The Adventures of Slim & Howdy

by Kix Brooks; Ronnie Dunn; Bill Fitzhugh

  “Oh, we do?” Officer Hernandez gestured at his little rogue’s gallery. “I actually got plenty to do right now, but thanks.” He turned his attention back to his paperwork and said, “Next shift comes in at eight.”

  Slim leaned onto the desk, putting a hand over the paperwork. He said, “Look, Slick, this could be assault, kidnapping, rape, and/or murder.”

  That last word brought Rosy back to life. Her head hit the wall behind her when she lifted it up to say, “I told Antwan, I said, I’ll kill that scumbag he ever try that again. Ain’t nobody gonna pull that shit on Rosy. Noooo.” She paused for a moment then nudged the drunk sitting next to her. “Hey, honey, you want a date? Rosy’s the best in town.”

  “Rosy, shut up!” Officer Hernandez looked at Slim, reluctantly asking for more details on the crime. When they finished telling the story and all the evidence was sitting on the desk, the cop said, “That’s it?” He poked at the broken necklace. “You found some jewelry on the ground.”

  “And the cell phone,” Slim said, pointing.

  “In the century plant.”

  “Right.”

  “Plus the weird phone call,” Howdy said.

  “Right,” Officer Hernandez said. “But no witnesses to anything.”

  “Nope.”

  “No blood?”

  “It’s dark over there.”

  “I thought you said you had flashlights.”

  “We do, but . . .”

  “All right, and you say there’s no body.”

  “If we had a body,” Howdy said, “we could rule out kidnapping, now couldn’t we?”

  Officer Hernandez glared at the sarcastic cowboy with the black hat and said, “I tell you what, Sherlock, you’re so damn smart, you can solve your own crime.” He put the form back in the pile whence it came, looked up, and said, “I can’t help ya.”

  “What?”

  “Why?”

  “You mean other than the fact that there’s no evidence of a crime?”

  Rosy turned to the teenage runaway and said, “That’s what I keep saying. Where’s the crime? Ain’t no eva-dence against me, ’cause I wasn’t nowhere near there when it happened.”

  Along with a whiff of Rosy’s breath, the sullen teenager caught a glimpse of his future and the kind of people he’d be rubbing shoulders with if he didn’t get his act together. Years from now he would look back at this moment as the turning point in his life. But that’s another story.

  Howdy gestured roundly at the desktop as if it were covered with fingerprints, shell casings, and a half pound of DNA. He said, “Whaddya mean, no evidence?”

  “What you have here is some jewelry and a cell phone,” Hernandez said. “What you don’t have is a compelling reason for us to act.”

  Slim held his hands out in disbelief. “What part of this don’t you understand?”

  “Look, Slick,” Officer Hernandez said, throwing it back at Slim. “In our experience, very few missing adults are the victims of foul play. They mostly disappear on purpose. Besides—and this is something you need to know—being missing ain’t a crime. For all I know she’s trying to get away from you two for good reason.”

  After having given it some thought, one of the drunks looked over at Rosy and said, “Tell you what, how about a free sample? It’s good as you say, you get all my business.”

  Rosy’s head popped back again, hitting the wall. “I’ll give you the business, all right,” she said. “But not for free. You just wait till Antwan gets here. He’ll show you what’s free.”

  “Oh, c’mon, how ’bout just a Dirty Sanchez?”

  “No!”

  Officer Hernandez ignored the negotiations and pointed at Slim. “This woman who’s missing, she your girlfriend?”

  “No,” Slim said. “I work for her.”

  “I’ll be your girlfriend,” Rosy said with a nod. “Do whatever you want. Best in town.”

  This time Howdy turned around and said, “Hey, Rosy? Shut up.”

  The drunk lowered his voice, nudged Rosy, and said, “What about uh Alabama Tight Spot?”

  She just shook her head.

  “A Toothless Tiger?”

  As the drunk continued down the menu, Officer Hernandez sat back in his chair, scratched the side of his neck, then pointed at Slim and said, “Yeah, I’m thinking you’re the boyfriend, gave her the necklace, y’all had a fight, she tore off the jewelry, threw it at you along with the phone. Now you’re all pissed off and you and your buddy want us to help you find her. Something like that.”

  This bit of deductive reasoning took Howdy past the end of his rope. He looked at Slim and said, “What’s the penalty for assaulting a police officer in Texas?”

  Before anybody could address the question, the electronic door chime sounded again and everybody turned to see who it was. He was a mean-looking mutt in a shiny suit, closer to purple than anything else, with a wide-brimmed fedora that actually matched. No surprise, the man seemed completely unconcerned that he might be perpetuating stereotypes.

  Rosy rattled her handcuffs and tried to stand as she called out, “Antwan! It’s about damn time you got here.”

  “Shut up, bitch!” Antwan glared at Officer Hernandez. “Lemme ask you,” he said. “How’s a man supposed to make a living, you keep draggin’ his hos in here for no reason? Huh? Hard enough out there for a pimp as it is. I pay you people good money to let these girls be. Now unlock those cuffs,” he said, pointing at Rosy, “so I can put this thing back to work.” He sucked on the toothpick stuck off to the side and pulled his jacket back so they could all see his gun. “I ain’t messin’ around, now. ”

  Howdy, who was having a hard time believing a man would be seen wearing a suit like that, said, “Yo, Huggy Bear, we got here first. Wait your turn.”

  Antwan turned his attention to the cat in the cowboy hat. “Yo, Cisco Kid, you best keep yo’ punk-ass mouth shut till I get my business done.”

  Slim stopped Howdy from bull-rushing the pimp, then he pulled the .22. “Like my friend said, wait your turn.”

  Antwan didn’t hesitate. He went for his gun in a flourish of purple.

  The sudden shot surprised everybody in the room, but none more than Antwan, who hit the floor with his gun still in his waistband. “Sonofamutharatbastardshiteatingoddaaaaam that hurts like a muthasonofaawwww.” He stopped cursing eventually and lay on the floor moaning, blood pooling around his foot.

  Howdy stepped over to where Antwan was squirming around on the linoleum clutching at his leg. “You shot yourself, you dumb bastard.” Howdy pulled the gun from the pimp’s waistband and glanced at the man’s bloody boot. “Looks like you took off a toe.”

  “Shoot him again,” Rosy said. “Higher.”

  Officer Hernandez slapped his desktop. “Goddammit, Rosy, shut up!” He got on the radio and called for an ambulance. “It’s gonna take me all night to do the paperwork on this.”

  The pool of blood gathering around Antwan’s foot was more than one of the drunks could take. He leaned forward and heaved a quart or so of fortified wine and what might have been a couple of tacos. It was hard to say for sure.

  Howdy stepped back, wincing, and put Antwan’s gun on Hernandez’s desk. He nudged Slim and said, “Let’s go.”

  Hernandez, who couldn’t believe how his night had gone so quickly from bad to worse, said, “Where you two think you’re going? You’re witnesses.”

  “I didn’t see shit,” Howdy said. “And my buddy here is blind.”

  “That’s right,” Slim said, putting his sunglasses on. “Besides, we gotta go solve a crime.”

  39

  IT SEEMED LIKE EVERY FEW HOURS JODIE WOULD REGAIN enough consciousness to remember another detail, however fuzzy. It was like trying to work a jigsaw puzzle in the dark without knowing what the image was supposed to be. The whole thing lacked context. She’d try to fit the new piece into the puzzle before the guy lumbered into the room and sent her reeling off again.

  She wondered how
many times that had happened, let alone why.

  Time and again she found herself in a murky area where she wondered if she was dreaming, and then she wondered if she could wonder if she was dreaming in her dreams. And she tried to pinch herself, but nothing changed because you can pinch yourself in your dreams too. At least that’s how it seemed.

  She was almost home. No, she was there. In her yard. Her head hurt. Was she in the bathtub when it happened? No, never got that far. She was on the way.

  It was always dark. It felt like she was trying to put a stained-glass mural together with a few shards from a Coke bottle. She was never clearheaded enough to use the materials she had, and they were inadequate anyway.

  He was big. Masked. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. Came from behind her with surprising quickness. Standard nightmare stuff. Grabbed at her, but she dodged that first one. He kept coming. Determined. Something in his hand. Not a gun or knife. Nothing metal. Soft. White.

  What happened to her gun? He must have known about it somehow. Did he take it at some point? Must have. Not a clue. Unless this was a dream and she didn’t have the gun in her dream.

  But her necklace. She had that in the dream. Broken, spilled on the ground. So why not the gun? She gave up on that. Might as well ask why can you fly sometimes in your dreams. But not always.

  Tried to call for help. Made sense. Had the phone out. Managed to push a button. Hoped it was redial. All the while trying to dodge her attacker and the century plant and the cacti in the yard. He finally got a hold on her. He was angry. That’s why her shoulder hurt so bad. He just grabbed her and gave her a punch. More like he wanted to than needed to.

  She was kidnapped? Really? She was clear enough to wonder why anyone would want to kidnap her.

  He got her. A vice grip. Too strong to escape. Then that punch. Twice her size, or so it seemed. The white thing in his hand over her mouth. Soft cloth soaked in something. Struggle became useless. She was a rag doll. Game over.

  Regained semiconsciousness in the dark more than once, but how many more? Hands tied. The big guy, again with the smelly cloth. Then gently, back to sleep.

  40

  SLIM AND HOWDY LEFT OFFICER HERNANDEZ TO MOP UP after Antwan and the heaving drunk. They spent the rest of the night repeating their story to the folks at the Val Verde sheriff’s station, the Texas State Trooper headquarters, the Texas Rangers’ station, and the Border Patrol.

  None of whom did squat.

  The sheriff and the state troopers said it wasn’t unusual, let alone illegal, for a woman to get mad and go off without telling anybody where she was going. The Rangers and the Border Patrol said even if a crime had been committed, it was out of their jurisdiction. And, although neither Slim nor Howdy asked their opinions, the Rangers and Border Patrol guys said they had to agree with the assessment of the sheriff and the state troopers about the way women act.

  Slim and Howdy returned to the Lost and Found around dawn, bewildered and disappointed by their inability to spur the local constabulary to action. Their expressions were as grim as their moods. Neither of them wanted to say it out loud, but both were thinking the same awful thing. If Jodie was still alive, she was probably being put through hell. But there was the real possibility that she might already be dead. Either way, they figured it was up to them to do something about it. They weren’t sure what, but they couldn’t just sit around doing nothing.

  They left a message on Grady’s voice mail, then looked through Jodie’s office until they found Uncle Roy’s address. They grabbed some breakfast to go, two large coffees each, then returned to Jodie’s house to see if they’d missed anything. They found another piece of the necklace but otherwise came up empty, so they went to see Uncle Roy.

  He lived on the outskirts of South Del Rio in a sprawling old-style ranch hacienda built in the 1930s when it was the main house for a two-hundred-thousand-acre cattle ranch. Uncle Roy bought the property thirty years ago, after previous owners had sold off all but seven acres. But the house, surrounded by a tall adobe wall topped with shards of glass, was a thing to see.

  As they cruised up the long, cactus-lined driveway, Slim said, “Nice place.”

  “Yeah,” Howdy agreed. “The wages of sin look like they’re pretty good in this part of Texas.” As they approached the apex of the circular drive, Howdy pointed at the four men who were already approaching the truck. “You think that’s valet parking?”

  “Kind of doubt it,” Slim said.

  The moment Howdy put it in park, the security guards pulled them out and frisked them. “Gun,” one of them said when he found the .22. “But not much of one.”

  After explaining who they were and why they were there, Slim and Howdy were escorted into a vast living room. It looked like a museum of the old Southwest, the walls lined with an astounding collection of weapons, saddlery, and artwork.

  Howdy was drawn to a glass case featuring a pair of silver-overlay, drop-shank spurs of the old California style, with heel chains and large snake-and-eagle conchos on the straps. Across the room, Slim admired a parade saddle with a thousand silver mountings, matching headstall, reins, breast collar, full-length serape, rump cover, and a silver-mounted bit.

  Slim and Howdy looked up a moment later when the large wooden doors at the far end of the room swung open. The man who came in was the last of a dying breed, like one of the antiques on display. He was a tough-looking old coot, short and bristly, with an expression about as welcoming as barbed-wire. His gait was hobbled, pain in every step. Bad knees, bowed legs, ruined hips, and too much pride for a wheelchair or even a cane.

  Underneath his silver belly hat was a face that looked like it had been carved from old boot leather. He had their .22 in his hand. He set it on a table.

  “I’m Roy Hobbs,” he said, his voice craggy as his face. “What’s this about my Jodie?”

  “Sorry about the hour,” Howdy said.

  “Been up since five,” Roy replied, tapping an unfiltered cigarette from a pack. “Ain’t got much time left, don’t see any point in sleeping it away.”

  “Yes, sir.” Slim and Howdy crossed the room to introduce themselves. “Mr. Hobbs, I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Roy said, lighting the cigarette. “Duke told me about that night at the Lost and Found when one of you took his gun.”

  “That was me,” Howdy said. “I didn’t know he was supposed to be there.”

  Uncle Roy blew a cloud of smoke and waved off Howdy’s concern. “Hell, I was glad to hear you did it,” he said, gesturing for them to sit. “Now, what’s this about Jodie?”

  They told him the whole story, from the odd phone call to all the cops refusing to help. Roy was quick to agree that there was something wrong with the picture. Then he fell silent, looking off to one side, his thoughts running while the cigarette smoke curled around his gnarled right hand.

  Howdy tried, but Roy Hobbs was a hard man to read. Despite his current wealth, he had a lot of tough years and lean times etched in his face. He looked like a man prone to expecting the worst and all too often having those expectations met. At the same time, he looked like the sort of man who would put up a fight for things he cared about without concern for the odds.

  After a minute, Uncle Roy let out a sigh and said the words neither Slim nor Howdy wanted to. “Seems like there’s two possibilities,” he said, his eyes cutting back and forth between his two visitors. “She’s either dead or somebody’s kidnapped her and she ain’t dead. At least not yet.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slim said. “I think that’s about it.”

  “If it’s some psychopath, you know, some damn serial killer, like that one up in Juarez a couple of years ago—what’d they call him, the Campo Algodonero Killer? Dumped all those girls’ bodies in that cotton field . . . If it’s something like that, there’s nothing to do,” Uncle Roy said. “Her body’ll surface sooner or later and then all that’s left is huntin’ down the animal and killing it.” He looked at his cigarette and said, “But if
she’s been kidnapped and she’s still alive, there’s a possibility it’s somebody she knows. Somebody she pissed off. And that’s somebody we might be able to track down.”

  Slim turned slowly to look at Howdy. He said, “Link.” Howdy nodded.

  Roy looked up at them. “Link? What do you mean, link?”

  “A guy she fired last week,” Howdy said. “Big scary-looking sumbitch, calls himself Link. She caught him stealing, had to let him go.”

  “At gunpoint,” Slim added.

  “It’s a place to start,” Roy said with a nod. “You know where to find him?”

  “I suspect we can find out,” Slim said. “Bound to have an address in the office.”

  As Uncle Roy stubbed his cigarette out in a standing ashtray, he studied Howdy. “Son, you look like you got something to add. Spit it out.”

  “All right,” Howdy said. “I’m wondering if you can think of anybody might be pissed off at you. Somebody you, uh, do business with.”

  Roy nodded his head slowly as if the thought had crossed his mind already. He said, “What’d Jodie tell you about my business?”

  “Not much,” Slim said. “But that was enough.”

  “Look, we ain’t got time to be coy about this,” Howdy said. “Your man Duke collects an envelope of cash every night. But that ain’t near enough to pay for this hacienda. Doesn’t take a trained investigator to figure you for a man with a wide variety of business concerns, most of which are not openly discussed at chamber of commerce meetings. I figure you do some importing, some retailing, maybe some wholesaling. In other words, you’re the guy in this neck of the woods who provides the sorts of products and services that a lot of people want but can’t say they want to be legal.”

  “That about sums it up,” Roy said.

  Howdy looked Roy in the eyes, said, “And that means you deal with folks in some of the darker corners of Val Verde County. So I’m just asking if you can think of anybody who might try to get to you, using Jodie as leverage.”