The Adventures of Slim & Howdy

by Kix Brooks; Ronnie Dunn; Bill Fitzhugh

  Slim, meanwhile, still flipping through the magazine, came to some photos that stopped him cold. He stared in disbelief for a moment before saying, “Holy mother of that’s-got-to-hurt.”

  Howdy looked up from the CDs, said, “Whatcha got?”

  “You ever heard of trepanation?”

  “Trepidation? I’m having some right now.”

  “No,” Slim said. “Trep-AN-ation.”

  “Nope,” Howdy said. “Do I want to?”

  “It’s the practice of opening a hole in the skull, exposing the brain.”

  “Ewwww.”

  “Apparently you can do it with your own drill,” Slim said. “Though they suggest having a friend do it for you.”

  “Safety first,” Howdy said.

  “Yeah, says here trepanation allows the brain to breathe properly and release toxins that are otherwise trapped.” Slim pointed at the page. “They got pictures.”

  “I bet they do,” Howdy said. “But I’ll pass.” He looked at a few more CDs before curiosity got the better of him. He pushed the stereo’s power button without checking the volume, and a second later there was an explosion of pure, jaw-dropping sonic aggression that knocked Howdy two feet backwards. Seven hundred watts shoving the Lords of Agony through multiple subwoofers, roaring with tortured squalls, shrieking feedback, and lyrics of whiskey-black hatred.

  Howdy stabbed his finger repeatedly toward the power button until he killed the thing, returning the trailer to a sudden, creepy silence. He looked over at Slim, a bit chagrined. “Sorry.”

  Slim pulled his fingers from his ears, checked for blood. “Don’t do that.”

  Howdy moved away from the stereo. Next to the CDs were stacks of 8mm video cassettes. “Looks like a home movie buff,” he said. The videos were labeled with dates only, no subject matter. “You see a playback deck anywhere?” He held up one of the cassettes. “This one might be worth watching.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s dated yesterday.”

  Slim looked around then shook his head. “DVD player’s all I see.”

  Howdy looked down at the coffee table, pointed at the cigar box. “Ten bucks says our boy’s a dope smoker.”

  Slim shook his head at the sucker’s bet. “I’ll keep my money, thanks.”

  Howdy opened it. There were a couple of dozen Polaroids. Different angles of a windowless room with an empty cage in it. A bare bulb dangling from a frayed wire. What might have been a black leather hood hanging on a hook. Shadows made it hard to see. In the background what looked like a rack of flogs and whips and a stool. “Looks like a . . . dungeon.”

  Even though he found it hard to believe, Howdy said, “You know, there are a lot of people who do this kind of thing for . . . fun.”

  “A lot?”

  “Okay, some, a few, I have no idea.” He gestured around the trailer. “But look how many different magazines there are. Somebody’s keeping them in business.”

  Slim seemed skeptical. “You think Jodie’s into this? With Link?”

  Howdy shrugged. “Who knows? People have secrets, right? She didn’t tell us about Jake, the ex-husband. Hard to imagine she’d confide in us about her taste for humiliation and torture if she’s too private to mention a bad marriage.”

  “There’s a difference between the two?”

  Howdy gave an understanding nod.

  They thought it over for a minute before they both shook their heads. “No way,” Slim said. “Not Jodie.”

  “I agree,” said Howdy, picking up the handcuffs that were next to the cigar box. “At least not voluntarily.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “We need to find this dungeon.”

  “Yeah.” They looked around some more, hoping to find a clue.

  Howdy came across something familiar made of leather. He picked them up, admired the craftsmanship, and said, “Hey, these chaps are nice.” He held them to his waist. They were too long for him.

  A second later, Slim found a shipping box. “Got something,” he said. The address label was for “Mr. Link” but at a different location.

  “Where?” Howdy asked.

  “Some box number on a farm-to-market road,” Slim replied. “No idea where, though. We can stop at the post office on the way back through town. Ask them.”

  Howdy put the chaps down and said, “What’s in the box?”

  “It’s empty,” Slim replied after a look. “Except for this receipt.” He unfolded the piece of paper, read it, then looked up at Howdy. “It was a five-piece hog-tie set.”

  44

  SLIM AND HOWDY WERE HALF A MILE SHY OF THE DEL RIO post office when Howdy announced that he’d figured out a way to kill two birds with one stone. “We really just need somebody who can tell us where this address is,” Howdy said. “Doesn’t have to be a postal worker.”

  “No, but it’s right up there,” Slim said, pointing ahead. “Just on the other side of the tracks. It’s not too far from . . .” It dawned on him and he said, “Oh, yeah. Good idea.”

  So, they pulled into the parking lot at Rattlesnake Jake’s Exotic Pets.

  Not exactly Pets-R-Us. Rats and mice were the cuddliest critters available for purchase. And them you’d have to thaw out and blow-dry if you really wanted to cuddle. Jake sold them frozen, by the sack, food for the snakes that were his main stock in trade, and not just rattlers and copperheads either. As Jake liked to say, he didn’t put “Exotic” on the sign ’cause he liked the way it looked.

  So, thanks to the Internet and a flexible sense of what constituted “legal,” Jake was selling Russian saw-scaled vipers, East African Gaboons, anacondas and boas to customers around the world, all from his brightly colored little hut in Del Rio, Texas.

  As Slim and Howdy approached the door, they thought they heard something, like a man in pain, moaning and cursing. They paused for a moment, listening. It was coming from inside.

  Like a delayed soundtrack, the noise took Slim back to Link’s trailer and his recent education in alternative lifestyles. Some of the stranger photos came to mind. He cast a leery glance Howdy’s way and said, “After you.”

  The place was a maze of metal shelving stacked with terrariums and aquariums covered with screen mesh. The store buzzed with heat lamps and had a smell that was harder to put your finger on than your nose. Jake’s desk was centered at the back of the room, up on a riser like a judge’s bench, allowing him to survey his whole slithering kingdom simply by looking up from the computer.

  But right now there could have been two dozen northern blue-tongued skinks doing the Charleston in the aisles and Jake wouldn’t have noticed. He was hunched over his desk, a hundred-watt bulb in a gooseneck lamp bent to shed harsh light on the onerous task that had Jake grunting, panting, and cursing like he was in the throes of delivering twins.

  This led Slim and Howdy to exchange another, slightly more troubled, glance before they approached further.

  The words, “Sonuvabitch, that hurts,” escaped from between Jake’s clenched teeth, but just barely. He took a series of short breaths, puffing his cheeks like a Russian weight-lifter psyching up for a two-hundred-kilo snatch.

  Slim and Howdy stopped just a few feet away. They still couldn’t see what Jake was working on, and Jake remained so focused that he didn’t realize they were standing there until Slim cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me.”

  Without a flinch, without looking up, Jake replied, “Be right with you.”

  “Take your time,” Howdy said.

  Curiosity drew them closer still. After a couple more steps they could see an open tackle box at Jake’s elbow. The top tray was filled with Hula Poppers, GatorTails, a bottle of pain pills, and a stun gun. Next to that was a metal canister, the kind used for camping-stove fuel, its screw cap dangling by a string looped around the neck. There was a strip of masking tape slapped on the front of the canister with “Isoflurane” scrawled in blue ink.

  One more step before Slim
and Howdy could see that Jake had a filet knife in his right hand with which he was digging at the index finger on his left.

  The finger was swollen to twice normal size, like a rotten sausage in the sun, primed to pop. They could see where blood clots had formed under the skin, along with rancid black patches of dead and dying tissue covered with hideous gray blisters filled with, well, who the hell knows what fills a gray blister, but there they were. At least six of them.

  Was that gangrene?

  “That looks like it might hurt a little,” Howdy said, peering over the top and catching a whiff of something ripe.

  Jake shrugged, then leaned to the side, putting his nose over the opening of the metal canister. He took a long sniff, held it in, wobbled a little, blinked a few times, then exhaled. “Ahhhhh, s’not too bad,” he slurred. Sweat beading on his upper lip, he put the blade on the stretched-tight skin and, after the briefest hesitation, Jake ran the filet knife along the side the finger. “Eye, yi, yiiii,” he said.

  The cut flesh split like a boxer’s lip. Jake held the sliced finger over some paper towels, applied some pressure, grunting and wincing as he coaxed a yellowish-pink fluid from the wound. “Whew boy,” he said, panting and sucking air between his teeth.

  While this dripped onto the paper towels, Jake leaned over and took another long whiff from the canister. Then, in a predictably haphazard fashion, he wrapped the finger with a large roll of sterile gauze. Finally, after a deep breath, he looked up at Slim and Howdy with red-rimmed eyes, bloodshot and teary. “Sorry ’bout that,” he said, dabbing his eyes with a shirt sleeve. “Now, what can I do for you?” Like he’d just put a Band-Aid on a paper cut.

  Slim and Howdy, who had watched the entire spectacle unfold with a mix of wonder and revulsion, continued to stare at Jake for a moment. Howdy’s eyes drifted over to the tackle box and he found himself thinking those must be some damn good pain pills.

  But what’s with the stun gun?

  Jake just kept grinning, like this was precisely the sort of thing that went on here all the time.

  Slim and Howdy both seemed a little put off. It was hard to say if this was a reaction to the gangrenous finger or the idea that Jodie actually married this guy. First of all, he seemed to be a barking lunatic. Secondly, and there really was no nice way to say it, Jake was ugly as a mud fence. It was hard to believe that Jodie, even steeped in the ignorance and hormones of youth, had fallen for either of these qualities.

  But the way Uncle Roy told it, Jake, in his youth, had what was considered interesting looks. Some said exotic. A lean face with wide-set cheek bones and dark eyes gave him a look that girls thought was sexy and dangerous at the time. Unfortunately, twenty-five years and forty-some pounds later, he just looked like a bad mug shot. Crimes of a sordid nature, perhaps a senator, if you had to venture a guess.

  As for the crazy, that always plays sexier when you’re young.

  And while it seemed unlikely that Jake’s looks could have any bearing on Jodie’s disappearance, the fact that Jake appeared non compos mentis made him, in their minds, if not a likely suspect, then at least someone worth talking to.

  “Uhhh.” Slim pointed at Jake’s finger. “You sure you don’t wanna go to the emergency room for that?”

  “What, this?” Jake held it up. “Are you crazy? You have any idea what they charge to drain a snake-bit finger over there? It’s a damn crime what they get away with.” He shook his head. “No, sir, I got better things to do with my money.” He chuckled in a manly fashion and said, “Besides, I do this all the time.” He pointed with the filet knife. “Looks worse than it is.”

  “If you say so,” was Slim’s response.

  Howdy couldn’t help but notice that Jake had some scratches on his arms and face. Wondered how he got those.

  “Yeah, it’s uh occupational hazard,” Jake said. “Usually just have to drain it a few times, keep that ointment on it, gets better.” The swagger in Jake’s voice gave way all of a sudden to some doubt as he said, “Though I gotta tell ya, this one’s lasted a little longer than usual.” He gave a reluctant shrug like he knew the truth. “Much as I hate to say it, I might lose this one.” He wagged the putrid finger at them as he said, “But that don’t mean I’m gonna let the hospital win.” He shook his head some more. “See, that’s what they want.”

  Howdy had to squint at him and say, “I don’t think I follow.”

  “See, that’s why they charge so much for draining the thing,” Jake said. “So you won’t come in and get it done, right? Then it gets like this and they figure you’ll get all scared and be happy to come in and pay ’em ten times as much to cut the damn thing off. And that’s just plain crazy.”

  “That’s crazy all right,” Slim said.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’.” Jake winked at him. “How stupid do they take us for?” He nodded at the computer, said, “Shit, I got online, did a little research. Found just what the doctor ordered, so to speak.” He opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a box. “Got one of those do-it-yourself amputation kits they sell. Got all the instructions, diagrams, everything.” He admired the box for a moment, then shook his head in awe. “I tell you what, the stuff you can get on the Internet these days, it’s unbelievable.”

  “Unbelievable,” Howdy said. “That’s just one of the words that comes to mind right now.”

  “Yeah, so, anyway,” Jake said, looking back and forth at the two men. “Could I interest one of you boys in a Mexican red-kneed tarantula? On special, today only.”

  “No thanks,” Slim said. “We’re—”

  “No? How ’bout a reticulated python? She’s a beauty,” Jake said. “Lemme show you.” He stood up.

  And that’s when Jake saw their guns. His expression soured, as though betrayed, and he pointed the fat, gauzy finger their way. “What’s this shit? You two with Parks and Wildlife? This about those damn lizards?”

  “Nope, nothing like that.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “We’re, uh, private investigators,” Howdy said, thinking it sounded pretty good.

  “Oh, hell.” Jake sat back down. “You working for that woman’s lawyer, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Look, I told the cops already. That sumbitch came in, paid cash for three broad-banded copperheads. Nothing illegal about it. He didn’t tell me what he was going to do with ’em. And I’m not obliged to ask.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Slim said, looking past Jake, taking inventory of the items on the table behind him. He took note of a new coil of rope, half of it used already.

  “Besides,” Jake said. “The woman lived, right? Probably learned a good lesson about being more careful who she sleeps with.” Jake chuckled when he recalled the facts of the case as he understood them. “In fact, I bet she never gets in a bed again for the rest of her life without looking under the sheets reeeeeeel careful to see who or what’s there.”

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Slim said. “We’re looking for your ex-wife.”

  Jake’s head tipped backwards and he smiled. He said, “Yeah? Which one?”

  “Jodie.”

  “Williams or Hobbs? I married two of ’em.” He winked. “Top that.”

  “Hobbs.”

  Jake nodded, then aimed the wad of bloody gauze westward. “Well, you just keep down this road a piece and you’ll get to a honky-tonk called the Lost and Found. She runs the place, or so I’m told. I stay away from there. But if you see her, tell her I said send me some money.”

  “Have you seen her lately?”

  “Have I seen . . . No, see, that’s one of the reasons people get divorced,” Jake explained. “So they don’t never have to see each other again. Ever, ever, ever. At least that’s what Jodie said when we were leaving the courthouse that day. Seemed kinda bitter, if you ask me.”

  “Jake, lemme just cut to the chase,” Howdy said. “Jodie disappeared last night. We think somebody kidnapped her.”

  Jake looked at the two me
n as if they’d just proposed marriage. A sort of stupefied disbelief. “And you think it was me?”

  “Well, let me ask you something.” Slim reached across the desk, grabbing the stun gun. “What do you need this for?” He triggered it and the electricity spit and crackled between the two electrodes.

  Jake dropped his head and shook it like he’d been caught red-handed. Then he looked up smirking, and said, “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that neither one of you’s ever been grabbed by a twelve-foot Burmese python.” He waited until they both shook their heads before he said, “Well, for future reference, let me tell you there’s two good ways to make it let go. You can either kill it or you can hit it with a few volts. As a reptile retailer, I find it’s easier to sell snakes that are still alive, so I opt for the volts. But that’s just me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Howdy gestured at Jake’s face and arms. “I suppose a Burmese python gave you all those scratches?”

  “Are you kidding?” He glanced at his scarred forearms. “I spend half my life in the desert looking under rocks for snakes and spiders. Plus I been married five times. Of course I’m all scratched up.”

  Slim was behind the desk now, picking up the coil of rope. “Lemme guess, you use this for roping the really big spiders, or maybe an ex-wife now and then?”

  “I got a horse,” Jake said. “I camp a lot. Rope is useful.”

  Howdy picked up the canister of isoflurane and gave it a sniff. He looked a little woozy when he said, “And what about this?” He took another, longer sniff. Then he smiled as a warm, happy sensation washed over him. “Hey, that’s nice.” He sniffed some more.

  Jake suddenly threw up his hands. “Oh hell, you got me,” he said. “I might as well confess.” He aimed the gauzy finger at a door behind him. “Jodie’s in the back, tied up with the rope, just like you’re thinking. These scratches? Got ’em during the struggle.” He snatched the canister of isoflurane from under Howdy’s nose. “Finally knocked her out with this.” He took another sniff for himself, a long one, then set the canister back on the desk.