Never Dance with a Yodeling Masochist: Honkey Tonk Detectives, #2

By Charles Alworth

Join the Honkytonk Detectives in their second hilarious, nonstop, madcap adventure. Now that he's rich, Tex Hank's wife sues him for divorce, threatening to make him not rich. Tex comes to Hook 'Em Harns to get some dirt on his wife. Waltz Charleston warns her not to take the case. Tex is scatterbrained, unreliable, and to top that off, a cocaine addict. He's going to be trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Alworth
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215295670

Book preview

1 The Saddest of Tails

Waltz Charleston’s iPhone sounded the special ring, a dirge. Her, her again. He stared at the phone. Waltz, dance instructor extraordinaire, hated the phone as much as he hated drunk dance partners. Until she took up residence at the studio, he shunned cell phones. He liked to keep his private thoughts invasion free. He hated for anyone to have constant contact with him, especially her. Besides, when he put the phone in his pocket, it ruined the drape of his trousers.

He owed her money, so she demanded that he work off the debt by helping with her PI work. He had to admit the phone enabled that.

She specialized in divorce cases, partly because she liked the easy routine. You tailed the suspected cheaters and caught them in the act. Waltz didn’t like anything about the boring, late-night work. She got lots of the cases, because everybody divorced. The more cases, the bigger the cash flow. She liked that.

But mostly she specialized in divorce cases because she delighted in breaking up marriages. Her attitude sprang from a bad marriage, which ended of its own lack of momentum, no PI needed.

Most of the time, his PI work required him to follow and video wandering spouses. He needed his cell for that, but she mainly used it to harass him. She remained mad about the money she claimed he owed her. Bullshit. He couldn’t defraud an insurance company, could he? Just because she wanted to? Hell no. He ought to fling the damned phone out the window. He drew his arm back. He hesitated and dropped it to his side. He owed her. She saved his life. Besides, the damn thing cost him his wardrobe allowance for the year.

He could leave it on his desk, dive out the window, and go to a movie. But what was the point? It only delayed the inevitable. She’d chew him out later. He answered the call.

Her alluringly husky voice caressed his ear. You’ll never guess who’s in my office.

Waltz sighed. Another guessing game. Why must he put up with this crap? He took a deep breath. Fatty Arbuckle.

Her voice was as hoarse as if she had smoked three packs of cigs and guzzled a quart of whiskey every day during a long, long lifespan. That’s right. You must be psycho, I mean psychic. How do you do it?

She had no idea who Fatty Arbuckle was. Fatty and Buster Keaton amused Waltz. He watched a lot of old movies on the classic channel. They didn’t have color and the special-effects were lame, but they had plots, with believable characters, unlike many modern movies. Hook ‘Em Harns never watched an old movie in her life, but she loved playing her little games. He had to go along. He couldn’t let her win. I can’t tell you that.

Her husky voice wheedled. Aw... please.

You’re not qualified. Only a select few have the power.

Her throaty voice emoted deep disappointment. Are you saying I don’t have psychic power?

I’m saying exactly that. I’ll go further. You have a striking deficiency of psychic power. You’re on the lower rung of the bottom quartile. It is written that you must remain forever on the perimeter of the inner circle of psychic knowledge.

Crap, I hate being deficient. What I’d give for your abilities.

Never forget that. I know all, see all.

For the moment, she remained silent. If only she was struck mute. Maybe the ongoing barrage of guessing games and wise-assing would end at last.

Her voice was soft and deep. Well, then I have to be brutally honest. Your guess of fatty Arbuckle was so far off I could barely keep myself from laughing my ass off. I’ll give you one more chance. Guess.

He should know better. She’d never stop. Why him? What evil force conjured her into his life? If only she hadn’t saved his life. Oh, well. Not being dead, he guessed, was worth putting up with her. He must soldier on. He took a deep breath. Arbuckle the Gaunt?

Arbuckle the Gaunt? You call yourself a psychic? Pathetic. Get over here and see who it is. She hung up.

The way she summoned him irritated the hell out of him. He stuffed the phone in his pocket, and crossed the hall to her office, which also served as her living quarters. He glanced to the right and admired the large dance floor with its ancient hardwood, shiny under the lights. He waxed and buffed it daily. Several couples practiced dance moves to the two-step music. He almost tripped over the burnt-orange Harley she insisted on parking in the hall. Just the right prop for a sophisticated ballroom-dance studio. At least she hadn’t parked it in the middle of the ballroom, not yet.

He had to get that motorcycle out of the hall, but how? Maybe he could drive it off a cliff, leaping off just before it went over. No, it wouldn’t work. No cliffs loomed over the coastal plains of San Salsa. But he couldn’t just leave the damn thing clogging the hall forever. Maybe he could steal it, drive it to Dallas, and abandon it on the street.

No, that wouldn’t work. She was a detective. She’d track it down, drive it back, and park it in the hall again. Wait, that wouldn’t be so bad. He’d be free, not only of the bike, but of her, for a while at least.

He read the sign on her door for the thousandth time, Harns Domestic Investigations. He’d screwed that sign to the door. What was he thinking? He might as well’ve screwed it to his chest. For sure, with that act he screwed himself.

Maybe he could drug her and put her on a plane to Canada. He could take down the sign. It wasn’t a permanent installation. It was only screwed to the door. It would be simple. Merely set his electric screwdriver to reverse and unscrew it. In the process, he could unscrew himself.

Forget it. He was dreaming the impossible dream. Once in Canada, she’d regain consciousness and come back. Maybe he could insist that he had never seen her before, and hope she’d go away. No way. She was implacable. He’d have to pay her off. He owed her his life, and she never let him forget it.

Wait. Not Canada. He could stick her on a plane to Iran. That would get rid of her. He could inform the CIA that she was a foreign spy. They’d track her down and Imprison her in Guantánamo for the next forty years. That was it. A stroke of genius.

No. He still dreamed the impossible dream. They’d trace the plane ticket to him. He’d end up in Guantánamo too, with his luck, in the same cell with her. No good. He could not escape. He was screwed forever.

What wonderful thing caused her to call him into her office? He hoped it was something trivial, a new slogan perhaps. She had a dozen signs taped to her office wall, jingles she made up. Her giant ego imagined that they drove potential clients into a frenzy and inspired them to purchase her overpriced services. The last one was beyond lame, Cheating spouse? I’ll get the louse.

He took a deep breath to compose himself. He entered the office.

She picked up her phone, pretending to check the time. What kept you? She shook her head, as though he had violated the most sacrosanct of social rituals. You’re always late, even when we have a guest. She gestured at the emaciated cowboy sprawled in the client chair to Waltz’s right. You remember Tex Hank, the famous Yodeling Masochist.

Waltz’s stomach spasmed. Tex Hank was trouble, trouble with a capital T. If only she’d taped a new slogan to the wall. He could deal with that. He’d just make fun of it, or ignore it. Nobody could ignore Tex. Waltz took another deep breath. The memory scars my brain forever. He stuck out his hand.

Tex rose and shook it, his white cowboy suit draped loosely over his bony frame. His usual Texas drawl became a bizarre cross between the drawl and a British accent. I say, old chap, have you heard? Reginald’s having an affair with a gorilla.

Waltz stood stunned, speechless.

Tex pointed at him. Now you say: really, old man, male or female?

Waltz sighed. Really, old man, male or female?

Tex waved his arms. No. No. Like me, with a British accent.

Why him? He repeated the line. Really, old man, male or female? He admired his own British accent, so much better than Tex’s.

Female, of course. Reginald’s no queer. Har, har, har. Tex guffawed and collapsed into his chair, weakened by the force of his laughter.

Hook ‘Em laughed politely.

Waltz stood stunned, glowering at Tex.

After a moment, Tex leaped from his chair and performed a couple of jumping jacks, the heels of his purple cowboy boots clomping on the floor. Har, har, har. Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?

What the hell brought Tex here? Waltz sensed trouble. Maybe he could insult him, get rid of him. Waltz used his most sarcastic tone. You realize that joke offends both gays and British people the world over.

Tex stopped jumping. It should be okay. I read it on a website. All the jokes are authorized.

Authorized? Who by?

Though Waltz doubted Tex capable of it, he seemed to ponder. It didn’t say.

Waltz’s voice dripped sarcasm yet again. "I never heard of authorized jokes. You sure the website didn’t refer to authentic British jokes, not authorized?"

It said authorized.

Hook ‘Em slammed her palm on her desk. Waltz, let it go. It doesn’t matter if they’re authorized.

It matters to me. I want to get to the bottom of this. The mere existence of a website called Authorized British Jokes dot com boggles my mind.

Let it go. Tex is my client.

Tex shook his head vigorously. No, he’s right. I shouldn’t have said it. It offends everybody in the world, not to mention our feathered friends, the gorillas. Wait, gorillas don’t have feathers. That’s even worse. I say offensive things. I’m bad. He turned and stuck out his butt for punishment. Somebody smack me. I deserve it.

Why was Tex behaving so strangely? Waltz moved closer to him, ignored the butt so enticingly offered, and looked into his eyes. No doubt about it. You’re high.

No I’m not.

You’re high.

Tex looked away, hesitated, and hung his head. Just a little bump, just enough to energize me. I’m an artist. I must have inspiration for my music.

Hook ‘Em stomped the heel of her orange cowboy boot on the floor. Waltz, stop playing around. Tex is a client. If he’s done a line or two, that’s his business.

Waltz grabbed Hook ‘Em by the arm and pulled her up out of her chair. Excuse us, Tex, I need to talk to Hook ‘Em alone. We’ll be right back. He ushered her out of the office. Look out for the motorcycle. Some slob parked it in the hall. He pulled her into his apartment and closed the door.

Hook ‘Em prized his hand off her arm. Damn you. That hurts. You’re going to leave bruises. What the hell are you doing? Tex is a big client. He could walk out of the office while we stand here in your apartment, doing what? Chatting?

Waltz took a breath. This wouldn’t work, but he had to try. Tex is erratic. He’s crazy. No telling what he might do next. Get rid of him. He’ll give us big trouble.

Her eyes blazed. You’re crazier than Tex. He’s one of the most famous country singers in the world. He’s rich.

What the hell does he want?

If you hadn’t dragged me out of the room, we’d know by now.

I know he’s not here for a social call. I can’t see what he would want.

She scratched her head. Duh, let’s see now. I specialize in divorce. Does that give you a clue?

He wants a divorce?

I don’t know. Somebody dragged me out of the room before I found out. I hope he wants me to help him shuck his wife. You want me to give that up? I’ll save him millions. I’ll charge him a percentage of that. I’ll get rich, and it’ll make me famous, the PI who saved Tex Hank. I’ll have clients out the wazoo. I can raise my rates. This is my big chance.

He’s crazy. Worse, he’s a drug addict.

So he snorts a little coke now and then? So what?

So what? So drug addicts are unpredictable. He’ll get us into a lot of trouble, I’m telling you.

She shook her head. What are you, some sort of expert on drug addicts?

Unfortunately, yes. Some of my relatives were drug addicts.

Like who?

Uncle Frank, for instance. One day, out of the blue, he called my brother. He said he was somewhere, he didn’t know where, and he didn’t know how he got there. Could we send him money to come home? He was so zonked out that my brother had to explain to him that we needed to know where he was to send him money. He had to instruct him to ask a passerby what city he was in. Turned out, he was in Phoenix. My brother wired the money to him. We never heard from him again. That was ten years ago.

She shrugged. So what? You got rid of uncle Frank. Sounds like a damn good investment to me.

You’re right about that, for sure. The point is, uncle Frank was part of the family. We were tied to him by blood. We had to help him, but you have no responsibilities to Tex. You can turn him away and save yourself a lot of trouble. If you take this case, you’re as crazy as Tex. Tex won’t go away like uncle Frank. You take this, you’re grabbing a crazed drug addict by the habit. You’ll never get free of him. I don’t want to have anything to do with it.

She poked him in the chest, emphasizing each word. Unlike your uncle what’s-his-name, Tex has money. He’s a good investment. I’m taking the case and you’re going to help me. You’d be on death row if it weren’t for me, your Savior.

Waltz wasn’t so sure that he wouldn’t prefer death row to dealing with her and Tex. He ought to throw them both out of the studio and barricade the doors. He had enough food to last a good two weeks. He could turn off the lights and hide under the bed. They’d get discouraged and go away. He might lose all his dance students while he hid in his shut-down studio but it might be worth it. He couldn’t bear this shit any longer.

Remember the way you sniveled when you thought they were going to execute you? You begged me to help you.

Crap. He hadn’t sniveled. He wasn’t a sniveler. He didn’t even know how to snivel, though he had no doubt he could master it, given a course or two, and maybe some tutoring on the side.

Waltz, aren’t you going to say anything? You know you begged me to help you.

She was right. He begged her and she helped him. She saved him. He owed her. Yes, you saved me. I’m trying to return the favor. I want to save you. Don’t take this case.

She threw her arms in the air. Tex is rich. He’ll pay us big.

Us? You mean you. He’ll pay you big.

Certainly he’s paying me. I’m the detective. You’re the clueless sidekick.

Okay, I’m the sidekick that’s around for laughs. That doesn’t mean I have to watch while you take a job from a crazed drug addict.

She pursed her lips, unpursed, and spoke. Yes, yes it does. Drop it. Nothing will go wrong with this case. I want it. Do I look worried? No. I’m as happy as a tick on a hog. No, a dung beetle on a shit heap. She opened the door. Let’s get back in there before he leaves.

* * *

Waltz followed Hook ‘Em into her office, hoping Tex was gone.

No such luck. Tex was still there, executing jumping jacks, his boots pounding like logs into the floor. The blow gave him so much energy that he had to keep moving.

He stopped jumping. Y’all weren’t saying bad things about me while y’all were gone, were you?

Hook ‘Em resumed her seat at her desk. She raised her eyebrow three times at Waltz.

Waltz knew what the eyebrow raises meant. He forced a smile. No, Tex. We would never say bad things about you. We were talking about something else entirely.

Tex stomped his feet with disgust. Well, crap. I’m a masochist. I love it when people put me down. I thrill at the mere thought of y’all humiliating me.

Waltz stepped toward Tex. Okay, then. Get ready. Here –

Hook ‘Em stood. Waltz. Shut up. She stared at him for a moment.

She turned back to Tex. I’m sorry about that, Tex. We weren’t talking about you. You see, Waltz suffers from anxiety attacks. He needs to be alone with me while I calm him down. She turned to Waltz. Her eyebrow moved up twice. You’re calm now, right?

Waltz nodded. I’m more than calm. I’m becalmed.

She resumed her seat. Good. Sit down and take deep breaths.

Waltz sat and took a deep breath. She was right. He shouldn’t interfere with her business. He owed her. He should help her. He knew what to do, flatter Tex, keep him happy. Tex, I love your first album. Great country songs. You have an excellent voice. It expresses the agony of a cowboy’s lost loves. And losing your girlfriend is the essence of country music. You capture it perfectly with your haunting vibrato.

Tex looked offended. Oh yeah? You think so? Well then, listen to this. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his billfold. He extracted a tattered newspaper clipping and read. Tex Hank, the yodeling masochist, couldn’t hit a note if you threw him off a tall building and he screamed till he smashed onto the pavement. A tuner registering the screams wouldn’t detect any note known to western music. The only recognizable note might be the sound of the splat as his body slammed into the pavement, depending, of course, upon the sonority of his bones. Tex folded the clipping and tucked it back into his wallet. His face broke into a smile that radiated superiority. He jabbed the wallet at Waltz. That guy is a respected critic. What do you think of that?

Waltz drew back in his chair. Amazing, you couldn’t compliment a masochist. They were turned on by humiliation. How the hell did you suck up to a masochist? Insult him? Waltz was willing. Well, I guess that guy knows what he’s talking about. He’s a respected critic. I agree with him. Before, I was lying. Your singing sucks. I sold my copy of your CD on eBay for thirteen cents. It was the highest offer I got. I suspect the guy that bought it wanted to tie it to a corn stalk, so the flashing reflections would scare away crows. He paused. On second thought, maybe he was going to play it to the crows. Better than any flashing light, it would drive away the crows and any other creatures in earshot.

Hook ‘Em glared at him and raised and lowered one eyebrow.

Waltz took a deep breath.

Hook ‘Em turned back to Tex. Pay no attention to him. He’s messing with you. Let’s get down to business. What do you want us to do?

Tex stared at Waltz, then turned back to Hook ‘Em. Can’t you get rid of him?

He’s my assistant. I trust him completely. He’ll keep anything you say confidential.

Tex reseated his white cowboy hat with the purple band. He’s a dance instructor, not a detective. Besides, he’s obnoxious. What do we need him for?

Hook ‘Em went off again on her apparent campaign to humiliate Waltz at every opportunity. Don’t worry. He won’t have much to do with it. He’s just my sidekick. All great detectives have one. Sherlock Holmes had Watson. Oliver Hardy had Stan Laurel.

What? She knew about Laurel and Hardy? Was she sneaking into his apartment to watch the classic movie channel? He’d have to change his locks again.

She arched her eyebrow three times.

What did that mean? Oh, she wanted him to pretend outrage to get Tex’s mind off what they might’ve said about him. Hey, wait. They were nothing but stooges.

What are you talking about? You told me about them yourself. You said that without Laurel, Hardy was nothing. It was the same with Watson and Holmes. The same with you. Your assistance is quite valuable on occasion, even though you do sometimes screw things up.

Waltz stared at her, aghast. What do you mean, screw things up? When did I screw things up? I figured out who killed my brother, didn’t I? You didn’t have a clue.

I said your assistance is valuable sometimes, didn’t I? She turned to Tex. I’m sorry. Waltz’s on the case. He sees things from the point of view of a dance instructor. It gives me a different perspective. That can be most valuable for a detective. Holmes might’ve been better off if Watson were a dance instructor. The main thing about a stooge is he must be a bumbler. For that reason, Waltz is a great stooge, maybe greater than Laurel. Think of him as our stooge, our personal aide, incompetent though he may be. Tell us your problem.

Tex glared at Waltz for a moment. He cleared his throat. I know y’all heard about my success. I’m rich and famous. All country music fans have heard of me, but it’s not all roses, not for me, because I’m a masochist. Are either of y’all a masochist? He paused. He looked excited. Or a sadist?

Hook ‘Em and Waltz shook their heads.

Then you might not understand. Sure, I’m rich, but masochism costs like hell. You can’t imagine the high price of whips, for example. In the last four or five years, the cost of a good whip has tripled, or more.

Waltz whooped.

Tex stared at him. What’s so funny?

Hook ‘Em also stared and raised her left eyebrow twice.

Waltz knew what the left eyebrow twice meant. Minutes into the meeting and Hook ‘Em was already mad at him, afraid he’d drive off her rich client. Sorry, I give a nervous laugh when I hear a sad story. Most people get tears in their eyes, maybe even sob. I laugh loudly and inappropriately.

Tex shook his head. Wow, you are some strange dude.

Waltz laughed to himself. Tex calling him strange? Tex was the strangest creature Waltz had ever encountered, but Tex aroused his curiosity. When he asked this question, if would probably tick Hook ‘Em off, but he had to know. Why would the price of whips bother you? Don’t the sadists supply their own whips?

Tex stood, outraged. No, the cheap bastards. They’re too vicious. Besides, I like a fine goatskin lash. They’re soft but painful. I get mine handmade from Mexico. Sadists, if they even carry their own whip, usually have an el cheapo that’s made of raw cowhide, or worse, some sort of plastic. I hate plastic whips. The next time you buy a whip, make sure you get natural materials. If sadists had any humanity at all, they’d never use plastic whips. Sadists just don’t give a damn. I don’t know how I tolerate them.

Hook ‘Em slapped the desk. Okay, Waltz. That’s enough. She turned to Tex. Let’s get down to business. What is it you want?

Tex leaned forward. His face took on an expression of horror. Now that I’m rich and famous, my wife is suing me for divorce. She kicked me out of the house. Can you imagine? I can’t even get into my own house. She had the locks changed and bars put on the windows. She threatens to take at least half my money, and she’s got me by the balls. He turned to Hook ‘Em. You remember that video of yours where Sadie and Candy Bitch whip me? It got posted on the Internet and caused this problem. My wife can prove that I had other women beat me, that I was untrue.

Sorry. I had nothing to do with posting it.

Not that I blame you. If it weren’t for that video, I wouldn’t be rich and famous. He gestured around. I’d still be singing for peanuts in dumps like this.

Dump? This isn’t a dump. Waltz pointed at the wall. Look at that paneling. I did it myself. I took great care. This is the finest dance studio in town, maybe in Texas.

Her left eyebrow raised again, twice.

Tex glanced around the office. Well, yeah. I guess I was still thinking of it the way it was, a dump of a Texas dancehall on the outskirts of town, a honkytonk with a bad reputation, where country singers on their way up, or way down, perform. You’ve turned it into a ballroom dance studio on the outskirts of town, with a bad reputation. Still, you made some nice improvements, nice carpentry for a dance instructor.

You sing pretty good, for a yodeling masochist.

Hook ‘Em stuck her harmonica in her mouth and played a Wah-Wah. Boys, boys. Act nice. We’re talking business.

Tex applauded. I didn’t know you played harp.

Hook ‘Em doffed her white cowboy hat with the burnt orange band.

Yahoo. Tex tossed his hat into the air, grabbed it when it came down, and replaced it on his head. I’ve got a new song. See if you can play along while I sing it.

Waltz didn’t want to listen to the song. Tex Hank’s songs should come with a warning: side effects may include nausea, depression, despair, or a feeling of omnipotence, like you, or anybody, could write – and sing – a better song.

Waltz groaned inwardly. He couldn’t afford to groan outwardly. He couldn’t stand anymore eyebrow wiggles.

Despite Waltz’s inward groan, Tex began warbling an outward groan. Waltz longed to cover his ears.

Hook ‘Em played rhythm underneath the words, and improvised a melody to plug the holes between verses.

"Yoda leda loda lady hoos. Yoda leda loda lady hoos.

"I got the mean ol’ baby didn’t notice I screwed her blues. She didn’t even notice the finest of our last seven screws. She had to read all about it in the Daily Blues News.

"It took her half an hour to get the story read. She didn’t notice I screwed her was what the story said. I got the mean ol’ baby didn’t notice I screwed her blues.

"She said to me ‘why baby, I never did catch on. You must’ve been so sneaky when you started to climb on.’ I got the mean ol’ baby didn’t notice I screwed her