gonna make me big and rich.” He winked at her and said, “Just gimme a few minutes.”

“I’ll give you anything you want,” Carmelita said, touching his arm. “Anything.” Then she turned and went back to the bar, leaving the Big Goon to imagine the possibilities.

It took a minute for the Big Goon to stop imagining his face planted squarely between her
tetas.
When he did, he returned to the task at hand. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. It was on page twenty-nine. A perfect shot of Peyton Manning, number eighteen, throwing another touchdown pass. The Big Goon pulled his buck knife and stabbed Peyton in the back with the blade, then proceeded to cut the number 1 from his jersey.

Using a paper napkin as a glove, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope from the Posada Rosa Hotel. He shook the note onto the table, unfolding it with care, weighing the corners with an ashtray, two empty shot glasses, and a salt shaker. Using the buck knife, the Goon carefully pried the dollar sign off the page. He rubbed the glue stick on the back of Peyton Manning’s 1 and stuck it to the left of the 5, then put the dollar sign back, deftly raising the ransom from $50,000 to $150,000.

The Big Goon chuckled and finished his beer and another shot as he admired his handiwork. Sometimes he surprised himself at how smart he was. In fact, he was so caught up in his genius that he failed to notice Carmelita had returned. Though when he did, he was quick enough to notice that she had two more shots on her tray and another button popped on her blouse.

The Goon looked up, halfway hoping she’d seen the note and was impressed by the idea. Hoped she’d get turned on by his outlaw side. Carmelita demurred as if she hadn’t seen a thing. She leaned over again, lingering as she put the Jim Beam on the table next to the note. “I admire ambition in a man,” she said. “Without it?” She just shrugged.

“Man’s gotta have
cajones,
” the Big Goon said, reaching under the table to grab his package.

Carmelita, still leaning over the table, smiled provocatively and whispered, “
Muy grande cajones.
” Now she gestured at the note. “It looks very exciting.”

The Big Goon moved over, inviting her to sit. Then he said, “Tell me this,
mamacita,
can you keep a secret?”