The Adventures of Slim & Howdy (2 page)

4

AS THEY EASED OUT OF RED’S USED CARS, HOWDY SAID,
“Where to?”

Slim pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and pointed up the road. “I gotta see a guy about something.”

“Okay,” Howdy said, putting the truck in gear. “But I was thinking more about the long term. You know, hopes, dreams, aspirations, destinations. That sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Slim said. “That’ll have to wait till after.”

“Fine by me.”

Slim gave Howdy directions that led to the Settler’s Cove Apartments, a few miles farther on. When they got there, Howdy pulled to the curb. He leaned out the window, looking at the thirty-six units of modest floor plans, thin walls, and a place to hang your satellite dish. “Not exactly my cup of tea,” Howdy said. “I don’t like living so close to people that I know their TV and bathroom habits.”

As Slim got out of the truck he said, “Nobody’s asking you to move here.”

“Good point.”

It was late afternoon. A young Mexican guy wearing a two-tone straw cowboy hat was cutting the grass around the complex.

As they headed down the sidewalk, Howdy kept up a steady stream of small talk, trying to pry a few words from his new pal. He nodded at the guy pushing the mower. “Ever do yard work for a living?”

“Yep.”

“Me too,” Howdy said. “Longest summer of my life. Tough way to make the rent.” He paused to see if Slim had anything to add on the subject. He didn’t. Then Howdy said, “So, who’re we visiting?”

“A guy I know.”

Slim tended to keep his answers short, as if instructed by his attorney not to give more information than absolutely necessary. He sometimes answered Howdy’s question with one of his own.

Like when Howdy said, “What kind of work you do?”

And Slim gave a shrug. “What kind you got?”

Like that.

As they passed by the landscaper’s truck, Slim casually grabbed a pair of hedge clippers, never breaking his step. He snapped them a couple of times and seemed satisfied they’d do.

“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.