“Two . . .”
“At least give me a clue,” Slim said.
“Three!”
Bryson fired a shot just as Slim dove to his right and rolled to cover behind a thick crate. Howdy jumped left and grabbed the tripod in a full nelson, holding his gun to the digital camera like a hostage’s head. He looked at Bryson, dead serious, and said, “Drop the gun or the Sony gets it.”
After a dramatic pause, the producer said, “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” Howdy said. “And while you hesitate to do so, let’s get back to the whereabouts of Jodie Lee.”
“I don’t even know who she is,” Bryson said. “Let alone where.”
“No? What about your big playmate?” Howdy said. “Jodie caught him stealing from her. She fired him. He was pissed off. And come to find out he’s keen on bondage and sadism. I’m thinking he knows something.”
“Speaking of pissed off,” Slim said as he came from behind the crate. “Next time you start countin’ to three without giving me more information—”
“You get hit?”
“No, but—”
“All right, then, let’s just focus on finding Jodie.”
Bryson kept his gun on Howdy. “I tell you what. Back away from the camera and maybe we can work something out where nobody gets hurt.”
“You don’t get the camera until we get Jodie.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Slim noticed Link’s hulking figure rising from the floor with the Louisville Slugger. He let out a roar as he charged Howdy from behind. Slim drew his .45 and squeezed off a shot that was meant to get Link’s attention, which it did, seeing as how it hit him in the hand. The bat tumbled to the ground as did Link, who was now howling like a coyote.
Howdy kept his gun on the camera as he turned to see Link curled up on the floor like a bear holding a wounded paw. Then he looked at Slim. “Nice shot.”
Slim gave a casual shrug like he’d hit what he was aiming at. Then he turned his aim on Bryson.
“One more time,” Howdy said. “Where’s Jodie?” He cocked his pistol.
“Okay, okay.” Bryson set the .38 on the floor and raised his hands. “Search the house, do whatever, just don’t shoot the camera.”
They grabbed the .38 and stuffed Bryson and Link into the little cage. Getting the door closed was like sitting on an overpacked suitcase. The two men were pressed inside like sardines in a can.
Slim and Howdy went through the old house from basement to attic. There was evidence of squatting and sordid behavior in most of the rooms. Sterno cans, cigarette wrappers, empty bottles, a broken crack pipe. One room had an old metal bed frame with burlap bags as a thin mattress and some rope tied to the headboard. But no obvious signs of Jodie.
After their fruitless search, they returned to the dungeon. Howdy seemed to be in a sour mood. Link was cursing and making threats while Bryson was bitching about cost overruns and distribution problems.
Howdy went over to the table where the power tools were laid out. He picked up the drill and squeezed the trigger. Whrizzzzz. He walked over to the cage where Link’s head was pressed to the bars, unable to move. Howdy said, “Link, I saw that magazine of yours.” Whrizzzzz. “The article on trepanation was damn interesting.” Whrizzzzz. “Now, I’m just going to ask one more time.” He touched the drill to Link’s shiny head.
47
AFTER FINISHING WITH THE BUDDING FILMMAKERS, SLIM and Howdy made the drive back to Del Rio. They walked into the Lost and Found around halftime of the Sunday night game, Titans and Texans tied at 14. As per Uncle Roy’s instructions, Duke had been sitting on the door, checking IDs, waiting for Slim and Howdy to return. The three of them were comparing notes when Howdy casually mentioned his use of power tools on Link’s head.
“That’s not the kind of drilling we usually do in Texas,” Duke said, apparently unfazed by Howdy’s methods. “You hit oil?” By which he meant, did Link talk?
“Didn’t go deep enough,” Howdy said. “Sumbitch seemed genuinely excited at the prospect, so I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.”
This seemed to startle Duke a bit. “Excited about getting a hole drilled in his head?”
“He’s from Alabama,” Slim said, like that explained a lot.
“What about her ex-husband? You talk to him?”
Slim and Howdy recounted their visit to Rattlesnake Jake’s, up to and including the sale price of the Mexican red-kneed tarantula. “I still think he’s got a lot to account for,” Slim said. “Something’s seriously off about that boy.”
“He’s a sick puppy, all right,” Duke said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s involved. Might wanna put one of my guys on him. See if he leads us anywhere.”
“Good idea,” Slim said. “I was thinking he might have an accomplice.”
Howdy shook his head. He still didn’t think it was Jake, but he didn’t feel like arguing the point. Link still struck him as the better suspect. He looked at Duke. “What’d you find out?”
“Me and the boys rattled a lot of cages,” Duke said. “Talked to everybody we know. Put feelers out to those we don’t. Only thing that popped was word from this smuggler we know down around Piedras Negras, said he heard something secondhand about some big gringo bragging on this kidnap-for-ransom scheme he was running.”
“Oh yeah?” Howdy was starting to wonder if Link and Bryson had pulled one over on them. “Any details?”
Duke shook his head. “Nah, it was one of those guy-who-heard-it-from-some-other-guy sort of things, no specifics.”
“Nothing about this big gringo having a bunch of studs in his scalp?”
“No, I think that would’ve come up,” Duke said. “Our man said it was just some asshole at a bar, talking big, trying to impress some girl.”
Slim nodded, said, “So that narrows it down to, what . . . half the men on earth?”
“Roughly,” Duke said. Then, a second later, “Oh, by the way, Jodie’s brother called. Said he got your message and canceled the rest of his depositions up in Abilene. He’s on his way back first thing tomorrow. He’ll be in his office.”
“We’ll pay him a visit,” Howdy said. “See if he’s got any ideas on suspects.”
The rest of the night was business as usual. The Titans scored two quick touchdowns early in the fourth to put the game out of reach. After that Howdy did a couple of sets before they gave last call and started running everybody out.
It was a little after midnight. Slim was locking the cash box when the door creaked open. Without looking up, he said, “Sorry, partner, we’re closing up.”
Roy Hobbs hobbled through the door and said, “Good. We don’t need interruptions.” He moved past Slim, pulling an envelope from his pocket. “I just got the ransom note.”
48
THE RANSOM NOTE WAS PINNED TO THE BAR WITH FOUR shot glasses. Slim, Howdy, Duke, and Roy were hovering around it.
Howdy said, “Los Zetas?”
“It’s a gang,” Duke replied. “Mercenaries, really. Mexican police trained by U.S. Special Forces is how the story goes. They were going to be the secret weapon in the War on Drugs until they realized the other army had more money. So they work for the Guerrero cartel now.”
“Wait a second,” Slim said. “These the guys who rolled the five severed heads onto the dance floor at that nightclub a while back?”
“In Mexico City,” Duke said. “That’s them.”
Roy scoffed at all this. “It’s not Los Zetas.” He sounded certain. “We do business. We have an understanding.” He tapped one of his unfiltered cigarettes from the pack, lit up.
“Maybe they have a new understanding,” Howdy suggested.
“I doubt it,” Roy said, blowing a blue cloud. “But I’ll make a call. My bet is, that’s a red herring. Kidnapper just wants us too scared to think about doing anything other than handing over the money and running.”
Slim thought about that for a second before he said, “I could see how that might work.”
“What about the money?” Howdy asked. “Thirty-six hours isn’t a lot of time.”
“The money’s not a problem,” Roy said. “Problem is getting the money to the kidnapper. With the possible exception of Duke here, I wouldn’t trust any of my employees with a hundred fifty grand in a suitcase.” He looked at Duke. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he said.
Roy turned his weathered face toward Slim and Howdy. “I want you two involved.”
“Involved?”
“In the exchange.”
“You’d trust us with the money?”
“Jodie trusts you,” Roy said. “That’s good enough for me.”
“What about calling the cops?”
“No!” Roy slammed a fist on the bar. “Absolutely not. Out of the question! I got enough problems. First thing they’d do is call the feds and that’s the last thing I need. No police. Period! We’ll handle this ourselves.”
“Okay,” Howdy said. “What do we do first?”
“We wait,” Roy said. “Wait until we find out how it’s supposed to go down.”
49
AROUND TEN THE NEXT MORNING SLIM AND HOWDY WERE walking down a sidewalk on their way to see Grady. They were a block off Main Street, directly behind the old Roach’s Clothing Store. What once had been a tidy and thriving little downtown had devolved into a depressed mixed-use area of pawnshops, gun stores, and decrepit office buildings.
“It was dangerous as hell,” Howdy said.
Slim shrugged. “Paid off, didn’t it?”
“That was dumb luck and you know it,” Howdy said. “And the man ain’t gettin’ paid to test his luck.”
They were discussing a play call from the third quarter of last night’s game: A double-reverse with a pass back to a tackle eligible on fourth and long. “They were up by seven,” Howdy said. “And on their own thirty-five.”
“Probably why they caught the defense off guard,” Slim said.
Howdy was shaking his head and working on a retort when something across the street caught his attention. The next thing Slim knew, Howdy had grabbed his arm and pulled him into a recessed doorway.
Slim yanked free of Howdy’s grip, said, “The hell are you doing?”
“Shut up!” Howdy used his hat to hide his face as he peered out from the shadow of the doorway. He gestured across the street and said, “Tell me that’s not Boone Tate coming out of that gun shop.”
Slim took a peek and said, “I think you’re right. And who’s that big sumbitch with him?”
“And what’s in that package he’s carrying?”
After watching Boone and Brickman get into a Ford Taurus and drive away, Howdy stepped back onto the sidewalk, looked at Slim, and said, “You think it’s a coincidence?”
“That we happened to see him?” Slim nodded. “I’d say by definition it’s a coincidence.”
“Okay, but is it a coincidence that he’s shopping at Guns Galore in downtown Del Rio.”
“Well,” Slim said, “you did take his gun.”
“And he’s going to drive all the way to Del Rio to get a new one?”
“Maybe he’s got a coupon.”
Howdy glared at him as they stopped, waiting for the light to change before crossing the street.
Slim brushed something from the lens of his sunglasses and said, “You know, I think this points out there are a few suspects we haven’t really considered up to now.”
Howdy started to nod. “Now that you mention it,” he said, “Black Tony comes to mind.”
Slim joined in the nodding. “You gotta figure he’d like to get back at us for parking that Trans Am in his living room.”
Howdy mulled that over for a second before he said, “Yeah, though I’m not sure how he’d track us to Del Rio.”
“Don’t think it would matter much how he did it, if he did it. Same’s true of Dempsey Kimble and the other fella at the Piggin’ String, that Buddy Cooper. I mean it’s not like we’ve made a lot of friends along the way.”
“I see your point,” Howdy said. “But the fact we just saw Boone Tate and we ain’t seen the others, kinda points in his direction.”
“I guess, but why kidnap Jodie? Why not just ambush us one night, coming out of the club? Something like that makes more sense.”
They walked half a block before Howdy said, “Unless he’s trying to . . . frame us for the kidnapping.”
Slim shook his head. “Boone Tate’s a lot of things, but clever ain’t one of ’em.”
When the light changed, they crossed the street and Howdy said, “Did you ever see that movie, The Big Lebowski?”
“Yeah.” Slim nodded and laughed as he remembered a line of dialogue. “Hey, careful, dude, there’s a beverage involved!”
Howdy said, “And didn’t the old man fake his wife’s kidnapping in the first place? Something to do with laundering money or something.”
“You think Uncle Roy’s trying to clean some of his dirty money?”
Howdy thought it over, then shrugged. “No, doesn’t really make sense, does it?”
“Not that I can figure,” Slim said.
Howdy stopped and looked at the street address on the door. “This is it.”
It was a dismal little office building with a Space for Lease sign in the window.
They walked into the lobby behind a group of three men, looked like day laborers with the day off, who kept walking straight up the stairs.
Slim and Howdy went to the building directory. Howdy scanned it while Slim faced the other direction, looking at the dispiriting, almost Soviet, design of the place and wondering what the hell they were thinking when they built it.
“Little bit of everything in here,” Howdy said after inspecting the directory. “Insurance, a couple of Realtors, a chiropractor, a temp agency, and a few lawyers.”
Slim was still passing judgment on the interior design of the dim lobby. He paused long enough to say, “Where’s Grady’s office?”
“Second floor.”
They took the stairs, then down the hall to suite 220-223, which turned out to house not only Grady’s office but also the insurance agent and the chiropractor. The three of them shared a willing receptionist who smiled at the sight of the two handsome cowboys and said, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Howdy tipped his hat and said, “We’re here to see Grady Hobbs.”
A perfunctory glance at the appointment book before she said, “He’s in a conference with clients at the moment.” Like it was IBM. “It shouldn’t be long if you’d like to wait.” Gesturing at the seventeen-year-old furniture.
“That’s fine.” They took their seats and flipped through some old magazines, looked around. No brass and walnut paneling here. It was all drywall and dropped-ceiling, big panels of acoustic tile. Looked like originals from the 1970s.
Slim stared at a large water stain in one of the panels. He would have sworn it was in the shape of the Louisiana Purchase. Howdy, who was suddenly trying to remember when they stopped using asbestos in building materials, was looking at the same stained panel but was more impressed by the forty-five-degree angle from which it was dangling. It looked like it should have dropped by now, he thought.
They’d been looking at the stained tile for about five minutes when the door opened and three men walked out of Grady’s office. They were the same three men who had entered the building in front of Slim and Howdy. The only difference was that all three of them were now wearing foam-rubber cervical collars, and one of them was limping.
Slim and Howdy exchanged a look. Neither one of them said anything, but it made both of them wonder about the area of law in which Grady specialized. This didn’t look like class-action tort material so much as something else.
“He’ll see you now,” the receptionist said.
“Thanks.” They went in, pausing to look around as they entered. It was like a small bomb had gone off in a second-rate stationery store. Yellowed boxes overflowed with accordion files. Cof
fee-stained depositions, demand letters, and delinquent motions scattered and stacked and strewn among Styrofoam cups, half-eaten doughnuts, and the first impression was of someone you wouldn’t even let represent you in imaginary kangaroo court.
“Hey, guys, c’mon in.” Grady stood and waved his hands around. He was wearing the same suit as the last time they saw him. “Forgive the mess,” he said. “Just move that stuff anywhere you can, grab a seat.”
Slim took a stack of files off a chair and moved them to a spot on the floor near a small closet that was partially open. Inside he could see a box of cervical collars and some crutches.
“Looks like you’re a busy man,” Howdy said.
Grady snorted a laugh. “What they say about this being a litigious society? It’s true,” he said. “And, as you can plainly see, it’s also messy.” He sat down and tipped one and then another of the Styrofoam cups to see if there was anything left, but there wasn’t.
Except for the suit, Grady didn’t look like the same good-time Charlie who had showed up at the Lost and Found a few nights ago. Probably hadn’t slept much since hearing about his sister. His jittery movements and twitchy eyes belonged to a man burning the candle at both ends, eating poorly, drinking too much coffee, scurrying from one fire to the next, trying to keep his life from erupting in flames.
At least that was the impression Howdy got.
Slim noticed something similar. That sort of Willie Loman aspect of a guy struggling to maintain the happy face even as he knew that his window of opportunity in life was fast closing, if indeed it had ever been open. Grady was desperation wearing a smile.
But he was ready to get down to business. He squared a legal pad and a pen in front of himself. “I got back as soon as I could,” he said. “What exactly happened?” He leaned forward, projecting concern.
Grady made an occasional note on the legal pad as Slim and Howdy delivered the play-by-play from Saturday night up to the point when they found Jodie’s phone in the century plant.
“Jesus.” Grady began massaging his temples with his fingertips. “And of course the cops won’t help because there’s no evidence that a crime’s been committed, right?”
The Adventures of Slim & Howdy Page 19
