The Adventures of Slim & Howdy

by Kix Brooks; Ronnie Dunn; Bill Fitzhugh

  Slim looked down toward his zipper and said, “Are you kiddin’? That definitely extends toward workin’ women. That’s why I wanted her to—” Slim paused, looked at Jodie who had him fixed with a look. “Oh, you meant the reverence, sorry.” He sat down, did the salt, and they clinked glasses. “To workin’ women,” Slim said.

  Jodie winked at him. “Amen to that.”

  Their empty glasses hit the table simultaneously.

  Jodie said to Slim, “You sounded good tonight. I really like that one you did about bein’ on the Hurt Train.”

  “Thanks,” Slim said with a smile. “Wrote that with a friend of mine.”

  “It’s a good one,” Howdy said as he started slicing the second lime while Jodie poured another round.

  “By the way,” Slim said. “Who was that fella you were disarming in here earlier? I noticed you let him go.”

  “That was Duke,” Jodie said. “Works for my uncle Roy.”

  “Oh.” Slim nodded as if that explained it all. He turned toward Howdy and said, “Lemme ask you, after you took his gun, did you keep it or throw it away?”

  Howdy shrugged as he lapsed into an imitation of Barney Fife. He brushed a finger under his nose and said, “Well, a man comes in after hours with a 9 mm and fails to identify himself, I just naturally spring into action.” He gave Barney’s trademark sniff and held his hands out in a silly karate pose.

  Still half-embarrassed about the incident, Jodie put a hand to her face and said, “Sorry, I should’ve told you he was coming.”

  Howdy tipped his hat way back on his head. “Don’t worry about me.” He sniffed again and made a few silly karate moves with his hands. “My whole body’s a weapon.”

  Slim said, “Hey, that’s a pretty good Gomer Pyle.”

  “It’s Barney Fife.”

  “Oh,” Slim said. “Well, if that’s Barney Fife, and if the guy earlier was Duke, then who the hell is this Uncle Roy?”

  Jodie leaned back in her chair again and gestured around the room. “Uncle Roy is the man who made all this possible.”

  Slim and Howdy nodded as though they both had an uncle Roy themselves which, of course, neither one of them did. But after a second, Howdy held up his glass and said, “Well, then, a toast to Uncle Roy.”

  Slim shrugged, “Why not?”

  Hoisting their shot glasses they all said, “Uncle Roy!” in unison, then drank their shots and bit their lime wedges.

  Since the beginning, Howdy had assumed there was money in the envelope that Jodie had handed to Duke and, further, he assumed it was a cash payment of the under-the-table variety. But for what, he wondered. Protection? Was this Duke guy muscle for the local mob? Was Uncle Roy the head of organized crime in Val Verde County? Somebody had to be. Still, Howdy wasn’t going to say anything about the transaction since it wasn’t any of his business. But at the same time, he was too curious—some would say nosey—not to say something, so he said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but is this like a real uncle, or a nudge-nudge, wink-wink kind of uncle?” Figured he could get in the back door asking this way.

  Jodie gave him a funny look, only part of which could be blamed on the tequila. She said, “What?”

  “I mean is ‘uncle’ a euphemism for something?” Howdy knew she’d been broke after Frank died, so he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d come into possession of a fine honky-tonk like the Lost and Found. He was just wondering if this Uncle Roy was a loan shark or maybe just a sugar daddy of some sort.

  “Nooo,” Jodie said, slapping Howdy’s arm. “He’s my dad’s brother. He’s also my godfather, thank you very much.” Then she slapped him again, just for good measure.

  31

  A SECOND LATER, JODIE WAS EXPLAINING HOW SHE’D BEEN forced to sell the Beer Thirty after Frank died. “By the time I paid off all the hospital bills I was so broke I couldn’t pay attention, you know? When Uncle Roy found out, being my godfather,” she said, slapping Howdy again, “he offered to help, said he wanted to buy the Lost and Found but needed a partner he could trust to manage it. Asked if I was interested.” Jodie shrugged at her inevitable decision. “I had experience, and I sure wasn’t going to find any better work in Lawton, so I moved.” She gestured at the bar. “Duke drops by every night to pick up Uncle Roy’s portion of the cash proceeds.” She smiled and gave a slightly naughty wink. “He doesn’t like to involve the IRS where he can avoid it.”

  Slim nodded, said, “Figures they’ve got better things to do.”

  “Exactly, like chasing after Willie Nelson.”

  “That’s damn considerate of old Uncle Roy.” Howdy held up his glass, about to make a toast to Willie’s fabled tax problems, but he stopped and said, “You think Uncle Roy’d like a nephew? ’Cause I’m available.”

  “Already has one,” Jodie said, thumping a fist on the tabletop. “My brother Grady.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Howdy said. “I forgot all about him.” Howdy seemed to search his memory banks for whatever information he had on Grady. After a second, he said, “He’s got some sort of respectable job, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh, hell no,” Jodie said. “He’s a lawyer, here in Del Rio.”

  Slim knew about Grady but he’d never laid eyes on the man. He said, “You know, as many times as I’ve played here, I don’t think I ever met your brother.”

  “No, he doesn’t get over this way very often,” Jodie said, shaking her head. “So you probably didn’t meet.” There was something in her tone that gave the impression they weren’t the closest of siblings. But at the same time, it didn’t sound like there was any real animosity between them, as indicated by the fact that she didn’t refer to him as her “sorry-assed excuse for a brother” or words along those lines. If anything, there seemed to be a shade of regret in her voice when she said, “We don’t actually see each other that much. He’s always traveling for work, you know, pretty busy.” Like she was making excuses for him.

  “Still,” Slim said, trying to put a sweet spin on things, “it’s good having family around, even if some of ’em are lawyers.”

  Jodie answered with a shrug and a bittersweet smile.

  They made an awkward toast to kin before Howdy motioned at Jodie and said, “You know, speaking of family and other personal details”—he used his shot glass to direct her attention across the table—“I been riding with Slim here for damn near a week and I can’t get him to tell me a thing about himself.”

  “Really?” Jodie touched the oval turquoise pendant of her necklace, as if she were half-listening and half-thinking of something else. “Nothing?”

  Howdy shook his head. “Nope. Every time I try, he makes a Dr. Phil joke and clams up like it’s all classified information.” He leaned toward Jodie, biting his lower lip in a way that was both confiding and accusing, and said, “But tonight he gets up onstage and shares tender moments of his childhood with a room full of complete strangers.” Howdy picked up a lime wedge as he shook his head. “I mean, how do you think that makes me feel?”

  “You poor thing.” Jodie offered mock sympathy to go with Howdy’s mock distress. “I just think Slim’s a private person and you need to respect that.” She rubbed her hand on Slim’s forearm. He nodded appreciatively. “But I tell you,” she said. “I know for a fact that if you get him liquored up enough he’ll talk like a beauty parlor full of women.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh yeah. All night long.”

  Howdy looked at the lime wedge pinched between his thumb and index finger. He rotated it like a roast on a vertical spit before he touched one end down on the table like he was playing flick football. He aimed it at Slim.

  Slim just naturally made a goalpost with his fingers and thumbs.

  “Three seconds left,” Howdy said in a play-by-play voice. “It’s a forty-yard field-goal attempt for the win.” Howdy flicked the lime wedge with his middle finger, then thrust his hands in the air. “Iiiiit’s gooood!”

  Jodie, feeling fuzzier
by the moment, shot to her feet in a one-woman wave. “Wooooo!”

  Slim watched the lime wedge sail past and land on the floor behind him. “Nice kick, Dr. Phil.” He retrieved the fruit, wiped off the sawdust, teed it up, and said, “All right, you wanna know something? Whaddya wanna know?”

  Jodie poured another round and drank hers without waiting for the boys.

  Howdy made a goalpost. “Well, like why didn’t you tell me you grew up here?”

  “You didn’t ask.” Slim flicked the lime. The kick was good. He held his fist out and Howdy bumped it with his own, as if to say, “Good one.”

  The five shots of tequila had Jodie suddenly feeling like one of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. She did another one-woman wave. “Woooooo!” Then she poured another round, like a hole in the head.

  “I’m asking now,” Howdy said, reaching for the lime on the floor behind him, just out of his range. “Whoa!” He nearly fell over trying to reach it.

  “New ball!” Jodie said. “New ball!” and tossed a fresh lime wedge at Howdy, who was laughing at how drunk she seemed to be getting.

  “Asking now’s too late, isn’t it?” Slim said. “I mean, you already know, right? There’s no reason to tell you again, unless you just like hearing the story.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Howdy said, teeing up his lime for the kick. “I’m talking about the nature of conversation here. Two people traveling together, heading for a small town, and it turns out one of them has a history with the place? Just seems like it would be natural for a person to bring that up in conversation.”

  While Slim held the goalpost for Howdy’s kick, he looked at Jodie and said, “You’ve known him longer than me. He always talk this much?”

  She gave a pained expression and nodded, keeping one eye on Howdy as he prepared to flick his lime. She was thinking about attempting a block.

  Howdy lined up his fruit and flicked it. “The kick’s away,” he said. “It looks good. It’s drifting a little. It’s . . .”

  Slim shook his head and said, “Wide right.” He gave an official signal.

  Howdy’s head jerked back. “What?!” He rubbed his eyes and said, “Are you blind?”

  Slim shook his head. “Wide right.” He gave the signal again.

  Jodie did another one-woman wave. “Woooooo!”

  “Are you outta your rabbit-assed mind? That was right down the middle.”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em,” Slim said.

  “Yeah? Well you see ’em like Ronnie Milsap.”

  Jodie grabbed her glass and held it up, spilling tequila on the table as she said, “Ronnie Milsap!”

  Slim and Howdy looked at her and cracked up as Jodie wobbled in her chair. They clinked her glass, and downed the shot before Slim made the official signal again and said, “It’s still wide right.”

  Howdy poked Jodie in the arm, said, “You know those cameras you installed? Can we use ’em for instant replay?”

  They carried on like this for another hour or so, Jodie occasionally doing the wave before she finally came to a rest and said, “You know, as much fun as it is sitting here watching y’all flick fruit at each other, I think it’s time we called it a night.”

  “And maybe a cab too,” Howdy said.

  “But first . . .” Jodie poured one last round for everybody. She looked at them and said, “It sure is nice to have you two here.” She picked up her glass for a final toast. “To a fun couple of weeks.”

  Slim and Howdy said it together, “To a fun couple of weeks.”

  Little did they know the fun was only going to last for one.

  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.”