The Adventures of Slim & Howdy

by Kix Brooks; Ronnie Dunn; Bill Fitzhugh

  The horn started to sound. This was followed a second later by a couple more shots.

  On the street out in front, Slim said, “That sound like a .32 or a .45?”

  Howdy got in the truck and started the engine. “More like a .32,” he said.

  “Either way, I guess they’re all right now.”

  Howdy nodded. “Shame to wreck that Trans Am though,” he said as he put the truck in gear. “On the way out here, I got that puppy down a quarter mile in fifteen flat.”

  9

  HOWDY WOKE UP THINKING ABOUT HOW NICE IT WOULD HAVE been to spend the night with Crystal or, lacking that, just to have spent the night in a bed that wasn’t the back end of a pickup truck. As it was, he felt like he’d been trampled by a bull and pinned against a fence.

  Stiff, sore, and hungry, he sniffed the air and caught the scent of coffee brewing, so things weren’t all bad.

  Howdy lifted the black Resistol from his face and squinted against the early-morning sun. He rubbed his mustache, then propped himself on an elbow and peered over the side of the truck, clearing his throat in the process.

  “Got coffee if you want it,” Slim said without bothering to turn around. He was sitting on a log by the fire pit, a good bed of coals heating a percolating coffeepot.

  Howdy said, “How ’bout three scrambled with bacon, toast, and hash browns?”

  Now Slim turned around, aimed his dark glasses at Howdy, and, without a trace of humor in his voice, said, “This look like a Waffle Ho to you?”

  Howdy had to admit it looked more like a campsite at the Village Creek State Park which is where they’d spent the night. It was about ten miles north of Beaumont, in the middle of nine hundred acres of dense bottomland forest and a fine float stream smack in the middle of what’s left of the Old Texas Big Thicket.

  Howdy put his boots on and slid out the back of the truck where he stretched a bit while glancing around at the noisy woods. Willows, beech, black gum, and oaks filled with chatty bluebirds and woodland warblers, while woodpeckers machine-gunned at the bark of evergreen pines. He took a deep breath, savoring the smell. Olfactory memories of days spent in the north Louisiana woods where he used to hunt and hike with his dad and his cousins.

  “Be right back,” Howdy said as he wandered off. “Gotta check the timber, as they say.” He came back a minute later, sat down on a stump opposite Slim, and poured some coffee. He tipped his cup in a show of gratitude.

  The inscrutable Slim, always lurking behind his shades, gave a slight nod that seemed to say, “No problem.” Slim sipped his coffee, sitting quietly, looking off toward the horizon, occasionally combing his fingers through his goatee while grooming the edges with his tongue and lips. After a minute, he pointed off in the direction opposite of where Howdy had come from and said, “For future reference, there’s a proper restroom over there.”

  Howdy looked where Slim had pointed. “Sure enough,” he said, wondering why Slim hadn’t bothered to say something about it earlier.

  Another five minutes passed where the only sounds in the camp came from the birds or the fire, snapping and cracking after Slim laid on some fresh dry wood.

  At one point Howdy glanced at Slim’s sleeping bag, rolled up next to him, all ready to go, as if he had a notion of where he was going. Howdy thought back on their late-night shopping spree after leaving Black Tony’s House o’ Stolen Goods.

  They got to the Wal-Mart just as it was closing. The manager, an efficient-looking girl by the name of Dee who displayed a fondness for mascara and hair coloring products, was in the process of locking the door when—much to Howdy’s surprise—Slim opened up a six-pack of sweet talk that got ’em into the store for two sleeping bags, the graniteware percolating coffeepot, a couple of tin cups, and a half a sack of groceries.

  Howdy let out a chuckle.

  Slim said, “What’s so funny?”

  “I was thinking about how you smooth-talked Dee at the Wal-Mart last night,” Howdy said. “You don’t say much, but when you do, I swear, I bet you could talk a priest off an altar boy.”

  Slim just lifted his cup and sipped his coffee, not arguing the point and not showing the slightest interest in having a discussion about it. He maybe gave a nod, it was hard to say for sure. He knew he had a silver tongue, just didn’t see any point in bragging on it. Just a gift.

  Slim’s reticence wasn’t enough to quiet Howdy. Apparently it only took one cup of coffee to get his motor going, at least the one for his mouth. He shook his head wistfully. “Yeah, you know, I sure wish Black Tony could’ve waited another five minutes before showing up last night,” Howdy said, his nod inviting agreement. “That Crystal was just starting to get enthusiastic.” He cocked a dark eyebrow and looked over at Slim to see if he would engage in a smutty conversation.

  Slim showed no signs.

  Howdy decided to change tack, trying to get his new friend to open up a bit. He bent his torso left and right and stretched like he was warming up to run a mile or something, grimacing as he worked the sore from his muscles. After a minute of this he said, “You know, I think if I had it all to do over again, I woulda got one of those sleeping pads at the Wal-Mart. Bed of the truck ain’t exactly a Spring Air mattress.” He gestured at the ground. “How about you? You sleep out here?”

  Slim tossed the last trace of coffee from his cup. “Started in the cab,” he said, shaking his head. “Wasn’t long enough.” He stood up, six feet and change, damn near gangly. He gave Howdy the once-over and gestured at him with his cup, saying, “Probably be all right for somebody your size though.”

  Howdy made a show of looking down at himself, as if to see if he’d shrunk or something overnight. The snarky comment had taken him by surprise, but he decided to let it slide.

  Slim grabbed his sleeping bag and tossed it in the back of the truck next to Howdy’s saddle. “You about ready to go?”

  Howdy poured himself another cup of coffee and said, “What’s your hurry? Have another cup.” He motioned at the log where Slim had been sitting. “I was just thinking, with all the fun we had last night, we didn’t get a chance to find out much about each other.”

  “So?” Slim checked his goatee in the truck’s side mirror. “We ain’t datin’.”

  “No.” Howdy shrugged. “But I figure we’re going to be running together, we oughta get to know each other, at least a little. You know, get our story straight if it comes to that.”

  “Listen,” Slim said. “I’ve known you for all of what, eighteen hours? All the sudden you want me to start divulging personal details of my life? Bare my soul like you’re Oprah or something?” He shook his head.

  “Okay,” Howdy said, pointing at Slim. “You’re not a morning person. See? That’s a start. Getting to know each other already. And I know you make a decent cup of coffee.” He held his up in the air as proof. “So, you know, like, I’m from Shreveport, how about you? You wanted in any of the lower forty-eight?”

  Slim was still shaking his head. “I’m startin’ to think this was a bad idea.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Howdy said. “If the last eighteen hours ain’t the most fun you’ve had in a long time, I sure want to hear about your week.”

  Slim folded his arms over his chest, leaned against the truck, and said, “Nearly getting killed is your idea of fun?”

  “Hell no,” Howdy said. “Crystal was my idea of fun. All the shooting and running around just added to the excitement, that’s all.” He pointed an imaginary gun at Slim and said, “I learned the hard way that gettin’ shot is something you want to avoid, if you can. But gettin’ shot at is pretty damn excitin’. I mean, that’s the sort of experience can lead to a good song.” His eyes got big and he pointed at Slim. “Hey! ‘The Ballad of Black Tony,’” he said, all excited as he unsnapped his shirt pocket. He pulled out a little spiral notepad and a stubby pencil, like one stolen from a putt-putt golf course. “There’s something there, don’t you think?” He wrote it down. “‘Ballad . . . of . . . Black
. . . Tony.’” He looked up, wagging the little spiral pad for Slim to see. “Song ideas.”

  “No kidding.” Slim was starting to wonder if this guy had escaped from the Louisiana Laughing Academy. “Are you crazy?” Not that he expected a crazy person’s answer to make much sense.

  Howdy smiled. “Let’s just say I got a wild side.” He paused as a thought came to him. “Hang on.” He touched the tip of the stubby pencil to his tongue and wrote on the pad. “‘Got . . . a wild . . . side’ . . .” He looked off in the trees for a second, then continued. “‘Just . . . about . . . a country . . . mile . . . wide.’” He stabbed the pencil at the page. “Hey! That’s good. I’m on a roll.”

  “You’re a regular Hank Williams,” Slim said as he picked up the coffeepot and started kicking dirt on the fire. “Let’s hit the road.”

  “Fine by me.” Howdy dumped the rest of his coffee on the coals, then went to the truck, rolled up his sleeping bag, slammed the gate. Then he said, “All right, what’s the plan?”

  Slim paused. “Don’t really have one,” he admitted. “Nothing specific, anyway.”

  Howdy nodded. “I don’t guess either one of us has any specifics,” he said. “But generally speaking, I know you got a plan of some sort.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you drove across Texas to get your guitar,” Howdy said. “Not only that, but you knew you’d have to deal with that lunatic when you got there and that didn’t stop you. Then you sold your car, instead of the instrument, so I’m guessing that means something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re not aiming to be a doctor or a lawyer or the manager of a Waffle House,” Howdy said. “Like you want to be a singer, songwriter, picker, something. Stop me if I’m way off track here, but it seems clear enough that neither one of us wants to spend the rest of our days hanging Sheetrock or pouring concrete.”

  “Nothing wrong with those jobs,” Slim said, like he was a little insulted by the comment. “I’ve done ’em both.”

  “Hell, me too,” Howdy said. “That’s how I know I don’t wanna spend my life doing it. Hell, I can ride, rope, hammer, and paint with the best of ’em, but I know I’d rather earn a living with my music. I’d rather call a honky-tonk my office and have my workday start at night.” Howdy seemed to startle himself with that little nugget. He pulled out his pad again and wrote it down. “‘Call . . . a honky . . . tonk . . . office . . . work . . . day . . . start . . . at . . . night.’” He stabbed the page with the pencil.

  He looked at Slim, wagging the notebook as he said, “Ain’t nobody gonna be discovered while nailing shingles on somebody’s roof. You gotta get out there,” he said with a sweeping gesture at the rest of America. “You gotta get out there and do your thing. Put your stuff out on the front porch where folks can see it. Get up on a stage somewhere and sing, show ’em what you can do. Tell ’em what’s in your heart. Then you at least got a chance.”

  Howdy shook his head a little and reset his voice before continuing his sermon. “I got this buddy back home, plays guitar, says he wants to make records. But he won’t quit his day job, won’t take that chance, won’t put himself on the line. Refuses to gamble with his life. Just gonna play it safe. I guess he expects somebody’s somehow gonna hear how good he is and come knockin’ on his front door, offerin’ him a record contract, I don’t know. But my point is, that’s why I was going to sell my truck instead of my guitar, same as you. Next thing, if I have to, I’ll sell that saddle of mine, but I’m keeping the Gibson. I’ll busk on the sidewalk for change until somebody hires me to play indoors, but at least I’m gonna get out there and see if I can’t make it happen. You know? Can’t be waitin’ for somebody to do it for you.”

  Slim stared at Howdy for a moment waiting to see if he was through talking. Then he said, “You ain’t got to the plan part yet, have you? Or did I miss it?”

  Howdy smiled and said, “I know a guy in Fort Worth. Heard he might be lookin’ for a singer or two.” He turned to head for the driver’s side.

  Slim stopped him, held out his hand for the keys. “My turn to drive.”

  10

  BRUSHFIRE BOONE TATE WAS PRESENTLY STEWING IN THE Beaumont city jail, a place that smells about how you think it would, maybe a little worse. By now Boone had been there long enough that he stopped noticing. Or if he noticed, he’d stopped caring, as he had more important things to think about.

  He was still waiting to hear back from his bail bondsman. There seemed to be a holdup. Something about credit problems. Something that might leave him in jail indefinitely.

  And all this thanks to those two cowboys. Shady Slim and his trigger-happy chum.

  What happened is that shortly after Slim and Howdy left the apartment, it had been Boone’s bad luck that the cops who responded to the shooting went to the trouble of running his name through their system. Not surprisingly, perhaps, there was a warrant for his arrest for having failed to appear in court the day he was supposed to answer a charge of simple assault stemming from an incident at a local strip joint six months earlier.

  As the cops led Boone away in handcuffs, he was heard saying, “You’re arresting me? What about those damn cowboys shot my fridge?”

  Adding insult to injury, Boone knew that even if he made bail, he wouldn’t have enough money left for so much as a bus ride home. And, topping it off, Boone knew from experience that he could stand by the side of the road with his thumb in the air all day long and no one was going to stop to pick up anybody as damaged looking as him. In other words, even if he got out, he was walking all the way home.

  All thanks to Slim and Howdy.

  For the past fourteen hours, Boone had been thinking hard about what he was going to do when he got out, if he got out. He wasn’t the kind of man to live and let live or turn the other cheek. He was more the eye-for-an-eye type. Didn’t care who got blinded, long as he wasn’t the only one. He wanted payback.

  Unfortunately Boone presently lacked the information, resources, and freedom necessary to set straight out after those two assholes that put him in jail.

  So he just sat there, stewing on it, hour after hour.

  11

  “WHERE’RE YOU GOING?” HOWDY ASKED, AS HE PULLED THE radar detector from the box. “I-10’s back that way.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “You just shoot down to Houston, then hop I-45 up toward the I-20 loop around Dallas, take that over to Fort Worth.” He clapped his hands once and pointed straight ahead like he’d sealed the deal.

  “That’s one way to do it,” Slim said, as he shook his head. “But we’re taking old 69 up to Lufkin and Athens and that route.”

  “You’re crazy. That’s two-lane the whole way. It’ll take twice as long.”

  “I’m crazy? You want me to go south so we can turn around and go north.”

  “Houston’s west of here,” Howdy said.

  “Southwest.”

  “Okay, fine, southwest, but at least you’re on the interstate doing seventy or eighty.” He held up the Viper RX-650. “What’s the point in having a radar detector if you—”

  “Look,” Slim said. “When it’s your turn, you can drive backwards at a hundred’n ten for all I care. But right now, I’m driving.”

  Howdy threw up his hands and tried to keep his mouth shut. Problem was, he had pretty definite opinions about the proper way to steer, accelerate, brake, pass, and signal. It took only about twenty miles for Howdy to discover that Slim shared not a single one of these opinions, and it damn near drove both of them crazy.

  Howdy kept leaning over to look at the speedometer, telling Slim he could probably get away with eight over the speed limit instead of just the five he was doing and that he didn’t need to keep four full car lengths between the truck and whoever got in front of them. “That just invites people to pass you,” Howdy said. “And then they get in that space you left and then you have to back off some more and next thing you know, hell, we’re going backwards.
”

  “Nobody asked you,” Slim said.

  Howdy held up a hand. “Just trying to help.” He got quiet for a couple of miles before he resumed his suggestions about when to pass and how to tell if another driver was going to make a turn without benefit of a signal. “It’s all about their body language,” Howdy explained. “That slight glance to the mirror as they decelerate but before you see any brake lights. And keep your eyes on their hands, they’ll reposition ’em on the wheel—”

  “I tell you what,” Slim interrupted. “When we get to Fort Worth, you can open a damn driving school. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d just . . . shut . . . up.”

  Howdy was surprised by the depth of Slim’s ingratitude and insulted by his disinclination to embrace all of his observations and suggestions. It got his blood up to the point he was tempted to compare Slim’s driving skills to those of his own beloved grandmother who was eighty-three, half-blind, and timid to begin with, but, being the accommodating soul that he was and not wanting to get off on a bad foot, Howdy just pulled out his lyric pad and started working on rhyming the name Tony.

  Slim observed the technique out of the corner of his eye. Howdy would kind of look up at the roof of the cab and mumble possibilities. “Bony . . . phony . . . pony . . . macaroni.” Then he’d get quiet for a few minutes before trying something else. “Crystal . . . distal . . .-distal? That’s a medical term or something, innit?”

  Slim just gave him a slow sideways glance like he couldn’t believe how long it was taking him to find the word.

  Finally, Howdy blurted it out, “Pistol!” He wrote that down. “Hell, yeah. Crystal with the pistol.” Like he was the first one to think of it. For the next half hour, Howdy kept his nose stuck in that notebook, working on the narrative line for “The Ballad of Black Tony.”