Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  “Whatchya’ll yappin’ about over here?” She hopped up on one of the tables, crossing her legs.

  “Oh, Hank was just asking if you were a good shot,” Hazel ratted.

  “Snitches end up in ditches,” Curly coughed out.

  Delilah looked at Hank and her eyes hardened. Hank’s did too. They stared at each other.

  “You could’ve asked me,” Delilah finally said, a note of warning whistling through.

  All Hank could do was shrug. They continued staring, knocking marble against marble. She wasn’t backing down and neither was he. So what if she was the one who could shoot Dum Dums out of the air? He deserved answers. And if this was the woman he was to love for the rest of his life, and her and Pistollette were the same woman, he had to show her he wasn’t afraid of her. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life shivering and backing down because she had the ability to shoot his kneecaps out.

  “Delilah, I found a prime piece of property that I think would be perfect for another Pistol Fanny’s location,” Katherine was saying to Delilah, but she and Hank were still staring. “You leave Monday. I booked your ticket already.”

  “Where am I going?” Delilah said, her fury more evident than ever, but her eyes were still in control. Keeping that powerful storm bottled in a regulated space.

  “Hitch up your wagons, Little Sister, you’re heading out West. California,” Katherine said.

  Hank noticed they called her that sometimes. Why? Then his heart started to ache. He realized she was leaving again. All the color drained from his face. He was starting to suffer from a cold sweat.

  “Where am I staying?” Delilah said, her leg bumping to the rhythm of her anger.

  “Gillian has that place, somewhere close to the beach there. The property is two hours away, but it doesn’t seem like a bad drive for a day.” Katherine tapped her thumb against the table a few times, a futile attempt at getting either Delilah or Hank to look at her.

  “I have property there?” Gillian said.

  Hank didn’t see her walk over. He was too busy still not backing down. He picked his cup up, slow and easy like, putting it to his mouth for effect.

  “You forgot you had property?” Curly said, sounding truly dumfounded by this prospect.

  “Yeah, so what’s it to you, Curly?” Gillian bent over the table, her rear perched high in the air.

  “I just don’t see how one can forget they own property,” Curly said.

  “Easy. Some what’s his name who was two-timing his wife gave it to me. I hardly use it.” Gillian shrugged and then grinned.

  “What is it that you do, Gillian?” Curly asked, very proper like.

  “I’m a private investigator. I specialize in high-end cases, marriage disputes. Oh, you know, I catch men cheating on their wives. Usually with me.”

  “You’re a setup. A trap.”

  “Ahh.” Gillian smiled. “It’s all a part of the game. Most of the time the wife is cheating and she wants to catch the husband before he catches her. They want a fat slice of that decadent piece of pie. And if I’m real good, I get a bonus.”

  “You get a house,” Curly said, eying her with extreme wariness and a good bit of contempt.

  “And such,” Gillian yawned. “You know what Uncle Hennessey here always says? ‘You cain’t steal somethin’ that has the will not to be stolen.’ Better those women rid themselves of the cheaters anyway. But boy, I tell you, the things men will give up for flexibility. You like flexible, Curly Cue?”

  “It’s Cootie,” Curly corrected. “And yes, I think a flexible woman is great. But she also has to be firm.”

  Gillian exploded with laughter. So did everyone else. Curly looked around, not understanding.

  “They’re quick,” Hennessey muttered. “Gotta watch yourselves.”

  “You’re scandalous.” Curly shook his head, finally understanding her dig.

  Gillian put her hand to her heart. She pretended to wipe a tear away. “Curly Cue, that is the sweetest thang any man has ever said to me.” She reached into her bosom, pulling out a cigarette. Hazel started swearing and Gillian asked her if she had had her purple drink today.

  “Damn feminist,” Curly muttered under his breath.

  Hank stopped staring then. He was afraid for Curly’s life. Hank was almost too afraid to look at the table, but to his surprise, nothing had changed. That’s what bothered Hank the most. The lack of feeling. The deathly even breathing, the calm when there should have been a storm.

  Hank leaned over and whispered ever so lightly in Curly’s ear, “Feminists wouldn’t be gold diggers. That’s a contradiction. Antonyms.”

  Delilah pointed to the stairs. “Hank, can I talk to you, please?”

  Hank followed her. Freud followed behind him. Hank stopped for a moment when he heard a knocking sound. Hennessey was staring at him, pretending to hold a hammer in his hand. He was making a nailing motion, the sound effect with his mouth.

  As soon as they made it to the stairs, Delilah whistled low. Freud backtracked and went for more porkers. Hank was a little surprised when he took the last step. The upstairs was turned into a vintage-looking recording studio. A sparkling glass wall stretched the space. Set up behind it was old red and beige microphones, musical instruments, and chairs. It seemed like people could try their hand at singing if they wanted, and leave with a souvenir of how they did.

  Delilah was waiting for him when he finally turned his attention to her. She stood with her back against the wall, watching him. She had already put distance between them; he could tell by her long stare. Hank felt like he was losing her. He sensed her goodbye.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he said, before she could say anything. When you don’t want to hear something, you say something first, to direct the conversation down the route you want it to go.

  “I’ve flown by myself plenty of times before. I’m not scared to fly.”

  “I’ve been watching the way you move, Delilah. I’ve been sucked into a storm. You have me spinning. And while I’ve been watching, and my world spins around you, I realize that I’ve never been happier in my life. I had to ask myself, why? Why am I so happy? The answer came to me as naturally as you did. It’s you. You make me happy, Delilah. If I was granted just one wish, just one wish—for anything in this entire universe—it would be just for one more day with you.” Hank held up a finger. “Just one more day.”

  “What would you do with one more day?”

  “First, I’d pray for time to move like molasses climbing the tallest mountain. One second being a thousand in time. Then, I’d wrap you in my arms and bury myself in you so deeply, when my one day was over, there’d be no way you could go anywhere without me.”

  Delilah sighed as slow and as soft as a feather floats. “Dear Lord.” She repeated it twice.

  Hank took a step toward her and she held up her hand. He stopped and swallowed hard. He had to fight the wild urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.

  “One more day, Delilah. That’s all I’m asking. It’s not a life sentence, is it?”

  “Hank, it seems you’ve found yourself in a mess. Two women? You couldn’t have fallen out of love with…Pistollette, isn’t that what you called her? So soon?”

  “No.” Hank shook his head. “I love her still. I can’t change—”

  “One more day, Hank.” Delilah held one finger up. “One more day. We leave tonight, and the day after tomorrow, you go home.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to Magnolia Springs. I still have a little time left of my vacation before I head west. I’d like to spend it there.” She took slow steps toward him and stopped when they were face to face. She put her mouth earth shatteringly close to his, closed her eyes, and inhaled.

  Hank closed his eyes, not being able to keep them open with her being so close. When he opened them, she was gone. Just like the gentlest of breezes. Or even a spectacular dream.

  Time seemed to crawl while the bar filled up. There
wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Everything seemed condensed. The patrons were so close together, the building seemed to bounce with activity.

  Hank was sitting at a reserved table with Curly and Hennessey. Delilah had taken off to change after their encounter in the recording area, and he hadn’t seen her since. It was making him a little antsy.

  The lights in the place were turned low, every light focused toward center stage. A woman walked out dressed in a blue flowered robe, red slippers, her hair rolled up in plastic pink curlers. It was a skit about a wife who had killing tendencies, and her husband, who was oblivious. She fed him double meanings, told him stories of where she’d been. Her scandalous acts were thoroughly amusing.

  Marty, who was the oblivious husband, came home from work one day demanding to know how come she wasn’t home when he had stopped by earlier for lunch.

  She slapped the air, her hair still in those curlers. With a cigarette bobbing from the side of her mouth, she said, “Oh, Marty, I was just out killin’ tum.” She made it sound like “time,” but it was Tom, the guy she had killed earlier.

  Hank thought the little skit he had imagined on the ride over would be perfect for Delilah’s place. He just knew Hank & Delilah would be a hit. Those people were going crazy over Marty and Nilla, the ’30s killer.

  After the show, the stage turned and the bright bulb lights shone on the pink and white painted background. Hank recognized the picture as the old ten-dollar note they had used in Louisiana. The center was something that looked like a blossomed flower. Written in the center of the note had been Dix, and right underneath, New Orleans. In letters bigger than the rest, pulling the entire sign together: Pistol Fanny’s Dix-Hens.

  Melody, Hazel, and Gillian were centered on stage, in that order. They each had one of those old antique-looking microphones, but theirs were silver and turquoise. This was the Wild West meets the Great Depression.

  Hank thought they sounded so pretty. They took him back to a simpler time, when things were so different. Bank robbing was a big deal. Some of the world’s most notorious robbers were born out of those eras. People were poor, but they always made music.

  It was easy to imagine those women coming from that same era, their voices so sweet and pure. It was like sugarcane in a Louisiana field before it’s been run through the mill. He could imagine them sitting on a front porch, rocking their babies to the gentle rhythm of their voices.

  They were hypnotic. He found himself slumping over the table a few times, admiring them. They sang about gold digging men and rambling, and you being whiskey and me being wine, and together we form a lullaby. They sang songs about women out to get men and men out to get women, and they were not playing with you!

  Before Hank realized, the place was filled to capacity. A sudden rush of people flooded the interior. Curly said he heard Gabriel Roberts, the famous movie star, and Michael Roberts, the famous boxer, were in the house with their wives. A few big-name country stars came in with them. And they had drawn in a lot of people. Curly toyed briefly with the idea that the sisters had become the new Rack Pat of their generation.

  Exiting the stage to thunderous applause, the Dix-Hens took a bow before a new band took their place on the stage. Hank was about to go looking for Delilah, when someone covered his eyes.

  Hank jumped, and when he stood, he was face to face with Dylan. Tommy and Jesse stood just a step behind. It took a moment for Hank to recognize them. His life was changing so fast, it seemed like years since he’d seen them last. Now he truly knew how the payphones felt.

  Dylan hit him on the shoulder. Curly quickly got up and hugged them all. The numbers were up and Curly didn’t feel as vulnerable. Dylan stared at Hank for a moment. Hank shook his head.

  Hank pushed him back, speaking over the music. “Heaven Almighty! What the hell are ya’ll doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing!” Dylan met his volume.

  “Y-y-yeah.” Tommy poked him twice in the chest.

  “How’d you find us?” Curly said, his eyes bright and his posture more relaxed. “Man, I’ve never been so happy to see a bunch of men before.”

  Dylan stuck a thumb at Jesse. “He passed out when he found out what had happened to you guys. He said he was suffering from flashback, panic attacks. When he finally came to, he told us he put his device in Curly’s jacket as a prank. He did his thing and we traced ya’ll here.”

  Hank put a hand on Dylan’s shoulder and turned to Hennessey, who was staring at them. Hank introduced them, and when he looked up, Delilah was staring at him. Hank held onto the chair for support.

  She had changed into a black jumpsuit that seemed to cling to her body in the perfect figure-eight shape, like a perfect eternity, spinning in never-ending circles around who she was. The waist was tight and the legs were flared, and she had on spiked heels, the soles black as the night. Her curly hair was fastened in a loose clip and pulled to one side.

  The guys followed Hank’s stare. They all were a little shocked at the woman staring in their direction. Hank waved her over. She disappeared in the crowd before popping up beside him. The sisters weren’t far behind, all taking a seat at the table.

  Hank introduced them, and when he got to Dylan, Dylan said, “That’s Sheriff Dylan Cotton, ma’am.” Then he pulled up his pants.

  Tommy pointed to Katherine and Hennessey. “Don’t I know ya’ll from somewhere?”

  “I doubt you do,” Hennessey said, taking a pull from his long neck.

  Delilah had ordered them all beers, and after, Dylan asked them to accompany him to the john.

  “And they say we travel in packs to the toilet.” Gillian scoffed.

  Once they were inside the Cock House—that’s what the sign called the men’s bathroom—Jesse stood watch by the door. When someone tried to come in, he relayed the message that it was out of commission for a bit.

  “What’s going on?” Hank said, leaning against the bathroom wall. He took two pieces of gum from the pack and started to chew.

  “Jesus, Hank!” Dylan shouted. “What’s going on? You tell us. We’re your best friends. You’ve never lied to us before.”

  “I didn’t lie to anyone.” Hank chewed a little harder.

  “Omission is still a lie.” Dylan fixed him with a pointed stare.

  “I plead the fifth then,” Hank said.

  “Get over yourself, Hank,” Jesse yelled.

  “Just tell ’em, Hank,” Curly pleaded, fixing his curls in the mirror.

  “Who’s the lady with Sophia Loren’s killer eyes?” Dylan wiggled his thick brows.

  “Who?” Hank said.

  “Who’s Delilah?” Dylan stopped wiggling and cocked an eyebrow at Hank.

  “We think she’s Pistollette, the outlaw, who may or may not be the leader of the women-feminists-gold diggers-sisters gang, the same dames who robbed the bank in Tupelo.” Curly let out a long breath. “Hank fell in love with her when she put a gun to his chest, and then he ran behind them. I ran behind him, and somehow we both got knocked the F out by violent nuns. Who, by the way, are worse than clowns!”

  Hank shook his head. “Thank you, Curly.”

  There was silence; a normal reaction, Hank thought. The girls didn’t have that. Everything they did was premeditated, down to a smile, or a nod, or a laugh. And Hank knew by his observations, Delilah felt the most. The other girls were in your face, a bit showy. But Hank didn’t know which was more dangerous. The ones who were loud about what they did, or the silent ones who had so much control, they never missed their targets.

  “H-Hank, do you have St-Stockholm syndrome?” Tommy said.

  “No! Why do ya’ll keep asking me that?”

  “Hank, are you serious?” Dylan aimed the question at him like a loaded gun.

  Hank looked to the ground. “Yeah, Dylan, I’m serious.”

  “Well, boys, it seems our little Hank here is guilty of love in the first degree,” Dylan said.

  “Why her?” Jesse said,
pushing against the door.

  “I don’t know. One minute she was just a law-breaking bank robber, and the next, the love of my life. I did, I ran behind her, and Curly and me woke up in Memphis the next day. They had dropped us off and left a note on the business card from my wallet stating that we had a convict—conflict of interests. Delilah showed up when I was on the phone with Dylan. This is her place.”

  “D-d-damn,” Tommy stuttered out.

  “Do you still have the note? Maybe I could run a handwriting analysis on it?” Dylan said.

  “I still have it, but it’s no use. She had some homeless guy write the note. Told me so himself.” Hank pointed at his chest. “And at this point in time, I’m not ready to know if it’s truly her. Something is going on around here that is just so…something. I feel just a touch away, but I can’t grasp it. They don’t hurt anyone when they rob those banks; they don’t keep the money. They’re moving toward something.”

  “Aw, shit,” Jesse said. “Is it true what they say about the one with the guns? She’s so quick, it almost seems like magic?”

  “It’s true. I didn’t believe it at first, until the shots were ringing and the cameras were smoking. She shot Dum Dum suckers out the air, and then split a card straight through,” Hank said.

  All the boys whistled low. The voices and music from the bar echoed inside the space.

  Dylan leaned on the wall next to Hank. Curly hopped up on the sink, back to the mirror, legs dangling. Tommy started pacing a bit. Jesse relaxed against the door and crossed his feet and arms.

  “Well, it seems one shitty situation has just turned into three for you,” Dylan said with regret laced in his tone. “Sorry, but we are the bringers of more bad news.”

  “I can’t see how this can possibly get any worse,” Curly said, scratching at his scalp.

  “B-b-bad or g-g-good news first?” Tommy asked Hank.

  Hank went for the bad first—might as well get his licks over with all at once.

  Tommy started moving, like he was moving to the beat of something bad about to happen. Everything he said, he said three times.

  “Remember that girl I was telling you about? The little nympho who wouldn’t stop calling me because she told me she was obsessed with how many times I said her name in bed?”