The Adventures of Slim & Howdy

by Kix Brooks; Ronnie Dunn; Bill Fitzhugh

  Slim, meanwhile, seemed lost in thought, as if considering one of the great truths. When Howdy finally closed his notebook, Slim said, “I been thinking.”

  “Never hurts,” Howdy replied.

  “I guess you’re about half right.”

  Howdy smiled, glad to see Slim had finally come to his senses. “Hell, I’m completely right and you know it.” He grabbed the radar detector and slapped it on the dash, said, “Now we’re talking. Let’s make some time.”

  Slim shook his head. “I’m talking about what you said earlier, that I must have a plan of some sort to be in the music business.”

  “Oh, yeah, well I just had a feeling—”

  “But that’s not why I drove across Texas,” Slim said. “That Martin belonged to my dad. It means a lot to me.”

  “Well, okay.” Howdy was momentarily at a loss on how to respond to Slim’s sudden willingness to share personal information. But once he gathered his thoughts, he said, “Good to know that family’s important to you. Says a lot about a man, I think.” He waited for Slim to respond, but he didn’t. He’d said all he was going to on the subject. Once Howdy figured that out, he said, “Does this mean you’re not going to drive any faster?”

  Over the next five hours, though Slim and Howdy were both sorely tempted on several occasions, neither one of them threw a punch at the other. Slim, because he preferred keeping two hands on the wheel at all times, and Howdy because he was smart enough to recognize that rendering unconscious the driver of the vehicle in which he was riding was the fabled cutting off of one’s nose to spite one’s face.

  And his mama had taught him better’n that.

  To Howdy’s dismay, however, Slim stuck to the farm roads and the state highways and the speed limit, passing through old east Texas sawmill towns and mining communities whose promises were broken long ago, settlements that were killed when railroads or highways bypassed them or when the iron foundry turned unprofitable for one reason or another. Most of the current economy was based on the regional state hospital, a little bit of agriculture, some tourism, and naturally, the occasional bar.

  Texas, of course, has a proud tradition of dance halls, roadhouses, and honky-tonks. And the one Howdy had in mind was called the Piggin’ String, a watering hole and dance hall about halfway between downtown Fort Worth and the Texas Motor Speedway. It had been around since the early fifties and its modest stage had featured everybody from Ernest Tubb and Willie Nelson to Jerry Jeff Walker and James Hand.

  The place was owned by a former champion steer roper by the name of Skeets Duvall who found he enjoyed cold beer and country music a lot more than wrestling with rampaging bovines in sawdust soaked with horse piss. Skeets also had the good sense to recognize that he could make more money and break fewer bones as a saloon owner than a rodeo rider. And get just as many girls. What he considered a win-win.

  The Piggin’ String was in the middle of nowhere when it first opened, but eventually the city sprawl had just about moved it smack into the middle of the suburbs. The wide red-plank building looked like an old seed-and-feed store with rusty Coca-Cola and Lone Star beer signs hanging onto the exterior walls for dear life. There was still a place to tie your horse out front.

  As Slim pulled into a parking spot, Howdy eyed the key in the ignition. During the long drive he had come up with a new plan. He was thinking it would be more equitable for them to alternate based on number of miles driven instead of just every other trip. That way Howdy would get the next 350 miles. He figured he’d float the notion next time he got behind the wheel.

  12

  THEY WALKED INTO THE BAR LIKE A DANGEROUS PAIR OF cowboy gangsters, guitar cases in hand. Howdy first, all serious with his bold mustache, black Resistol, and matching duster draped over blue jeans and a work shirt. Slim followed, tall and menacing behind the dark shades, wearing his short brown leather jacket over black jeans and T-shirt with that little silver cross at the neck.

  They paused for a moment as Howdy looked around the place. Then he nudged Slim and pointed toward the old guy sitting at the end of the bar, skin like beef jerky and scars you could match to hooves, horns, and a stirrup. “That’s him,” Howdy said. “Skeets Duvall.”

  Skeets had his head down, reading the paper. His right hand rested on the bar within easy reach of an ivory-handled Colt six-shooter, an old black rotary telephone, and a glass of sweet tea.

  Howdy came to a stop and thumped the heel of his boot when he did. He dropped his voice an octave and said, “FBI, Mr. Duvall.” He paused before saying, “I ’spect you’re aware it’s unlawful to display a firearm in a public place in a manner calculated to alarm.”

  Skeets didn’t even bother to look up, just licked the tip of his index finger, flipped to the next page of the paper, and gestured at the pistol with his thumb. He said, “If this alarms you, maybe you need to go slip into a dress, missy.”

  Slim and Howdy looked at one another and laughed, causing Skeets to look up. As the two men approached, Skeets waited for some light to catch their faces. When it did, he seemed pleased enough at what he saw. “Well if it ain’t Howdy Doody and his . . . much taller friend.”

  Howdy made introductions.

  “Pleasure,” Slim said, shaking the older man’s hand. “I saw you at the Mesquite Championships when I was a kid.”

  “How’d I do?” Skeets asked.

  “The way I remember it,” Slim said. “Whoever came in second was so far back, he almost got third place.”

  Skeets slapped his hand on the bar. “Glad to hear it,” he said with a chuckle. “Ain’t no shortage of stories where I managed to embarrass myself from the back of a horse or a bull or a barstool or any number of other places, come to think of it. In fact, there was this one time . . .” Skeets paused, gestured for his bartender, held up two fingers. “Bring my friends here something cold to drink.”

  Slim and Howdy nodded their thanks and pulled up a couple of stools as Skeets proceeded to weave a wild tale that he swore took place at a rodeo near Prescott, Arizona, involving a half-pint of whiskey in his back pocket, a Brahman bull by the name of Butt Pucker, and Zippy, a capuchin monkey in a cowboy outfit who, between events, rode around the ring on the back of a Scottish sheepdog for the entertainment of the crowd. “I was done riding for the day,” Skeets said, “which explains why I was as drunk as I was. So me and some buddies was just messin’ around and one of ’em dared me to get on the back of this big damn bull sitting in a chute, everybody knew was mean and sorry as the devil.”

  “So naturally you accepted the challenge,” Slim said.

  “Hell yes,” Skeets replied. “What’s a man gonna do? I got up on top of that big SOB and he acted like I wasn’t even there. So I spurred him a couple of times, which tells you how drunk I was, but he just stood there.” Skeets shrugged and said, “Well how much fun is that? So I started to get off, when all the sudden, the show started and that dog with the monkey on his back started racing around in the ring, ole Zippy shooting his cap pistols like Buffalo Bill or somebody.”

  “Lemme guess,” Howdy said. “Old Butt Pucker spooked.”

  Skeets assumed a grave expression and said, “That he did.” Skeets laughed and said, “Busted out of the shoot with me barely hanging on like dirty laundry. That little half-pint of whiskey broke in my back pocket, I got glass chewing into my ass, I’m cussing a blue storm, and you should’ve seen the look on that monkey’s face when he saw us coming his way.” Skeets did his best capuchin monkey impression, which just about brought tears to everybody’s eyes.

  When he could talk, Howdy said, “How many stitches you get?”

  Skeets shook his head. “Damned if I remember,” he said. “But I tell you what . . .” He stood up and gripped his belt buckle as if he might drop his pants. “You want, I’ll show you the scar. Maybe you can count where the stitches were.”

  “Thanks,” Howdy said. “I’ll pass if it’s all the same to you.”

  Skeets sipped his tea and lo
oked down at the guitar cases. “So what brings you two to the Piggin’ String? You on a tour to see all your old rodeo heroes? Sing us all a song?”

  “Yeah, you bet,” Howdy said. “That and lookin’ for work.”

  Skeets scratched behind his ear and thought about it. He looked at Howdy. “You singing duets now?”

  Slim was quick to say, “Naw. We’re just traveling together.”

  Howdy added, “But I was thinking, if you had any openings we could split whatever you got.”

  “Well, the bad news,” Skeets said, “is that I got Junior Hicks and his band coming day after tomorrow for a couple of weeks. Good news is, I ain’t got nobody for the next two nights. Now I know it ain’t much . . .”

  “But we’ll take it,” Slim said.

  “Well, now, hang on.” Skeets gave his chin a rub, then pointed at Howdy. “I know from previous engagements that you can’t carry a tune in a number nine washtub. What about your friend?”

  Howdy figured it wouldn’t look too good to say he’d never heard Slim sing, so he said, “What do you care? You’re tone-deaf and everybody in this rat hole’s a drunk. Not to mention how bad the sound system and the acoustics are in this place.”

  Skeets held up a patient hand. “Sweet-talk all you want,” he said. “I still want to hear the boy sing before I commit to making both of you rich.” Skeets looked at Slim. “What do you play, son?”

  Slim pulled out his guitar, ducked his head under the strap, and gave it a strum. “What do you like?”

  Skeets smiled at that. “I like you already,” he said. “You do any Lefty Frizzell?”

  Slim nodded as he tuned one string, then another. “Let me think how this starts,” he said. After a moment he took a breath and glanced down at the fret board as his fingers started to jump like spider legs on hot strings.

  The guitar had a beautiful tone, Howdy thought. It was no wonder Slim had driven all the way across Texas to get it back.

  It took Skeets a moment before he recognized the opening guitar line, as Slim had done a sly rearrangement of the Harlan Howard/Wayne Walker classic “She’s Gone, Gone, Gone.”

  As for Howdy, he tried not to show it, but Slim’s voice hit him like a freight train flying down a track. He’d never heard anything so pure, strong, and unexpected. Warm and gold as backlit amber, honey, or something akin to the real Frizzell but with an added edge that cut clean and deep. Howdy’s reaction to the performance was electric and visceral. He wasn’t sure if it was admiration or jealousy or, more likely, some of both.

  Skeets knew he was going to hire Slim before he’d finished the first verse. But he let him sing the whole song ’cause it sounded so good. He smiled and nodded and sang along in his head until Slim hit the last note and laid his palm on the strings to still the vibration.

  Skeets held out his hand to shake. “You’re hired,” he said. “Twenty-five bucks a night, any tips you can get, plus a hamburger and beer. You can do one night each, or alternate both nights, however you want to do it.”

  Slim just gave a grateful nod. “Fair enough.”

  “Skeets, you got a deal,” Howdy said. “Now”—he leaned closer and tipped his hat toward a door at the far end of the room—“how’s the action in the back these days?”

  Skeets shook his head. “We don’t allow that sort of activity on our premises,” he said gravely. “It’s illegal, the way I understand it.” He looked at his watch. “And it usually gets started around nine.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Most likely gonna be some regulars, Charlie Pepper, Mack Osborne, ole Gutterball for sure,” Skeets said. “Last few nights, some old fella name of Dempsey Kimble’s been playing. Probably be glad to have another wallet in the game.”

  Howdy looked at Slim and said, “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll do tomorrow night if you’ll do tonight.”

  Slim didn’t care one way or the other. He shrugged and said, “Fair enough.”

  13

  THE FIRST THING HOWDY NOTICED WHEN HE WALKED INTO the back room that night was a one-eyed pit bull with a black pirate patch hiding the empty socket. The dog was strapped into some sort of leather harness that, upon closer examination, turned out to be a homemade contraption for holding the leg of an old coffee table to where the dog’s left rear wheel used to be. Judging by the happy and vigorous sounds the dog was making as he licked himself, he didn’t seem bothered by his handicaps, but it was quite a sight to see him try to scratch his ear.

  Howdy wondered if the creature had come to be in this condition as the result of a run-in with a machine of some sort or, worse, if it was the result of forced employment in a violent wagering situation, dog fighting being not entirely uncommon in this part of the world. But instead of asking a bunch of complete strangers what might be considered a rude or embarrassing question to which the answer might be a threat with a knife accompanied by a “None of your damn business,” Howdy figured he’d just wait to see if it came up in conversation, like, “Yeah, old Sparky here accidentally got tossed into the cotton gin,” the man might say. “Lucky to have any legs at all, let alone three.” Or, “That other dog just pinned him down and chewed his leg off like it was a jerky treat. Thank God I’d spread my bets around, still won a hundred bucks.”

  In any event, the dog was lying on the floor between two men. One guy, wearing full hunting camos, leaning back in his chair, talking on his cell, was patiently trying to make his point without hurting somebody’s feelings. “Now, honey,” he said, “you know she and I ain’t been divorced two weeks yet. You gotta expect I’m gone call her name out in the heat of passion now and then. It’s just natural.”

  Other side of the peg-legged pit bull was a sour-looking old coot named Dempsey Kimble, the new guy Skeets had mentioned. Cross between T. Boone Pickens and Ross Perot, with ample ears angling out from the side like fleshy little satellite dishes. Looking over the top of some funny reading glasses as he poured a shot of pure brown whiskey from a bottle he’d brought. He threw back the shot and poured another while the others talked sports, counted chips, shuffled cards, and drank their own.

  Next to him was Charlie Pepper, a big, open-faced beer drinker with a look of friendly determination about him, looked like the sort who’d plow to the end of the row every time and not expect a pat on the back for it.

  Across the table from Charlie was a fellow, early thirties, whose colorful outfit seemed geared to make a statement, though probably not the one he ended up making. His name was Ed, but everybody called him Gutterball. He was, hands down, the best bowler in the county and maybe the worst dresser, it was hard to say since there was no known way of keeping score on that. Right now he was wearing a pair of maroon parachute pants, circa 1982, red Converse All Stars, and a T-shirt featuring a Confederate flag tied on a skull like a gangsta’s do-rag. He wore a pair of wraparound gold-mirrored sunglasses and his hair was done in a classic Camaro crash helmet.

  The overall impression was that of a mutant dragonfly with a mullet.

  Howdy introduced himself to everybody and was told that the guy on the cell phone was Mack Osborne, owner of the local John Deere franchise and a man who was happily, and most likely temporarily, married to wife number four.

  A waitress came in, took drink and food orders, and said she’d be back in a few.

  Howdy set his guitar case against the wall and took a seat between Charlie Pepper and Gutterball. He looked around. The place hadn’t changed since the last time Howdy was there. It was a storeroom for everything but the liquor (Skeets being many things, but a fool not among them). Chairs were stacked up against one wall, crates of paper towels and toilet paper against another, cleaning supplies against a third. There was a cot in the back where Howdy, and a lot of other musicians before and since, had spent more than a few nights. The center of the room was cleared for the table where they played cards.

  They used to play a lot of five-card draw, seven stud, and some Omaha now and then. But these days, owing to
the popularity of the televised poker tournaments, they usually played no-limit Texas hold ’em all night long.

  “First ace deals,” Gutterball said as he flipped the cards expertly around the table. “Six . . . deuce . . . ten . . . queen . . . five.” Charlie Pepper won the deck. He shuffled. Dempsey cut. And then Charlie dealt two down to everybody.

  Conversation was lively and strayed like unfenced cattle from one subject to the next. It started with a thorough dissection of the upcoming college football season, by which most of them meant the games to be played by the Aggies and the Longhorns. But Mack Osborne, proud booster of the Horned Frogs of Texas Christian University, managed to get in a few words about their hot young redshirt quarterback.

  Howdy looked at his hole cards. Ten and jack of diamonds. He checked to Gutterball, who opened for twenty. Mack, Dempsey, Charlie, and Howdy called the bet.

  After the flop and the turn, the best Howdy could put together was an outside straight. But he needed a queen or a seven. Dempsey bet big. Charlie raised. Howdy called. Sure as hell, he got the queen on the river and won himself a nice pot. He won the next hand too, with a pair of eights, after he bluffed Gutterball into folding trip nines. Next hand, Howdy and Dempsey Kimble both had two pair—both queens and tens—but Howdy took the pot with an ace kicker against Dempsey’s jack high. “Easy come, easy go,” Howdy said as he raked in another pot.

  Dempsey Kimble poured another shot of whiskey, killed it, then peered over the top of his glasses and said, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.” None too friendly.

  After a while, from out in the club, they could hear Slim onstage, tuning up. Even with the sound muffled through the walls, Howdy could hear the guitar’s fine tone.

  It was Gutterball’s deal. He tossed two down for everybody and said, “It’s up to you, Mack.”

  Out in the main room, Skeets came over the sound system, told everybody to give a warm Piggin’ String welcome, which they did. It sounded like a pretty good crowd out there too.