The Adventures of Slim & Howdy

by Kix Brooks; Ronnie Dunn; Bill Fitzhugh

  “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?”

  42

  SLIM AND HOWDY WERE QUICK TO AGREE WITH UNCLE ROY that kidnapping and ransom seemed the most likely explanation for Jodie’s disappearance. Not only did it make more sense, given the evidence, but they found it much easier to think in those terms than to contemplate the violent alternatives.

  Even as the words went unspoken, Slim and Howdy could see the dark thoughts crossing Uncle Roy’s mind. A grim look would flash across his weathered face like he’d seen the crime-scene photos or had been called to the morgue to identify the body. He wouldn’t hold the expression long, couldn’t stand to keep the images in his mind beyond the moment. The old man would
defend himself by taking a hard draw on his cigarette, throwing a steely gaze at his visitors, and making tough guarantees about the hard things that were going to befall whoever had done this. “Mark my words,” he said. “I have resources, and I will use them all if necessary.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howdy said, not doubting the old man for a minute.

  Uncle Roy couldn’t stay seated any longer. The idea of not doing something when something needed to be done was more than he could tolerate. He saw himself as a man of action, even if the action he engaged in was pointless. He stood and made his way to a window, pain in each step, then turned and walked back. Pacing would have to suffice for now, offering the temporary illusion that he was doing something.

  He stopped at a table covered with framed photos and yellowed newspaper articles. Roy Hobbs as a young cowboy in the 1930s, working a cattle drive with guys with names like Buster and Boots. Another, dated 1946, showed ten roughnecks standing in the shadow of an old wooden oil rig, the whites of their eyes standing out against the grease, mud, and grime that covered their faces and overalls.

  As Slim watched Uncle Roy fuss with one frame, then another, pausing now and then to allow for a fond grunt or a smile, Slim figured the old man was going to avoid the present by telling them about his past. But, to Slim’s surprise, Uncle Roy turned around and said, “You talked to her brother yet?”

  “Called him,” Slim said. “Left a message.”

  “He came by the Lost and Found the other night,” Howdy added. “Said he was going to be up in Abilene all week taking depositions in some big class-action suit he’s involved in.”

  “Is that what he said, a big class-action suit?” Uncle Roy turned his back on the table of memories and continued pacing.

  “Yeah,” Slim said. “Suing a pharmaceutical manufacturer, I think.”

  Uncle Roy let out a derisive snort and shook his head. “You could fertilize a hundred fifty acres with all the bullshit comes out of that boy’s mouth.”

  “Well, he is a lawyer,” Howdy said, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Uncle Roy smiled and looked as if he might take another shot at Grady’s character, but he stopped and thought better of it. Whatever he felt about his nephew was immaterial to the present discussion. “I’m sure he’ll call,” Uncle Roy said. “Just don’t expect much when he does.”

  Slim nodded, glanced at Howdy, who shrugged with his eyes.

  Uncle Roy lit another cigarette and said, “What about Jake? You talked to him?”

  “Jake?”

  “Rattlesnake Jake,” Roy said. “Jodie’s ex-husband.”

  Rattlesnake Jake sounded familiar, but Howdy couldn’t think why. And he didn’t think to ask because he was too surprised at the news Uncle Roy had just delivered. Howdy said, “She was married to somebody before Frank?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” Uncle Roy looked at his boots and shook his head. “Don’t blame her I guess. Nobody likes talking about their mistakes. But yeah, she was a kid when she fell for Jake, maybe seventeen. He was a charmer and not much else of any use. Everybody tried to talk her out of it, but you know how that story ends. Divorced after about eight months and moved up to Oklahoma to avoid being looked at like cheap used goods. Anyway, Jake Heller, that’s his last name, shed his charm like a snake sloughing off its skin as he got older and, tell you the truth,” Uncle Roy said with a finger to his head, “I think he’s not right, mentally. I see him now and then and he’s got this look in his eyes like some hermit gone crazy living in the desert, talking to lizards and such.” Roy turned to look at Slim and Howdy. “Now that I hear myself talking about it, he’s as good a candidate for this as anybody. You oughta pay him a visit.”

  “You know where he stays?”

  Roy shook his head. “Not sure he’s got a fixed address ’cept for his business. You’ve probably seen it, driving through town. Rattlesnake Jake’s Exotic Pets.” He shook his head like trading in serpents and spiders was a less-than-respectable way for a man to make a living.

  “Oh yeah,” Howdy said. “That green-and-orange building on the main drag. Noticed that the day we drove into town. And that’s Jodie’s ex, huh? I’ll be damned.”

  Slim said, “What about the Lost and Found? I mean until Jodie gets back?” He figured it was best to keep ringing the bell of optimism.

  “We’ll keep it open,” Roy said as he crossed the room to a large display case filled with sidearms. “Duke knows how to run the place. You two just keep doing whatever you agreed to at night. During the day, I’ll pay you to check on that fella you called Link, and Jake too.”

  “Fair enough,” Slim said.

  Uncle Roy opened one of the panels in the case and pulled a single-action army .45. It had elephant ivory grips with a buffalo head carved in the handle. He pointed the seven-inch barrel across the room at the .22 he’d set on the table earlier. “That .22 all the gun you got?”

  “Yes, sir,” Howdy said.

  Uncle Roy slid the .45 into its holster and tossed it to Howdy. Then he pulled an engraved Colt single-action with a smooth ivory grip and a nickel finish and tossed it to Slim along with the holster it rode in on. “There,” he said. “Now you’re properly armed.”

  While Slim and Howdy admired the guns, Uncle Roy said, “Listen, I never had children of my own, so Jodie’s as close to it as I’ll ever have. Her parents are both gone and I’m what she’s got left. Well, me and Grady. But I’m her godfather and I take that seriously.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howdy said. “I can see that.”

  “I don’t care if I have to hare-lip every cow in Texas,” Uncle Roy said. “I will find out what happened. And somebody’s gonna pay.”

  43

  LINK MADE HIS HOME ON A PICKED-SCAB OF LAND A FEW miles east of Del Rio. There, perched at a slight angle, in the middle of this dusty little piece of heaven, was a stolen FEMA trailer Link had dragged out here from Mobile, Alabama, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. He’d gone there to check on family and friends after the storm and, while there, ran into a buddy who showed him how to con the taxpayers out of a trailer.

  Said it was a piece of cake, and it was.

  He brought it to Texas, no questions asked, and planted it in one of the less densely populated square miles of Val Verde County. A real estate broker might have said it offered exquisite solitude. Another way of saying it was the only structure as far as the eye could see.

  Slim and Howdy got out there around ten that morning. Link’s truck wasn’t there, just an ATV up on blocks off to the side of the trailer. There were no signs of life as Slim parked the truck and the two of them sat there, waiting for the dust cloud to blow by.

  “Doesn’t appear to be home,” Howdy said, like that was an engraved invitation to break in and look around.

  Slim stroked his goatee a couple of times before turning his sunglasses toward Howdy. He said, “If you’ll recall, Black Tony didn’t appear to be at home when we first broke into his house either. Remember how that ended?”

  Howdy thought of Crystal and smiled. “Yeah, that was some fun, wuddn’t it?”

  “Barrel of monkeys,” Slim said as he opened the door. “Let’s take a quick look.”

  “That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  They got out of the truck, headed for the trailer, both wearing the sidearm Roy Hobbs had given them. Howdy’s was hidden under his long black duster. Slim’s toreador jacket left his .45 showing. And quite smartly.

  No one answered the door, which was locked, so they started trying windows.

  Slim reached the back door first. Also locked. He peeked through the glass and thought he saw some legs, but in a place that didn’t make sense to him. He paused, did a double take. Looked again. He cupped his hands around his eyes, pressed against the glass. A sick feeling on the horizon, approaching fast. It took a moment before his brain could accept what he was seeing. When it registered—when it really hit—Slim almost got sick.

  He shouted for Howdy as he ki
cked the door open and rushed inside. He got too close for comfort and took a quick step back from it. It was too late to help and he knew it. He muttered, “Jesus.” He stared, not knowing what else to do.

  Howdy raced in a second later, running into Slim before he looked up too. “Oh, no.”

  She was hanging from a beam. Her hands and feet were bound. She was lifeless.

  Always had been.

  She was a mannequin.

  It took a fraction of a second for them both to realize this, but that fraction was sickening. That single instant of thinking it was Jodie left them gut-punched and sick on adrenaline. Oddly, coming to the realization that it wasn’t her—in fact, that it wasn’t a person at all—was a secondary shock to a system that was doing all it could to come to terms with the first one.

  After a moment, Howdy reached out, grabbed its leg, pulling it toward him. Kind of stunned, he said, “It’s a dummy.” He let go, sent it swaying.

  The two men gazed slowly around the trailer and soon realized they’d stepped into someone else’s world. A dark place, rendered even darker by the creaking sound of the hangman’s rope swinging back and forth under the weight of the dead.

  After a minute Slim reached out and stopped it. “Enough of that.”

  Howdy gestured at the kitchen counter. “Check it out.” Magazines on sadism, masochism, and bondage. Howdy flipped a few pages, looked at some of the pictures, and found himself wondering what made some people tick.

  Slim wandered into the living room where he found more magazines, these on extreme piercing and body modification. A disturbing gallery of split tongues, bolts, and ball bearings sewn under the skin, and necks with three-inch surgical staples inserted along the vertebrae for show. He used the eraser end of a pencil to turn the pages of a quarterly publication called SubIncision.

  Howdy, over by the stereo, perused Link’s CD collection. A library of industrial-gothic-bondage rock. Death Rattle. Carcass. Skulls of Doom. “Not a big fan of Perry Como,” he mumbled.