“Whatcha gone do with those?” Howdy’s tone indicated he didn’t see any trouble coming, which meant he needed either his eyes or his head examined.
“Trim this guy’s shrubs,” Slim said.
As they climbed the stairs to the second floor, Howdy couldn’t help but say, “Must be some tall ones.”
They walked down past two, three, four apartments before Slim stopped in front of number 206. He leaned toward the door and listened for a second, heard the television. Sounded like Dr. Phil. Howdy turned to look down at a couple of pretty girls sitting by the pool. He tipped his hat when one of them looked up his way and gave a friendly wave.
Slim reached back, put his hand on the rail behind him, then, much to Howdy’s surprise, he kicked the door wide open and charged inside. The girls down at the pool seemed surprised too. They jumped up and moved, not to get away from any trouble so much as to get a better view of it. Girls like that.
Howdy wasn’t sure what the next best thing to do was, so he tipped his hat again and followed Slim inside, where he found a steely-eyed man with both hands raised, a TV remote in one, a beer in the other.
A quick look told Howdy this guy was bad luck and trouble. Third-degree burn scars all around his mouth gave him a painful, waxy sneer. His nose, bent and humped, looked like it had been broken more times than a politician’s promise. He was a mad dog disciple of violence and retribution with one droopy eye and the overall countenance of a man who drank to get the crawl off his skin. Seemed half biker, half roughneck, and all crazy.
Slim had him backed against a wall with the hedge trimmers aimed low. He gave a smirk and said, “Brushfire Boone, how you doin’?”
“The name’s Boone Tate,” the waxy sneer said. “And I knew I shoulda killed you back in Del Rio.”
“As I recall, you hadn’t drunk enough courage that night,” Slim said.
It was fair to say none of this was on the list of things Howdy had been expecting. He said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’s going on?”
“Taking care of some business,” Slim said, without turning around. “Doesn’t involve you.”
“Well, now, to the extent anybody saw me come in here with you, I think it does. I mean, I’m not a lawyer, don’t really like ’em much, but I’ve seen some Court TV and, well, why don’t we all just take a minute and calm down?” Howdy looked at the man with the droopy eye, aimed a thumb at the kitchen, and said, “Hey, champ, you got a couple more cold ones in there?”
Boone nodded once. His eyes never left the dirty hedge clippers.
Howdy, standing at the open fridge, called out, “Slim, he’s got regular and lite, you care one way or another? You don’t look like you need the lite, but maybe that’s why you’re kinda thin in the first place.”
When Slim turned to tell Howdy to shut the hell up, Brushfire Boone jammed that TV remote in between the blades of the hedge trimmers and produced a knife of bowie proportions. It was long and sharp enough to lead directly to a Mexican standoff, each man taking jabs and swipes at the other, but unable to gain an advantage.
Howdy calmly watched the action while sipping on his beer and shaking his head at the turn of events. Finally he set the beer down and told this Brushfire Boone to “Drop it!”
When Slim and Brushfire turned, they were both surprised to see Howdy with a pistol trained in their general direction. “I said drop it.”
The bowie knife fell to the floor. There was a tone of incredulity in Slim’s voice when he said, “You have a gun?”
“Well, it ain’t a weed whacker,” was Howdy’s response.
“Is it loaded?”
Howdy aimed it at the fridge, pulled the trigger. Bang! Like a clap of thunder, a .32 slug right through the door. “Oh, man, I’m sorry,” Howdy said, and it sounded like he meant it. “I think I just put a hole in your crisper.” He opened the door, looked. “Awww, got your mustard too.”
Slim said, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a gun?”
“First of all, you didn’t ask,” Howdy said. “Second, you didn’t tell me you were going to kick in this man’s door and threaten to make him a soprano with a pair of dirty hedge clippers.”
“He stole my guitar.” Slim pointed at the instrument leaning in the corner of the apartment. It was an old Martin D-28 with the dark Brazilian rosewood.
“That’s a beauty.” Howdy seemed pleasantly surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me you played guitar?”
“You didn’t ask.” A little peppery in his reply.
Howdy stepped a little closer and said to the man, “Did you steal his guitar?”
“Yeah, but only after he stole my girl.”
“Tch.” Howdy looked at Slim with a hint of disapproval. “You stole his girl?”
“Not stole so much as . . . ended up with,” Slim said. “ And not for long, either. Fact, if I knew where she was, I’d bring her back for a trade. But she wasn’t big on forwarding addresses.”
Howdy smiled and said, “I think I know that girl, or somebody like her anyway.” He began to think about Marilyn Justine and her margarita recipe again before he pointed the .32 at Brushfire Boone and said, “You know, in my experience, if you steal a musical instrument every time a girl leaves you for another man, you’re gonna end up with a damn symphony orchestra or something.” He pointed at the television. “Dr. Phil probably tell you to find some other way to express your anger.” Howdy nodded toward the Martin, said, “Slim, go on and get it.”
Slim took the guitar, put it in the case, and said, “I think I’m entitled to gas money, having to come all this way to get what’s mine.”
In the distance, Howdy heard a siren. “Well, I can see your point, but I think you might just have to write that off, unless you want to continue this in the lobby of the Gray Bar Motel in beautiful downtown Beaumont.”
Slim heard the siren too. “Yeah, all right. Let’s go.” He made to throw a punch at Brushfire Boone but pulled it, just wanted to make him flinch. “Far as I’m concerned, we’re square now,” Slim said. Then he turned to follow Howdy out the door.
Last thing they heard was Brushfire Boone yelling, “This ain’t over yet!”
With the sirens approaching, Slim and Howdy left the apartment complex a little faster than they arrived. Howdy tipped his hat again when he saw those two girls from the pool. They were stuffing their towels and whatnot into tote bags, fixing to leave, almost as fast as Slim and Howdy. But they took the time to smile and give another friendly wave.
As they passed a trash can, Howdy dropped the .32 in like it was an empty soda bottle.
Slim couldn’t believe it. “You just gonna throw that away?”
Howdy shrugged. “Ain’t mine.”
“What do you mean it ain’t yours?”
“Oh, it was on that fella’s kitchen table. I was just borrowin’ it.”
5
AS THEY WERE SCOOTING BOOTS DOWN THE SIDEWALK, HOWDY noticed the Mexican guy rooting through the tools in the bed of his truck like he’d lost something. Howdy nudged the guy and said, “Hey, if you’re looking for them hedge clippers”—he pointed back at the apartments—“that fella up in 206 stole ’em.”
The man gave Howdy a funny glance and a suspicious “Gracias.”
“De nada.”
As they approached their truck, Slim held out his hand. “Gimme the keys.”
“That’s all right,” Howdy said, missing the point. “I don’t mind driving.”
“I think we oughta alternate.”
“What?”
“It means take turns,” Slim said, putting his guitar case in the back. “Truck’s half mine, ain’t it?”
“Fine by me.” Howdy tossed him the keys. “Just don’t drive outta here too fast.”
Slim started the truck and said, “Cops are responding to shots fired, and you want me to dawdle?”
Howdy hung an elbow out the window and said, “We don’t wanna draw too much attention’s all I’m saying.”
“Here’s a
tip,” Slim said as he pulled away from the curb. “When you’re trying to be inconspicuous, don’t be taking potshots at people’s appliances.”
Despite the truth of the observation, Howdy seemed a little insulted by it. “Now, first of all,” he said, “I didn’t know the gun was loaded. And second—” He stopped when he saw the two cop cars come racing around the corner heading in their direction. Howdy pulled his hat down a bit and looked the other way until they’d passed, then he said, “And second, I probably saved your life back there.” He shook his head. “Did you not notice the big knife that boy was waving at you?”
Slim looked a bit chagrined and nodded slightly. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “And I appreciate what you did. I’m just sayin’ . . .” He shrugged without finishing the thought.
“Don’t mention it.” Howdy waved a dismissive hand before jerking a hitchhiker’s thumb behind them. “Interesting friend you got back there.”
“He’s neither one of those things.”
“Okay, interesting nickname though,” Howdy said. “Brushfire.” He pondered that for a moment. “Arsonist? Garden variety pyromaniac?”
“A drunk,” Slim said. “And a mean one. Got the nickname after an incident at a bar. Tried to impress some girl by ordering a Flaming Blue Jesus.”
“A what?”
“Schnapps, Southern Comfort, and tequila, with 151 rum floated on top, lit on fire,” Slim said.
Howdy shook his head as he made a distasteful face. “That’s not a proper drink.”
“Not a safe one either, especially if you’re already drunk and you have a big bushy beard.”
Howdy winced. “No.”
“Yeah,” Slim said, almost reluctantly. “You’re supposed to wait for the flame to die down, but that girl challenged his manhood, so he hoisted it.”
“Caught his beard on fire?”
“To his eternal surprise,” Slim said. “And, drunk as he was, his natural reaction was to splash the rest of the drink onto the flames, like it was water instead of alcohol.” Slim just shook his head. “Went up like the Hindenburg.”
Howdy, looking for the silver lining, said, “I don’t suppose he got the girl after all that.”
“He got the girl all right,” Slim said. “Blamed her for what happened and put her in the hospital. Ambulance that was coming for him, took her instead. Old Boone got his burns treated at the county jail.”
Howdy nodded. “Just goes to show, friends shouldn’t let friends drink anything that’s on fire.”
“Amen.”
Howdy gestured at Slim’s guitar case. “Well, anyway, glad you got your guitar back. That really is a beauty.”
Slim gave a nod, said, “Yeah.”
“You a pretty good picker?”
Slim shrugged. “Ain’t Chet Atkins,” he said. “But I’m all right.”
“Write your own stuff?”
“I got a few.”
“Yeah? Me too,” Howdy said. “You make a living at it?”
“Ain’t exactly getting rich.”
Howdy laughed. “Yeah, well, I figured that much out based on that car you unloaded on Red. I just wondered if you were making a living at it, that’s all.”
“I get by.”
They drove a few more blocks before Howdy was seized by a sudden enthusiasm. He said, “Sing me one of your songs.”
“What?” Slim turned and looked at Howdy as if he’d passed a honeydew through one of his nostrils. “I ain’t gonna sing you a song.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Howdy urged. “Radio’s busted and I’m curious what kinda song you’d write. Maybe something about lawn and garden equipment?”
“I ain’t about to sing you a damn song.”
“I’m not asking for a love song, for Pete’s sake.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Slim said. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
Howdy shook his head. “All right then,” he said. “You want me to sing one of mine?”
“Not particularly.”
Howdy started to hum a tune anyway. After a couple of bars, Slim gave him a look like fingernails on a blackboard. That shut him up. After that, they drove along in silence for a while before Howdy put a boot up on the dash and said, “You have any idea where you’re going?”
“Yeah,” Slim said. “Away from the cops.” He glanced at the rearview mirror but failed to notice the Trans Am that had been following since they left the Settler’s Cove.
“I tell you what.” Howdy pointed ahead of them. “Take a right at the light up there.”
“Where we going?”
“Place called Lucky’s,” Howdy said. “Good pulled pork and cold beer at a fair price. You hungry?”
“I guess.”
“Me too.”
Slim pulled into the parking lot underneath a flickering sign with two neon cowboy boots and a pair of tumbling dice that rolled out to snake eyes. Slim looked at the losing roll, then turned to Howdy and said, “Lucky’s?”
Howdy shrugged as he walked past Slim. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “Maybe they’re being ironic.” He held the door open. “After you.” Like he was the maître d’.
“That’s all right,” Slim said. “You go ahead.”
As they stood at the door, neither of them gave any thought to the car pulling into the parking lot behind them. If they had, they might have noticed the girls inside giggling and slipping jeans over their bathing suits.
6
SLIM AND HOWDY WERE LEANING WITH THEIR BACKS against the bar, drinking beer, waiting for their food. George Jones was on the jukebox covering Haggard, a tune about a guitar player working the Holiday Inn in downtown Modesto. Yeah, Slim thought. Been there. Done that.
It was a slow night, maybe a couple dozen customers in the place, mostly couples, mostly happy. But there were a few in there by themselves, heartbreak written all over their faces, hunkered over their doubles, wishing things had turned out different. Man at the end of the bar, for example, sorry he’d cheated on his wife. Even sorrier he got caught. Kept telling himself she’d be back, and each drink made that seem more likely. Then there was the old guy in the booth in the back mumbling under his breath about not having that kind of money and cursing the Cowboys ’cause they didn’t cover the spread. Again. “Go on,” he mumbled. “Break my damn leg. See if I care.”
These were the people Slim couldn’t help but notice. Hard-luck cases and those prone to making bad choices. Sad faces and tragic lives. People who needed praying for ’cause they didn’t have a prayer to begin with. Things you could write songs about. It was a honky-tonk truth: heartbreak came by the case in a place like this.
Just then, an old B.W. Stevenson song came on the jukebox. The catchy up-tempo melody pulled Slim out of the dark and he started to hum along.
“That’s a good song,” Howdy said. Then, singing, “She takes my blues away.”
“Always liked it.” Slim nodded. “ ‘Shambala’ too.”
That’s when the two girls blew through the door like TNT, their hips swinging like church bells in the tower. Everybody looked up for a moment. Howdy nudged his new pal and said, “Well now, maybe this is why they call it Lucky’s.”
Howdy didn’t recognize them as the girls sitting by the pool at the Settler’s Cove. He’d only seen them from a distance then, with their hair tucked under baseball caps and those skimpy two-piece suits that would barely cover two big apples and a slice of pie. And, truth be told, he hadn’t been studying their faces at the time.
Slim had been so focused on getting his guitar back that he couldn’t have said whether the apartment complex even had a pool, so, as far as he was concerned, they were just two gals who, in the dim light, weren’t out of the question.
One was blonde, the other chestnut. They looked a little old for their age, which appeared to be midtwenties. If you were a betting man, like the guy in the back booth, you wouldn’t put money on either one being a debutante or a recent pledge for Kappa Kappa Gamma. Both wore tight low-riding jeans and s
kimpy half-shirts that revealed pierced belly buttons, little muffin tops, and those sexy little tattoos in the smalls of their backs.
“It’s like a welcome mat,” Howdy said wistfully.
Slim gave a derisive snort at that. “Just ’cause a girl’s got a tattoo there doesn’t mean she wants to have sex with you.”
Howdy peered out from underneath his hat with a look he reserved for those who just tumbled off the turnip truck. “Slim,” he said, “there’s an arrow pointing right down the middle there, underneath where it says ‘Visitors Welcome.’”
Slim took a closer look. “Not on both of them.”
“No,” Howdy said. “You’re right. The other one’s with the Sisters of Mercy.”
Actually not. Tammy, it turned out, had done a short stint one time for check kiting. Crystal, for felony shoplifting. In fact the two of them had met while taking advantage of the hospitality at the East Texas Correctional Institution for Women. But that was a few years back and neither had been caught doing anything lately. Didn’t even have a current parole officer.
“These two look right up our alley,” Howdy said. “In fact, the one with that little turned-up nose has the potential to be my next broken heart. What do you say we buy ’em a round?”
Slim looked like the idea had crossed his mind first and was about to weigh in on the subject. But that’s when the bartender delivered the pulled pork sandwiches, distracting Slim with the aroma. He was hungrier than he thought. “Lemme have another beer,” he said, turning around, belly to the bar.
“Make it two.” When they got their bottles, Howdy held his up for a toast. “Here’s to gettin’ your guitar back.”
The girls got a pitcher of beer and shot some pool while the boys ate. When Crystal went to the jukebox, Tammy hollered, “Play something country!” And she did. And for the next fifteen minutes there were lots of exchanged glances, coy smiles, and the occasional wink. At one point, as Tammy lined up the eight ball in the far corner pocket, Howdy ducked his head toward Slim and said, “Is it my imagination or do they both seem to take a lot of shots requiring them to bend over that way?” He shook his head and almost whispered, “Bless their hearts.”
The Adventures of Slim & Howdy Page 2