Finally, Slim reached across the table toward Dempsey Kimble and said, “Hey.” He gestured with his fingers. “Let me borrow your glasses.”
Dempsey Kimble looked at him like he’d asked for a French kiss. “What?”
“Your glasses,” Slim said. “Hand ’em to me.”
“Get yer own.”
Slim shot to his feet, knocking his chair over behind him. He pulled the revolver and had it right in front of Dempsey Kimble’s red-veined nose when he said, “Now.”
Dempsey looked at Charlie and Mack to see if they were going to back him up, but they had him pretty well fixed with suspicious eyes. When Dempsey heard the hammer pulling back to a click, he refocused his attention on the pistol. He pulled off the glasses and tossed them into the middle of the table like he was betting on a losing hand.
Slim put the glasses on and turned to Mack, who was sitting there with his mouth wide open and his hole cards in his hand. “Before you bet on that ace, jack,” Slim said. “You might want to know that the Galloping Gourmet here is holding a pair of nines.”
Charlie and Mack put their cards down, proving Slim was right. “How the hell’d you know that?”
Slim took the glasses off and held one of the lenses over the corner of a card, revealing the mark. “Special ink, can’t see it without the glasses.” Slim picked up Dempsey’s whiskey bottle, took a sniff of it, then took a cartoon-sized guzzle that would’ve keeled most men over. “Speaking of tea,” he said.
Everybody turned to look at the guilty party. Not a forgiving face in the crowd. Dempsey started to scoot his chair back, like he might be able to make a graceful exit somehow, but Mack pulled a .38 and Gutterball produced a hollow-handled survival knife with a curved blade that had what looked like small bits of dried animal flesh clinging to the nasty serrated edges. The one-eyed pit bull raised his head to sniff the air. Possum?
Slim wagged the pistol at Dempsey Kimble and said, “I think now would be a good time to get square with everybody.”
16
EVERYBODY GOT THEIR MONEY BACK, AND THEN SOME. Dempsey Kimble being the obvious exception. The players agreed there was no point in calling the cops about the cheat, seeing as how the game was illegal to begin with. Gutterball and Mack Osborne said they’d take care of it in a judicious manner. And that was that.
Later that night, as Slim was finishing his last set, Howdy pulled up a stool next to Skeets. He leaned his guitar case against the bar rail and called for a beer.
“See you got your guitar back,” Skeets said. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Howdy nodded but didn’t seem to pleased about something. “Guy wanted fifty bucks more than he paid for it, though.”
“Damn. That’s a little aggressive.”
“That’s what I told him,” Howdy said. “Finally talked him down to twenty-five.”
Skeets snickered at that. “Yeah, well, I guess you’ll have to write that off as a rental fee for having to borrow it to do your set.”
“I guess.”
When Slim finished his set, the first thing he did was disappear to the parking lot. Howdy noticed and said, “Wonder where’s he going?”
Slim returned a couple of minutes later, joining them at the bar. “Skeets,” he said, “you got a pen I can use?” Skeets pulled a ballpoint from his pocket and slid it over.
Howdy looked to see what Slim was writing. “You got a song idea or something?”
“Title to the truck,” Slim said. “Thought I might go on and add my name to it.”
While Slim did that, Howdy told Skeets about how Dempsey Kimble had spilled his drink on the cards so he could substitute the marked deck. “I guess he had that bottle full of tea so we’d pay attention to how much whiskey he seemed to be drinking, trying to make us think he was too drunk to be playing good cards, let alone cheatin’ at it.”
“Seemed to work pretty good too,” was Slim’s comment.
Skeets sucked on his teeth and said, “I almost hate to think what Mack and Gutterball are gonna do to the dumb bastard. They didn’t seem real happy when they drove outta here.”
“True,” Slim said. “And based on all the hollerin’ coming from the trunk of that car, I’d say Dempsey Kimble wasn’t too tickled about things either.”
“Hey, Skeets,” Howdy said. “What do you know about that Mack Osborne? Did he put that dog of his in fights, like for money? Is that what happened to him?”
“Fights?” A moment of confusion crossed his face. “Oh, you mean the leg and the eye.” Skeets shook his head. “No, the dog’s diabetic. They didn’t get it diagnosed till they had to amputate.”
“I’ll be damned.” Howdy shook his head. “Never knew a dog could have diabetes.”
“Oh yeah,” Skeets said, apparently finding the whole thing fascinating. “Gets insulin shots, the whole nine yards. Mack says it’s under control now. But it’s still damn funny to watch him try to scratch his ear, ain’t it?”
Howdy turned to ask Slim if he’d ever heard of a dog with diabetes, but he wasn’t sitting there anymore. “Where the hell did he go?” Howdy looked around the club just in time to see the tall stranger slipping out the front door with some girl. Howdy said, “Well now, who is that?”
“Just some girl needs her yard mowed,” Skeets said.
Howdy raised his beer in a toast. “Well, glad to see the old dog get a bone.”
“Beats insulin,” Skeets said with a nod toward the back room. “I guess you’ll be sleeping on the cot.”
17
SUNDAY MORNING BOONE TATE’S CELL DOOR JANGLED OPEN and they said he’d made bail. The terms were unreasonable but his options were limited. So he signed on the line. His bail bondsman told him not to even think about skipping out on him as he had a skip tracer name of Drake Dobson who would track him down and bring him back to face more hell than the devil himself could handle.
Boone got his belongings and started the long walk home, stewing over those two cowboys with every step. A couple hours later, as he turned onto his street, he still didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he intended to track down Slim and that trigger-happy pal of his and make both of them sorry they’d ever crossed paths with Boone Tate.
The first thing he saw when he dragged his blistered feet into the courtyard of the Settler’s Cove Apartments was the oily flesh of those two gals who were always sneaking in and using the pool like they lived there.
As usual, Tammy and Crystal were draped on the sagging lounge chairs, slippery with coconut oil. They had just turned over for the third time, rotating like meat on a spit.
It had been two days since they had escaped from Black Tony’s—not only with their lives but also with a dozen portable audio players, ten of which they had since sold, using the profits to buy skimpy new bathing suits and the expensive tanning lotion with which they were now slathered. The remaining two units were attached to headphones clamped over Tammy’s and Crystal’s ears, which explained why they didn’t hear Boone approaching.
The hip-hop was so loud he could hear it from ten feet away. The large tote bag between the lounge chairs was wide open, stuffed with their clothes, towels, purses, and who knows what else. Boone came around from behind, making sure not to cast a shadow across their faces. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one in sight.
Crystal and Tammy remained oblivious as he slid the bag toward himself and fingered the last forty bucks from their wallets. He was about to make a smooth getaway when something shiny caught his eyes.
A moment later Tammy felt something tickling her jaw and waved a hand to brush away whatever it was. When she touched it, she got a sinking feeling. She felt the shape of the thing and the hand attached to it. She turned her head slowly, peered over the top of her sunglasses, and saw that waxy smile.
Boone licked his ruined lips and said, “You two smell like a coupla dang piña coladas.”
Crystal remained unaware of the situation until Boone reached over and yanked on t
he string holding her top together. Considering her usual lack of inhibition, she moved with surprising quickness to cover herself as she sat up and said, “Hey!”
“Shut up,” Boone said. “Where are they?”
“They who?”
“They who you got this gun from,” Boone said.
Crystal looked down at the .32, then suddenly began groping around in the tote bag before she said, “Hey, that’s ours!”
“Like hell it is,” Boone said.
Tammy pointed across the courtyard. “We got it outta that trash can,” she said. “Finders keepers.”
Boone found it hard to believe that Slim’s pal had just thrown the gun away, but he wasn’t going to waste time arguing the point. He said, “I’m gonna ask nice one more time.” He grabbed Tammy’s arm and gave it a mean twist. “Where are they?”
“Oww!” She tried to jerk away but he had her good. “How am I supposed to know? They said something about auditions in Austin and Nashville, but I think that was just talk.”
“You think?” He shook his head. “Don’t make me break this little twig of yours.” He twisted harder and looked at Crystal like it was going to be her fault if it happened. “You just gonna let me break your friend’s arm?”
Crystal figured it wasn’t any skin off her nose, so she said, “Howdy told me they were going to Fort Worth. Some club, looking for work.”
“What club?”
Crystal squinted her left eye and said, “Pig on a String or something like that.”
18
HOWDY WAS SITTING AT THE BAR THAT MORNING WHEN Skeets showed up. TV was tuned to some bass fishing show, but Howdy wasn’t paying enough attention to even say what sort of lures were working. “I found where you keep the coffee,” Howdy said, raising his cup. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not if it’s still fresh.”
“Just made it.” Howdy noticed the paper sack Skeets had in his hand. “Whatcha got there?”
“Breakfast,” Skeets said. “And the latest news.” He put the sack on the bar and tore it open. Some biscuit sausage sandwiches tumbled out. “Help yourself.”
“Mighty kind,” Howdy said, taking one. “What kind of news did you bring?”
“The kind that’ll warm your heart,” Skeets said. “I ran into the sheriff a little earlier down at the café where I got these.” He held up one of the biscuit sandwiches and took a bite. “He told me they got a call first thing this morning from some woman said she’d seen a man’s body off the side of Old Agency Road.”
“Dead?”
Skeets shook his head. “No, but probably wished he was. One of his deputies drove out there to check and found a man handcuffed to a fence in what I guess you’d have to call an awkward position. Apparently one his legs had gone to sleep. Said it was too tingly to stand on. Anyway, he didn’t have any ID on him, but he told the deputy his name was Dempsey Kimble.”
“Is that right?” Howdy shook his head as a little smile danced across his face. “Handcuffed to a fence, you say?”
“Yeah,” Skeet said, casually pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Oh, did I mention that he was buck-ass-naked and covered with bug bites?”
Howdy just about shot some sausage and biscuit out of his nose. “No, you hadn’t gotten to that part yet,” he said.
“Well, I guess that part of the story’s important inasmuch as they arrested him for indecent exposure.” Skeets added some cream and sugar, gave it a stir.
“Makes sense,” Howdy said. “I mean, you can’t just go around waving your giblets in public.” He shook his head in a judgmental fashion. “Ain’t proper.”
“No, it ain’t,” Skeets agreed. “And you sure can’t do it on other people’s property. ’Cause then you also get charged with trespassing, which he did.”
“Or shot.”
“Which he didn’t. So he got lucky there, I guess.” Skeets sipped his coffee. “When they asked Mr. Kimble how he’d come to be in this unusual circumstance, he said he couldn’t remember. Said he may have had too much to drink last night.”
“Did they believe him?”
“No, they seemed to think he was lying,” Skeets said. “Like he might be afraid to start pointing fingers at anybody on the off chance that it might just mean more trouble for him. So they let him call his lawyer and post bail. Gave him a shirt and pair of county-issue pants, sent him on his way. Told him not to show his face or his bare ass in the county again except to be at the courthouse to answer for his crimes. Just goes to show justice is blind.”
“Well, if she wasn’t before,” Howdy said, “she would’ve wished she was after seeing Dempsey Kimble in the altogether.”
19
SLIM GOT BACK TO THE PIGGIN’ STRING JUST AS HOWDY WAS set to go onstage that night. He slipped through the crowd, didn’t speak to anybody, except a waitress, then scooted into a back booth with his beer. He kicked back with the relaxed expression of a man who’d done a week’s worth of yard work and now had the night off. Sitting there in a smoke-filled club where he felt at home, he thought about that lyric Howdy had been playing with the other day, the one about having a honky-tonk for an office and a workday that started at night. Slim liked it, thought Howdy might be on to something.
Across the club, Howdy ambled up onto the stage, sporting an impish grin like a cowboy trickster with something up his sleeve. He took the guitar from the stand, slung the strap over his shoulder, and gave the crowd the once-over. He offered a friendly nod here, a wink there. He pointed generally at the crowd and said, “Some awfully pretty girls here tonight.” His eyebrows popped up. “Thanks for coming.” He couldn’t wait to see them dance, and he knew they would.
Howdy strung the crowd along for another minute, making them itch for it, as he tuned one string, then another. He’d act like he was about to play something, then he’d start the whole process all over again until finally some guy at the bar hollered, “Come on, Hank it up!”
Howdy gave him an upward nod of the hat like that wasn’t a bad idea. But he just smiled and made them wait a few more seconds before he gently strummed the guitar, then picked a few familiar, sentimental notes that got everybody’s attention as they collectively thought, You got to be kidding.
Howdy leaned toward the mike, his eyes nearly closed, his head tilted just so. Then, with all the sensitivity of a seasoned Ramada Inn lounge singer, he crooned, “Feelings . . . nothing more than . . . feelings.” Then he stopped, as if to bask in the warm round of applause that signaled recognition. But there was nothing.
The Piggin’ String had fallen into stone silence all the way back to the kitchen. A tomblike hush bordering on the explosive. The expressions on the faces in the crowd ranged from bewildered to betrayed to you-better-not-be-doing-“Feelings”-up-in-this-place.
Slim almost spit a mouthful of beer, thinking, What?
Standing there in the awkward silence, Howdy’s mock-soulful expression dissolved into woeful anguish, like his feelings were genuinely hurt. Like he couldn’t believe they weren’t all singing along, swaying side to side, holding hands.
The moment seemed to last forever.
Finally, Howdy broke into a broad grin and said, “I’m just messin’ with you.” He chuckled a little. “Did you really think I’d do it?” He shook his head at the reaction he’d gotten. “C’mon now, y’all ready to have some fun?”
The crowd seemed a little suspicious but, after a second, they managed to work up a hoot, two hollers, and some applause.
“Well, all right then,” Howdy said. “Let’s do this thing!” And just like that, he attacked his guitar, shouting, “Yeah!” He whirled, one leg kicked out as he spun around, and launched a missile of swinging rockabilly that would’ve knocked the doors off the hinges if a screw’d been loose. The emphasis came on the offbeat with a hand thumping the sound board, like somebody slapping a stand-up bass, and it felt like somebody had opened the door to let in Carl Perkins and the Stray Cats. The crowd leapt outta their seats.
The floor was filled with dancers before Howdy was halfway through the song. Those girls sure could two-step, and most of them kept their eyes on Howdy as he rollicked from one end of the stage to the other. He owned them. They’d follow him anywhere. And he didn’t wait for applause at the end of the tune either, just lit the fuse on one skyrocket after another and boom, boom, boom! Pure fireworks, three songs in a row.
When he finally stopped, the crowd went berserk with applause and whistles and “Hell yeahs!” Wooooooooooooo!
“Thank you!” Howdy pulled a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Thought you might like that.” As the crowd settled down, Howdy pulled up a stool from the back of the stage and took a seat. He let everybody catch their breath and get some beer while he snapped a capo on the second fret and got his tuning right. “If y’all don’t mind, I’m going to slow it down just a little,” he said. “Just for a minute.” He strummed a few chords like a peaceful, easy feeling and started singing a story about a broken heart and a bloodshot sky.
Slim was about to take a slug off his beer when the song stopped him, his bottle hovering over the tabletop like a magic trick where you can see the strings. The way Howdy sang about the mortal sins of this wayward man rang true as a bell, with tender phrasing that was honest and steeped in real hurt. It caught Slim off guard and made him reconsider his preconceived notions.
Based on what he knew of Howdy up until a minute ago, Slim had an idea of the kind of performer the guy might be, the kind of songs he might do, and how he might do them. But now, as he found himself lost in the sound of the guitar and the world of a man searching for the memory of a woman in a mescal haze—a haze Slim had found himself in more than once—all he could do was shake his head and think, You just never know.
The Adventures of Slim & Howdy Page 7
