The Adventures of Slim & Howdy (9 page)

21

SKEETS WAS REACHING FOR HIS PISTOL WHEN SOMETHING
dawned on Howdy. He gestured, palm out, for Skeets to leave the gun where it was for the time being. “I got this,” he said, heading for the confrontation, like he already had a good idea. A couple of steps later, realizing it was a dumb rat what didn’t have two holes, he stopped, turned around, and said, “But don’t run off. I might need you.”

The big guy’s name was Buddy Cooper. About Slim’s height but carrying an extra fifty pounds, mostly upstairs, rough as a cob with a jaw like a bulldozer. None of which would have mattered had Buddy not also been the jealous ex-boyfriend of the girl Slim had been kind enough to escort home the previous night. Her name was Ginger, actually named after the character on
Gilligan’s Island,
if you can believe it, even had a sister named Mary Ann. In any event, it turned out Ginger had run into Buddy during happy hour over at the Pump Room earlier tonight. Well, Ginger had a few too many and couldn’t keep her big mouth shut, just had to let Buddy know that other men found her irresistible. Including this tall handsome who had been singing at the Piggin’ String the night before.

Well, once he got properly lubricated, Buddy, who had finished at the bottom of the anger management classes the court had required him to attend last year, drove over to the Piggin’ String in a jealous, green-eyed rage to show this singing cowboy who the real man was in this part of Tarrant County.

As Howdy approached the mayhem, he could see it was a tight fight with a short stick, Buddy having the advantage, after jumping Slim without benefit of advanced warning. In such close quarters, both were reduced to throwing stunted punches at kidneys, noses, and the back of each other’s heads. From somewhere in the middle of it all Buddy growled, “I’m fixin’ to clean your plow, boy.”

And not only did it sound like he meant it, but it looked like he was capable.

In the midst of all this, Slim managed to plant a boot heel in Buddy’s gut, knocking him backwards over one of the pool tables. While prone on the green felt, Buddy kept Slim at bay by hurling the three, six, and eight balls in his direction. Although Buddy had been an all-state pitcher his senior year in high school, being drunk, horizontal, and twenty years older took a good bit of the mustard off his delivery. Slim, a good Pony League first baseman with that long stretch of his, ducked the first two balls, then caught the eight in his bare hand and threw it back, just grazing the side of that bulldozer jaw. Buddy reacted by grabbing a cue stick like he was going to step up to the plate with it. He rolled off the table and choked up on the stick, eyeing Slim’s head like it was a big fat one coming over the plate.

Slim was trapped by overturned tables and was backed into a booth. He was looking around for a weapon—why the hell that dumb-ass Howdy had thrown that pistol into the trash can still escaped him—but there was little to choose from that matched up real good with a pool cue. So he grabbed a longneck, broke the bottom off, and started swinging it back and forth the way you do in circumstances such as this.

Buddy had a look in his eye that you can bet Ginger had seen at least once as he closed in and drew into his backswing. But the damn thing got stuck. He couldn’t bring it around for a base hit, let alone a dinger. Confused, he turned and saw Howdy at the other end of the stick. “Who the hell’re you?” he barked.

“I’m the one who came here to whoop that boy’s ass,” Howdy said, one hand on the cue stick, the other pointing at Slim. “Question is, who the hell
you
are.”

“I’m the one who’s
currently
whooping his ass,” Buddy replied, tugging on the cue. “Let go of my stick and get in line. I got here first.”

“I don’t care when you got here,” Howdy said, tugging back. “I got a reservation.”

The confusion compounded like interest on Buddy’s face. “How the hell you think you got a reservation to kick somebody’s ass?”

Howdy jerked the stick out of Buddy’s grip, poked him in the chest with the blue-chalk tip, said, “That guitar Casanova there took advantage of my girl a couple of nights ago while she was drunk and I was outta town. That’s how.”

Buddy swatted the stick away when Howdy tried to poke him a second time. “Well then your reservation musta been for
last
night when this sumbitch was in here taking advantage of
my
girl.”

“What?” Like he was outraged by the notion of such sexual recklessness. Looking past Buddy, Howdy aimed the cue stick at Slim. “Boy, you best learn to keep that one-eye trouser trout of yours in its pen, you expect to see another birthday.” He made a move like he was going to charge Slim, but Buddy shoved him back.

“Hey, asshole, like I said, get in line. You can have him when I’m done.”

Howdy looked at Buddy, then Slim, giving the appearance of appraising the situation. Then he shook his head. “Nosir.” Like it was one word. “I don’t think there’d be enough left to make it worth my while.”

“Ain’t my problem,” Buddy said. “Sloppy seconds is all you’re gone get.” He was rolling up his sleeves now.

The other patrons were watching like it was a Jerry Springer special:
Live at the Piggin’ String!
Skeets was at the bar, smiling as he sipped a beer, enjoying the entertainment, like it was a hastily conceived floor show between musical acts. His pistol was right there, of course, ready to bring the curtain down on the whole thing if need be, but he had the feeling Howdy’s plan—whatever the hell it was—was gonna do the trick.

All the sudden, Buddy lunged at Slim, who slashed and jabbed with the broken bottle, saying, “Don’t come in here, less you want some stitches.” It forced Buddy to back off.

When he did, Howdy poked him in the back with the pool cue again. Said, “Hey!”

Buddy jerked around. “You poke me with that one more time I’m gone stick it in wunna your ears and out the other.”

Howdy tipped his hat back and tilted his head to one side, then the other, like he was sizing Buddy up. “Let me ask you something,” he said, as if they suddenly shared a secret. “You by any chance a gambling man?”

Buddy kept one bloodshot eye on Slim so he couldn’t get him with that bottle, the other was more or less looking at Howdy. “What do you mean?”

“You know, games of chance,” Howdy said. “Wagering on a throw of the dice or the turn of a wheel or the choice of a card to determine the outcome of events.”

Buddy gave a half-assed shrug, thinking about that weekend he’d snuck off to Laughlin with redheaded Wanda and won three hundred bucks at the slots. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Why?”

“Let’s cut for it.”

“Cut for it?”

“Yeah,” Howdy said, like it was only natural. “High card gets to kick Casanova’s ass.”

As he watched Howdy working on Buddy, Slim shook his head a little and tried to keep from smiling too much. He liked the way Howdy thought.

“I already told you,” Buddy said. “I’m gonna kick his ass no matter what.”

“Well, now I think we’ve agreed that whoever gets second shot at this, ain’t gonna get no satisfaction. So I was thinking, we can turn it into a gamble, at least make it some fun for both parties.”

“Ain’t interested.”

“All right,” Howdy said. “I understand, stakes are too low.” He pondered it for a second before saying, “What if we sweeten the pot? High card gets to kick Casanova’s ass and gets paid for the privilege.”

Buddy got to thinking about his truck payment and said, “How much?”

“I dunno.” Howdy shrugged. “Fifty bucks?”

Buddy’s cable bill was overdue too, not to mention his rent. He said, “Make it a hundred.”

“Deal,” Howdy said. “Cash on the barrelhead.” He slapped his own money on the pool table and turned to the bar, snapping his fingers, yelling, “Hey, Skeets, you got a deck of cards in this place?” As he walked away, Howdy said, “And bring me my glasses while you’re there.”

As Skeets went to grab Dempsey Kimble’s marked deck, Buddy scraped together all his cash. He laid it on the table and said, “All I got is ninety-six and change.”

“Close enough.” Howdy gave him a collegial chuck on the shoulder, then stepped past him to take a swing at Slim with the pool cue. “You just keep your ass right where it is, lover boy,” he said. “One of us will be with you directly.”

Figuring it was best to play along, Slim menaced Howdy with the broken bottle and said, “Bring it on, you sorry-ass swamp cracker.” Gesturing with wiggling fingers. “I’ll kick both your candy asses.”

Skeets came over and tossed the deck to Buddy, let him pull the cards out of their box, get the feeling they were legit. “Brand-new deck,” Skeets said. “Hardly been used.”

By now a crowd had gathered around, and Skeets, not being one to miss a good opportunity, was taking various side bets.

Howdy pointed at the green felt of the pool table near the money. “Spread ’em out,” he said. “You go first or second, I don’t care.”

Buddy smeared the cards on the table. “I got here first,” he said. “I’ll pick first.” He huffed on his hands and rubbed them together for luck while he looked for a winning card. After a moment, he paused, turned to Howdy, and said, “High card wins, right? Gets to kick Romeo’s ass and gets a hundred bucks from the loser?”

Howdy shook his head and said, “Casanova.”

“What?”

“Romeo was the star-crossed lover,” Howdy said. “Casanova, on the other hand, was a famous seducer. I think that’s what we got here.”

Skeets cleared his throat in a manner to suggest Howdy should just get on with it. Slim just rolled his eyes.

“I don’t get it,” Buddy said.

“Don’t matter,” Howdy replied. “Romeo it is.” He put the glasses on, waved a hand at the fifty-two cards spread out on the Kelly green felt, and said, “Go for it.”

Buddy picked the jack of hearts and grinned like he was showing off new teeth. He turned to Slim, taunting him with the one-eye jack. “Your ass is mine, boy.”

Slim taunted back with his jagged glass. “Fat lady ain’t sung yet.”

“All right,” Howdy said. “My turn.” He waved a hand slowly over the cards, hesitating, acting like he was going for one card, then another. Ratcheting up the anticipation, the crowd pushed in closer with each fake. Finally, he picked a card. “Ha!” He showed it to Buddy and said, “Jack of spades.” Just screwing with Slim. The crowd loved it.

“What’s that mean?” Buddy asked. “We both do it?”

“I think it means we tied,” Howdy said with a wink and nod toward Slim. “Pick again.”

Slim glowered.

Second time Buddy drew a nine.

Howdy picked a queen and that was all she wrote. Howdy scraped Buddy’s money toward the corner pocket where his other hand waited to meet it. Folded it into his roll and put it away. Skeets was collecting on the side bets while the onlookers began drifting back to their tables. But after a minute it was clear that Buddy wasn’t going anywhere, just stood there with arms folded across his chest. Finally he said, “Go on, then. Kick his ass.” Nodding at Slim.

Howdy turned on a dime, got in Buddy’s face. “I don’t appreciate people telling me what to do.” He didn’t blink. Just two dark eyes staring from under the black hat, like a wild animal under the front porch.

Buddy held his ground.

Skeets, back at the bar counting his money, looked up long enough to see what was going on. He figured things might go south if he didn’t bring the curtain down now. He slipped the pistol into his waistband and walked across his bar like he was Augustus McCrae. Howdy was saying something when he got there.

“Hey, cowboy, I won the bet,” he said. “I’ll kick his ass when I’m good and ready and not before. That’s what it’s like to be the winner.” Howdy walked past him saying, “Better luck next time.”

Buddy turned to follow but got blocked by Skeets, standing there with his hand on the ivory grip of his pistol. “Son,” he said, “know when to walk away.”

22

MONDAY MORNING SLIM AND HOWDY HIT THE ROAD WITH
a sack of the sausage and biscuit sandwiches and a couple of large coffees. It was Howdy’s turn to drive and he was looking forward to it, there being few things that lifted his spirit more than a clean windshield, a full tank of gas, and the open road. It was a four-hundred-mile drive, more or less, and they wouldn’t be creeping through Bluff Dale, Rockwood, and Eldorado with Howdy behind the wheel. They’d be taking I-35 down through Austin and San Antonio before turning west on Highway 90, heading for Uvalde and finally Del Rio.

But that was a long way off. And, based on their history so far, they both knew there was no telling what might happen between where they were and where they were going.

Just have to wait and see.

They hadn’t been on the road too long before they started chewing over the previous night’s events, specifically the run-in with big Buddy Cooper. Even though Slim insisted he had the upper hand in the fight, had it all under control, didn’t need any help from anybody, he was quick to give Howdy his due on stepping in when he did with the card trick.

“No problem,” Howdy said, but not with all the conviction in the world. He had something else on his mind, something that had been bothering him since last night.

Slim didn’t seem to notice. He said something about how his night with Ginger might have been worth a pair of ass-kickings, though he was glad it hadn’t come to that.

“Yeah, well, next time, maybe I’ll just keep out of it.”

Slim couldn’t help but notice that. He said, “The hell’s got your feathers up?”

“Pardon me,” Howdy said sarcastically. “That’s just the way us sorry-assed swamp crackers get.” Like his sensibilities had been trampled upon.

Slim couldn’t believe it. “Are you kidding?”

“That was a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“Hell, wasn’t personal,” Slim said with a shrug. “Just figured I should play along with your setup, that’s all. ‘Sorry-ass swamp cracker’ was just the first thing to come to mind.”

“That was the first thing?”

“I thought it sounded pretty good,” Slim said. “You know, true to the moment.”

“Like if I’d called you a seriously inbred hillbilly defective?”

Slim gave him a sideways glance as he sipped his coffee. “No, not really, because I think you’ll find your hillbillies in the Ozarks and the Appalachians.”

“That’s not my point.”

“I mean, I’m not even from Texas hill country, so . . .”

“You’re missing—”

“And I’m pretty sure Louisiana’s full of swamps, so at least I was geographically accurate, but, well, forget it,” Slim said. “Next time I’ll be more circumspect in my word choice so as not to step on your tender toes.” It seemed counterproductive to get into a fight today over what had happened while Howdy was getting him out of a fight last night. So Slim said, “Good idea getting these biscuits.” He stuffed half of one into his mouth and looked out the window.

Howdy was fine to let it slide. He’d brought it up, aired it out, and now he could let it go. He really wasn’t that pissed about it. He just liked busting Slim’s chops first thing in the morning. They drove along in silence for a while. Howdy hung an elbow out the window and turned his attention to testing the outer boundaries of the posted speed limit. After a few minutes he said to Slim, “What can you get away with in Texas, ten miles over? Fifteen?”

“Asking the wrong guy,” Slim said. “And don’t expect me to split any goddam tickets you get.”

Howdy tipped his hat, chuckled a bit, said, “Yes’m, Miss Daisy.” Then he took it up to seventy-five and started advancing on Austin just a bit faster than everybody else on the road. Not just because he figured it would grate on Slim, but that was part of it. After a minute he gestured toward the glove box, said, “Hand me that radar detector.”

Slim popped the compartment, rooted around for a second, then shook his head. “It’s not in there.”

“What? Somebody stole it?”

Slim gave him a sideways glance. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.

“Well, dog dammit!” Howdy shook his head as if disappointed in human nature. “You just can’t trust people anymore.” He shrugged, then gassed the truck up to eighty. “Guess we’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

Howdy took his driving seriously. Not the speed limit, of course, but the idea that cars and highways were designed to get you from one place to another as fast as possible without anybody getting hurt. He considered the notion that speed was the cause of most accidents nonsense. Hell, if that was the case, they’d never finish at Talladega, everybody’d be wrecked or dead. The real cause of most accidents was failure to maintain control, no matter what the speed. As far as Howdy was concerned, there were only two rules to driving. One: Never hit anything. And two: Never cause anyone else to hit anything. If everybody followed those rules, he figured, the world would be a safer place and everybody would get where they were going a lot sooner.

Howdy was so enamored of his driving skills that he sometimes imagined that with a twist or two of fate, he could have ended up on the NASCAR circuit instead of the honky-tonk circuit. He had wide peripheral vision, quick reactions, and the ability to read other drivers, anticipate what they were going to do before they even decided they were going to do it. His sense of where things were and how they were moving in relation to where he was, was uncanny. He knew if a space was opening or closing and whether he could fit in it or not.

He was never bored on long drives because he spent every moment measuring and adjusting and anticipating before making his move, improving his position, and looking for the next one. He imagined it was just like life, with every mile offering opportunities to get further ahead of the others, those not willing to make the effort, and it was that game of identifying the advantages and taking as many as he could that kept him engaged and made the time pass more quickly.

It was his way of enjoying the journey as much as arriving at the destination a little sooner.

It took Slim about twenty miles before he stopped reaching for the dashboard in a black panic and using the imaginary brake pedal on his side of the truck every time Howdy made a move in traffic. Eventually he realized Howdy knew what he was doing and that freed his mind to wander. And once you stopped fearing for your life, six hours on the road gives a guy plenty of time to reflect on things.

Slim had mixed feelings about his return to Del Rio. It wasn’t like he had wants or warrants or unpaid debts or somebody waiting to kill him, nothing as concrete as that. If he’d been the superstitious type, Slim would have said the place just seemed to have it in for him. But that was crazy talk. He didn’t believe that sort of thing. Shit, as the bumper sticker pointed out, just happened. But, in Slim’s experience, it seemed to happen more frequently in Del Rio than other places. At least to him.

The place seemed more like a pair of loaded dice than a sleepy little border town across the Rio Grande from Ciudad Acuña. It was built around the customs station at the river, Laughlin Air Force Base to the south, and Devil’s Lake recreation area to the north. Del Rio. Ask most people, they’d say it meant “the river.” A few, with a better understanding of the language, knew it was “of the river,” since the name had been shortened in 1883 by the U.S. Postal Department from the original, San Felipe del Rio, a name bestowed after Spanish explorers offered a mass at the site on Saint Philip’s Day in 1635. Or so the legend had it.

But Slim had his own translation, based on his own history with the place. For him, Del Rio was Spanish for “the place things went missing.”

Things like his favorite guitar, a certain woman, and his dad.

Slim wondered if something would go missing on this trip. Then he considered the possibility that maybe his luck had changed and maybe something would show up this time around. Only one way to find out.