The Adventures of Slim & Howdy by Bill Fitzhugh, Kix Brooks, Ronnie Dunn

substitute the marked deck. “I guess he had that bottle full of tea so we’d pay attention to how much whiskey he seemed to be drinking, trying to make us think he was too drunk to be playing good cards, let alone cheatin’ at it.”
    “Seemed to work pretty good too,” was Slim’s comment.
    Skeets sucked on his teeth and said, “I almost hate to think what Mack and Gutterball are gonna do to the dumb bastard. They didn’t seem real happy when they drove outta here.”
    “True,” Slim said. “And based on all the hollerin’ coming from the trunk of that car, I’d say Dempsey Kimble wasn’t too tickled about things either.”
    “Hey, Skeets,” Howdy said. “What do you know about that Mack Osborne? Did he put that dog of his in fights, like for money? Is that what happened to him?”
    “Fights?” A moment of confusion crossed his face. “Oh, you mean the leg and the eye.” Skeets shook his head. “No, the dog’s diabetic. They didn’t get it diagnosed till they had to amputate.”
    “I’ll be damned.” Howdy shook his head. “Never knew a dog could have diabetes.”
    “Oh yeah,” Skeets said, apparently finding the whole thing fascinating. “Gets insulin shots, the whole nine yards. Mack says it’s under control now. But it’s still damn funny to watch him try to scratch his ear, ain’t it?”
    Howdy turned to ask Slim if he’d ever heard of a dog with diabetes, but he wasn’t sitting there anymore. “Where the hell did he go?” Howdy looked around the club just in time to see the tall stranger slipping out the front door with some girl. Howdy said, “Well now, who is that?”
    “Just some girl needs her yard mowed,” Skeets said.
    Howdy raised his beer in a toast. “Well, glad to see the old dog get a bone.”
    “Beats insulin,” Skeets said with a nod toward the back room. “I guess you’ll be sleeping on the cot.”
    17
    SUNDAY MORNING BOONE TATE’S CELL DOOR JANGLED OPEN and they said he’d made bail. The terms were unreasonable but his options were limited. So he signed on the line. His bail bondsman told him not to even think about skipping out on him as he had a skip tracer name of Drake Dobson who would track him down and bring him back to face more hell than the devil himself could handle.
    Boone got his belongings and started the long walk home, stewing over those two cowboys with every step. A couple hours later, as he turned onto his street, he still didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he intended to track down Slim and that trigger-happy pal of his and make both of them sorry they’d ever crossed paths with Boone Tate.
    The first thing he saw when he dragged his blistered feet into the courtyard of the Settler’s Cove Apartments was the oily flesh of those two gals who were always sneaking in and using the pool like they lived there.
    As usual, Tammy and Crystal were draped on the sagging lounge chairs, slippery with coconut oil. They had just turned over for the third time, rotating like meat on a spit.
    It had been two days since they had escaped from Black Tony’s—not only with their lives but also with a dozen portable audio players, ten of which they had since sold, using the profits to buy skimpy new bathing suits and the expensive tanning lotion with which they were now slathered. The remaining two units were attached to headphones clamped over Tammy’s and Crystal’s ears, which explained why they didn’t hear Boone approaching.
    The hip-hop was so loud he could hear it from ten feet away. The large tote bag between the lounge chairs was wide open, stuffed with their clothes, towels, purses, and who knows what else. Boone came around from behind, making sure not to cast a shadow across their faces. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one in sight.
    Crystal and Tammy remained oblivious as he slid the bag toward himself and fingered the last forty bucks from their wallets. He was about to make a smooth getaway when something