The Adventures of Slim & Howdy (26 page)

As Jodie finished taping the patch of gauze over Roy’s wound, he looked up at Jake and said, “You did some good shooting back there, son. I may have underestimated you by a bit.” He gave a respectful nod. “I’d say you’re all right.”

Jake tipped his hat to the old man, whom he’d always liked, despite everything. “Glad I could be of help, Mr. Hobbs.”

“And you two,” Roy said, wagging a finger at Slim and Howdy. “Thank you.”

Slim accepted it with a gracious nod. Howdy touched a finger to the brim of his hat and said, “Still one thing left to do.”

“Yep.” Roy buttoned his shirt and got to his feet. “Let’s go do it.”

They talked strategy and reloaded before returning to the canyon. Once again, Howdy approached the cave and called out to the kidnapper, suggesting that surrender and medical treatment was still his best bet.

But there was no response.

“Maybe he’s dead,” Jake said as he bent down to see if there were any tarantulas under a rock.

“Or maybe he’s playing possum,” Roy countered. “Trying to lure us in.”

After a moment of hesitation that might also be viewed as time to think, Howdy moved a little closer to the cave, cutting across the path, purposely leaving himself exposed to the gunman to see if he was paying attention.

But no shots were fired.

Slim moved closer, same as Howdy, pausing to tempt the kidnapper into taking a shot.

But nothing happened.

A moment later, Jake and Jodie moved up behind Slim and Howdy and they all started to think the kidnapper had bled to death. Howdy yelled again but there was still no reply. Slim threw a rock into the cave. Nothing.

So they started up the steep path to the entrance, quiet as they could. Slim and Howdy in front, Roy bringing up the rear, a bit behind the rest of them, thanks to his bum knee. Jake and Jodie were in between. As they got closer they heard something coming from inside. They all crouched, knowing it would do them little good if the kidnapper came out shooting now. But no such thing happened.

They listened for a moment before Slim said, “Is that . . . singing?”

They looked at one another with curious, squinting expressions before Howdy said, “Sounds like that Youngbloods song, ‘Get Together.’ ”

“I love that song,” Jake said. And he started to sing, “C’monnnn people now . . .”

Jodie gave him a cross look and held up a finger. “Shhhhhh.”

Jake dropped to a whisper. “Smile on your brother . . .”

Slim and Howdy crept into the cave, saw the bales of pot stacked to form a short wall ahead of them. The kidnapper was apparently on the other side, sitting on the ground, leaning against the bales.

They could hear him singing quietly to himself, “Try to lovvvve one anotherrrr . . .”

Slim and Howdy, guns drawn, came around the bales of dope and saw him sitting there, with the saddlebag in his lap, rocking gently back and forth as he sang. They looked closer as if hoping there was some chance it was just a guy who looked like Grady, but they knew better.

It was him.

He was bruised and bleeding. Not that he seemed to mind. His pupils were dilated, his mouth was dry, and he was clenching his jaw from all the Ecstasy he’d taken, which explained why he didn’t mind the bruises and bleeding.

Jake saw him next. Despite the fact that it made him feel better about himself, he knew it was going to hurt Jodie and
that
he regretted. But what could he do?

Slim and Howdy looked at one another like they’d both lost a bet. It hurt knowing that Jodie was about to find out. They wished there was something they could do to protect her, but there was nothing to be done but deal with the aftermath.

Jodie came around the bales. When she saw her brother, it didn’t make sense to her. But there he was. Her mouth opened slightly, like a tiny mail slot, but nothing came out. If there was a right thing to say, she couldn’t think of it.

Jodie had never felt so heartsick. She was crushed. Gut-punched. Betrayed. Used. And not by some stranger. This wasn’t some random crime, which somehow would be easier to accept. She’d been targeted. Her life endangered. For money. By her brother. It hurt in her heart, her soul. It hurt down to the bone. Then a thought crossed her mind, and she almost laughed.
At least now the quilted toilet paper makes sense.

Jodie looked at Slim and Howdy, disbelief in her eyes. They sort of shrugged and shook their heads like maybe there was a good explanation they just hadn’t thought of yet. But they all knew better.

Grady was so high he didn’t realize they were standing there. He’d taken more Ecstasy while they were fighting the smugglers. Now, deep in the throes of entactogenic intoxication, he was gently stroking the saddlebag, marveling at the tactile sensations he was experiencing. Not only that, but wishing he could share the feeling with the entire world.

Despite his wounds, Grady was enveloped in a caress of positive emotions and a rich, creamy sense of well-being. He had abandoned all defense mechanisms and was positively awash in comforting insight and introspection. And he felt like sharing.

“Grady?” The word escaped like a prisoner from Jodie’s mouth.

When he finally looked up and saw them all standing there—all but Roy, who was still gimping his way up the steep path—Grady knew he was in trouble. But he was so high, all he could muster was, “Uh-ohhh.” And feebly at that.

Then, like a dinner host suddenly realizing he’d forgotten to offer appetizers, Grady grabbed the open box of Ecstasy and offered it to his guests. He shook it. The pills rattled. “These are great,” he said, speaking slowly. “And I know if you all felt the way I do right now, we could move past this.” He nodded as he stretched his arms out wide. “I really would like a hug,” he said.

After a pause, when no one else made a move, Jake started toward Grady, arms spreading.

Slim stopped him with a glare. “No hugging.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Grady said, his eyes closed in rapture. “A big group hug? Everybody? That would be so great. We can have a good cry and start the healing. What do you say?”

They’d never seen a dopier smile. He was damn near sympathetic.

That’s when Roy limped in behind the rest of them. He pushed through to get a look at this man who had tried to use his goddaughter to steal his money. It was bad enough when he saw Grady sitting there, grinning like the village idiot with the saddlebag in his lap. But when Grady failed to show the slightest concern that his mark had just walked in, that he exhibited no shame, that he showed no fear or respect whatsoever, that pushed Roy over the edge. He said, “You are one sorry son of a bitch.”

Then he drew his pistol and raised it to shoot.

But Jodie stopped him. “Uncle Roy!” She shook her head. “Don’t.”

She tried to wrestle the gun from him, repeating, firmly, “Don’t.”

She looked him in the eye and said, “Please.”

The gun slid from his hand to hers. And Jodie said, “Allow me.”

EPILOGUE

GRADY’S WOUND WAS SUPERFICIAL. STILL, JODIE FELT A LOT
better getting that out of her system.

Howdy took the gun from her before she could try again, though he was pretty sure she’d done exactly what she’d intended the first time and had made her point.

Slim kept Uncle Roy away from all the guns, as he remained in a sour mood, belligerent, and disinclined toward forgiveness and letting the healing begin.

They patched Grady up the best they could, enough to stop the bleeding.

Jake rigged a travois behind his horse to carry Grady, even left him with the bottle of isoflurane, sympathetic to the man’s pain. Then the six of them made the long ride back to Del Rio.

It gave Jodie and Uncle Roy a lot of time to talk. They realized it was up to them whether or not to throw the matter into the judicial system. They weighed the pros and cons of having a lawfully convicted kidnapper in the family versus keeping the matter in-house. But short of imprisoning Grady themselves, they couldn’t think of an acceptable solution.

In the end they called the cops. As Jodie herself said in open court when asked about the decision, “Just because blood’s thick, doesn’t mean it’s stupid.”

In a bit of what the Big Goon might have considered justice (had he lived to consider anything), Grady was forced by his finances to settle for a court-appointed attorney who was one of the few lawyers in Texas to have a less impressive résumé than Grady.

At Grady’s suggestion, the attorney called a press conference to announce that his client was going into rehab for a gambling addiction.

“It’ll incline the jury pool toward sympathy,” Grady said. “Get the message out that that’s what forced me to such desperate measures in the first place. We want to convince ’em that Grady Hobbs didn’t kidnap his sister,” he said. “His addiction did.”

Unfortunately for Grady, the good citizens of Val Verde County weren’t buying it. Turned out the abdication of personal responsibility was a nonstarter in this part of Texas. They’d seen variations of this defense trotted out in other parts of the country, from Hollywood to Washington, D.C.—and to great effect—but it didn’t fly in Del Rio.

Grady got seven to ten. With good behavior, he’d be out in five. After that, awkward family gatherings.

The day that the jury handed down Grady’s verdict, another jury handed down a decision of its own, naming Link as Best Male Lead in a Live Action Short for his role in
Submission Impossible,
which also won Best Live Action Short. In his acceptance speech, Morgan Bryson thanked a long list of people including his mama, the Lord, Link, and these two unnamed cowboys who had inspired the controversial trepanation scenes at the film’s climax, which everyone agreed was the thing that put them over the top in their category.

Link, standing at the podium with gauze wrapped around his wounded skull, was so overcome by emotion as he accepted his statue that he was nearly speechless. Finally, as he dabbed tears from his eyes, he said, “Uh, I just wanna thank the folks at FEMA. Without them, none of this would have been possible.”

The next day the two of them left for Los Angeles. They had meetings.

After they had met, Boone Tate and Lloyd “Bricks” Brickman stayed drunk for several days working out an elaborately flawed plan to rob the Lost and Found, killing Slim in the process while framing Howdy for the crime: However, when their cash started running low, they went to the gun shop to sell Brushfire’s pistol so they could buy more hooch. The owner wasn’t interested, however, so they were forced to use the gun to rob a convenience store where they made off with thirty-four dollars and some malt liquor.

Meanwhile, Bricks, with his keen understanding that simpler is better, decided that instead of following the complicated plan to get back at two guys he didn’t know, he’d simply kill Boone Tate and take his car and his wallet.

They were in the fleabag motel where they’d stayed the last two nights, drinking and scheming when Bricks came up from behind Boone Tate and wrapped his huge hands around Tate’s throat. That’s when the door caved in followed by a man carrying the largest handgun anyone had ever seen. The man had Bricks dead in his sight.

With his big mitts still tight around Boone Tate’s neck, Bricks looked at the man and said, “Who the hell’re you?”

“Drake Dobson, skip tracer,” the man said. “Your buddy’s bail bondsman hired me. Put him down, would you? He’s no good to me dead.”

“What about me?” Bricks asked.

“I’ll let the cops sort that out.”

“Damn.”

Slim and Howdy played out the week at the Lost and Found underneath the longhorn skull they hung over the stage. After closing, they sat around with Jodie trying to perfect that margarita recipe. No luck, but lots of laughs.

They refused Roy’s offer of a reward, though they accepted the generous bonus Jodie slipped into their paycheck.

And then it was time to hit the road.

“Can’t you stay another week?”

“You said you’d booked old J. Fred Hawkins through the end of the month,” Howdy said.

“I can unbook him.” She was only half-kidding.

Slim shook his head. “Wouldn’t be right.”

She understood, asked where they were heading.

“New Mexico,” Howdy said. “Talked to a friend who runs a joint outside Albuquerque.”

“Well, you better come back soon,” Jodie said. “I’m already starting to miss you.”

She hugged them both and walked out to the parking lot to see them off. Jodie had to laugh when she heard them arguing about whose turn it was to drive.

“No it’s not.”

“Gimme the keys.”

Jodie stayed on the porch to wave good-bye.

When they got in the truck, Slim sat there for a few moments, shaking his head. It looked like he might start laughing.

Howdy cranked the truck and was about to put it in gear when he noticed Slim’s smirk. “What?”

Slim gave a little snicker, then looked over at Howdy and said, “You know, I had my doubts about you . . . about us.”

“You ain’t the only one,” Howdy said. “But you gotta admit, these last two weeks have been some kind of fun.”

Slim peered over the top of his dark glasses, casting a dubious look at Howdy.

“Okay . . . how ’bout interesting?”

Slim smiled and gave a nod. “Interesting’s a good word.” He looked at Howdy and held out his hand.

Howdy smiled and shook it. Then he gestured toward the windshield and said, “Whaddya say we get this show on the road?”

“Hang on a second.” Slim popped the glove box, pulled out the radar detector that had been there all along, and said, “Here, knock yourself out.”

Howdy dipped his head and glared at Slim from under the brim of his hat. “You rascal.” He set the Viper on the dashboard and plugged it in. Then he put the truck in gear, honked the horn, and held his hat out the window in a gesture of farewell.

Slim waved good-bye from his side.

Jodie smiled and blew a kiss as Howdy drove out of the parking lot and into the sunset.

Slim consulted a map and said, “Looks like your best bet’s the 90 west to the 285 then up to l-10 at Fort Stockton.”

Howdy turned slowly, looking at Slim as if he’d suggested taking a goat path all the way to New Mexico. He shook his head and said, “We’re shootin’ straight up the 277 toward Sonora.”

“What?” Slim stabbed a finger at the map. “Might as well go through Atlanta we’re gonna backtrack that far.”

“Hey, I’m driving.”

Slim grunted sullen disapproval and turned his attention back to the map.

“You’ll get your turn,” Howdy said.

There followed five miles of awkward silence as Slim calculated the inferiority of Howdy’s route versus his own, down to the tenth of a mile.

As they came around a bend, something appeared on the horizon. Howdy saw it first. He squinted and said, “What’s your policy on hitchhikers?”

Slim was still looking at the map, admiring his superior geometry and sense of direction. He said, “Depends how far
backwards
you gotta drive to pick ’em up. Why?”

“Just curious,” Howdy said with a shrug.

A moment later Slim felt the truck slowing down, so he looked up.

She had silver tips on her boots, raven hair, and gypsy cowgirl eyes. She was standing there with all sorts of curves and angles and, somewhere on her body, a tattoo of a butterfly landing on a rattlesnake, though they didn’t know that yet. She had her thumb in the air, a guitar case at her feet, and what felt like a magnet drawing them in.

A hint of unease crept into Howdy’s voice as he pulled to the side of the road. “Hitchhikers can be trouble.”

Slim nodded. He could feel it too. “Still,” he said, “she looks like the kind of trouble I don’t mind.”