Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  Tommy was standing beside him as they licked ice creams from the small Mom and Pop place across the street. Dallas was a beautiful little town. The cool air was just starting to smell of fall, burnt leaves, and turning trees. A surging gust of wind blew, and Hank had a feeling she was on her way.

  Hank stood at the back of the quaint bank doing the usual survey. Only one teller girl stood at the window. Hank smiled to himself, remembering the scene in the bathroom. The manager was asleep in one of the stalls, the door cracked open a tad, his head resting on the wall, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

  Tommy withdrew money this time. The show began just as he turned around. Tommy wasn’t nervous, though; he wanted to see the show they put on. He wanted to see how fast she could shoot, and if they could really flip and twirl and tap dance like everyone claimed they could. It was all turning into some kind of law-breaking circus.

  Every similar motion played through, this time to “Pride and Joy.” Actions and reactions, all incredibly close to the times before. They never seemed to disappoint. Now that Hank wasn’t afraid, he watched with admiring eyes. He watched with proud eyes that said “that’s my beautiful woman preforming in her critically acclaimed show.” This time the card cut in half by the gun floated to Tommy, but she nodded at Hank.

  It was a woman’s hand reaching out for another. Hank could only assume the other half was a man’s hand. After they were done, Tommy clapped louder than anyone else. He even whistled as they ran away.

  Tommy ran with him, not wanting to miss anything. He was star struck, stuttering three times. “I see why you fell in love with her. I’m in love with her! Hell, I’m in love with all of them. Little doozy dames have my head spinnin’ without even washing me.”

  Rotunda met them when their pace had become fever pitch. Tommy bounced off her breasts this time. He tried crawling away from her, like a spider going backward, but she grabbed him by the shirt and slung him over her shoulder. She was dressed in overalls, like a plumber. The side of the van read: “You clog it, we clear it. Dallas, Georgia, licensed plumbing company.”

  Hank was just relieved that he didn’t have to ride in a coffin again. He had nightmares about it. The vans’ windows were white and you couldn’t see in. But when the door opened, every head turned in their direction at once. Hank stepped back, the motion quite unsettling. Tommy shook his head, his eyes not so sure anymore. It was just the way Curly had described—something you’d never forget. Rotunda threw Tommy in. Hank jumped in after.

  All the women turned their head forward at once, except for Pistollette. Tommy stayed seated on the floor. Hank took a seat next to her. She took her pad and pencil out again.

  She wrote: Nothing new, but I do love you.

  Hank took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly. He opened them to her burning the note in the car. A scorching hot flame between them, burning away the only meaningful thing she’d ever written to him.

  Rotunda cleared her throat. “We’re going to have to blindfold you now.”

  “How-how come?” Tommy said, looking around. Even though he was scared, curiosity was steadily creeping back into his countenance.

  “We just have to.”

  The one in the front seat blindfolded Tommy. The blindfold had eyes and was the same color as skin. When Tommy turned his face to Hank, at first glance it looked as though Tommy was actually looking at him. Pistollette secured Hank’s next. As the car drove on, Hank could hear liquid hitting a bucket. He knew that sound. Someone was heaving. Then he heard it again.

  “Everything okay?” Hank opened his eyes wider, a useless attempt to see in the darkness. He tried to take a deep breath, but the acidic smell of bile floated heavily on the recycled air in the van.

  “Well, no, Hank Huckleberry Rivers, or as the gang calls you, Honey Hole. It’s not really,” Rotunda snapped. Even though it was supposed to be disapproving, it was done in a gentle sort of manner. She was reining in her agitation, or trying to. “You’ve given them that damn flu. Pistollette had to hold her vomit in the entire time she was holding up the mine.”

  Hank felt a weak hand grab his. A weak hand that was just holding up a bank, the same hand that was as steady as iron in the wind, stuck twenty feet into the ground with two deadly pistols in its grip. Was this the same shaking hand that supposedly killed a man in cold blood?

  Only three banks to go, and he still didn’t know a damn thing; just a few more banks until the big one. The finale. The end to it all. The biggest of the mines. The one Tommy knew had the most to lose, and they were heading straight for it.

  Hank couldn’t bring himself to remove his fingers from hers. Hank couldn’t bring himself to remove the mask and know everything he’d been pining to know. Hank didn’t even know why he didn’t want to know.

  Instead he asked their names. Cheshire Cat, Jellyfish, Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham, of course Pistol, but she was now being called Pistollette, and Boom Boom. At least now he had names to go with masked faces. The rest could wait—until when? Hank hadn’t a clue.

  The circus and the shows went round for round. Another month, and three more banks were robbed. All of Cray Lusianno’s banks were set in perfect little family towns. Small, quaint banks with a real cottage feel to them, all located in beautiful cities with white picket fences, green ponds, greener grass hills, strolling parents and children, and a waving flag or two. That old blood money wafted in the air like a pollutant. Hank could always smell it from a mile away.

  Things were moving too fast. Things felt like they were getting bigger. Hank and his friends were only there for three more, but banks continued to be robbed. Banks that didn’t even belong to Cray Lusianno & Associates. Those were the banks where men got smacked in the face with guns, stabbed in the chest with heels, and once the policed had arrived, had been stripped of what they considered their manhood—they had to admit they were terrified of fighting back.

  Even so, these mystical women in heels who were robbing and donating continued to make headlines, and banks across the states had never been busier. Men were lining up, never taking such an interest in where their money was stashed, all in hopes of catching a glimpse of them.

  Posters were made, memes popped up like mushrooms in a wet field online, and a comic strip was dedicated to these women. Pistollette was bigger than life, her legs spread apart, a pistol in each hand, looking down on the world. That exaggerated smile on her face, those brown blinking eyes.

  Her sisters were right beside her, blowing things up, winking and playing the boom box, tap dancing by a door, flipping on counters. Close to their hairlines, a zipper, and a clear thin line that separated their two sides. The good and the bad. The zipper was the key to their true identity. And below them all were men, amplified cartoon hearts floating from their chests, stars in their eyes, and lust in their smiles.

  The slogan for these women—not only do they steal your money, they collect interest on your heart.

  The entire world knew who they were. Headlines read: Maybe coming to a bank near you.

  Propaganda hung in alleys, on fences, above urinals, and below in underground train stations. They were up in pool halls, in dive bars, and on the walls of the swankiest clubs in New York. They had become art. Modern day sophisticate meets old lawless ruggedness. A huge billboard hung in Hollywood, showing the girls appearing out of smoke: Stealing the hearts of the rich guys, giving to the poor ones. Pistollette and her Sirens will take you by storm! They were for the good guys of the world who cared enough to figure it out.

  They were elusive and mysterious, and there was a reward for any man who would dare remove any of their masks. The world was sure underneath the masquerades were the most beautiful faces any man had ever seen. No one ever tried. They were too stupefied in their presence. They were truck drivers’ and bikers’ dreams, doctors’ and lawyers’ fantasies.

  The hoopla went on and on.

  Dylan and Tommy got into a fight when it was time to decide who was going next. Tomm
y was obsessed and Curly was done. Jesse was too afraid he’d pass out from fright, and Dylan was curious. Since Dylan had never been, Tommy finally gave in.

  In Aiken, South Carolina—song of choice: “Gimme All Your Lovin’”—Hank warned Dylan about Rotunda’s breasts. In the bathroom, they found priests outfits. They changed into them down the street and went back to the bank to wait.

  After the show, they ran side by side, along with a man they didn’t know but had seen on the bank’s floor. The man was artistic looking, with paint decorating his hands in a rainbow of colors; a tie-dyed bandanna was the only thing controlling the many locks of hair raining down from his head.

  “The name is Artie Doolittle Bandit, but my friends call me Stroke,” he said, looking at them with dilated eyes. “I fell head over heels for that little boom-box girl.”

  As Hank and Dylan sidestepped Rotunda, Stroke ran right into her breasts. Even though she was commanding in stature, she was surprising, like Jack’s magical beanstalk.

  She stood with her hands on her hips, staring at Stroke. “Who in the hell is this?” She looked at Hank.

  “I’m not too sure. I got as far as Artie Doolittle Bandit, nicknamed Stroke. In love with Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham,” Hank said, trying to catch his breath.

  Rotunda looked up at the sky. “Have mercy! I don’t know what in the world is going on with you people. You run behind women, crazy-ass women, like you’re running behind the damn Beatles! That one is packing two pistols, and she ain’t playin’ around. She’ll kill you! Kill you! My mama always said the reason you men are so crazy is ’cause you have balls. Balls don’t do nothin’ but make a person crazy.” She sighed. “I ain’t got no time to ask. I’m just going to have to do what I have to do.”

  Rotunda put her hands together, making one big fist, and whopped Stroke on the top of his head like she was coming down with a sledgehammer. His knees went out before his body went down. Rotunda caught him before he hit the ground and then threw him over her shoulder, like he was her purse.

  “Come on you two. Now we gotta to run!”

  Hank and Dylan ran behind her, jumping into the van. The nuns were waiting, their faces turning at the same time. Dylan stumbled back a bit, but Hank pushed him on. He was used to their hair-raising timing by now. Rotunda threw Stroke on the floor. She started the car and tapped on Cheshire Cat’s hand. She in turn tapped on Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham’s hand. She started clapping, bouncing in her seat. Jellyfish was beating her face against the window.

  The girls blindfolded them, and they were on their way again. After a few minutes of traveling and silence, Dylan started to howl.

  “I know I’m the law, but let me just tell you…you girls are impressive! I’m rethinking my side here. That was so hot, it was damn near scorching! Even though you’re on the wrong side, for some damn reason it feels so right.”

  The sisters laughed quietly from beneath their alter egos. Rotunda turned the radio on and up. It was Wet Willie and “Take the Money and Run” time. Hank started to laugh as Dylan continued to howl.

  The girls all leaned in, wiggling their fingers together, sighing, singing, “Wooo hooo.”

  It was the first time Hank ever heard their voices.

  In Chattanooga, Tennessee, they played “Rag Doll,” and a crowd formed behind Hank and his friends as they ran. The crowd was so thick, neither Rotunda nor Pistollette waited for Hank. They took off without a trace, nowhere to be found. Some of the men had love notes on deposit slips, and flowers picked from the side of the road, waiting to hand them over if they were given the chance.

  When the police showed, the men mobbed them, claiming all they saw were beautiful women putting on a show. They refused to say a word otherwise.

  Hank listened while the branch manager spoke to the feds. She told them she couldn’t believe how fast the one with the pistols was. Before she could even press the panic button, she had her into submission on the floor. Then another one, a sixth girl, she thought, was there, a foot to her head, keeping her face down. Of course, she was lying through her trembling admission. She feared for her job. She slept through almost the entire thing.

  The teller, who was wide awake, backed her story without a moment’s hesitation.

  Rotunda finally showed an hour or so later. She held an arm out to Hank. “Well, Honey Hole, I’ve done seen it all. It’s final. You boys have gone crazy! I was hesitant about telling my mama that I like girls, but seeing you all, she sure is proud of me. That’s why I love women. No balls making them go buggy! Is that what it is, Hank? Oh, well, I’m glad you waited for Pistollette. You know she changed her name just for you? You didn’t…Anyway, she’d be in a pepper mood without you…You know I’ve always loved her. I’d never let anyone hurt her…”

  In Wimberley, Texas, “The Fire Down Below,” Hank didn’t feel right. Something dangerous and fully charged zipped through the air—something electric, deadly. It was like holding a metal rod in a raging lightning storm, daring life to take its claim.

  Hank felt nervous, which he rarely did. His hands were shaking. His stomach was off. All throughout the show, he found himself staring out of windows, looking over his shoulder, constantly on high alert. He swore that he heard sirens.

  Tommy, Dylan, and Stroke sat beside him, dancing to the music. The show went off without a hitch, light laughter following as Jellyfish tried to push Tommy out the door while Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham tried helping him in.

  This time they were in an old beater van, the painted sign on the door read: Little Sisters of Mercy Choir. We sing to the chorus of angels. The gang was all dressed in red silk robes. Gold crosses hung around their necks. Hank had seen the necklaces before, but this day he paid close attention to them. They were wearing them for a reason.

  As soon as they started to pull away Hank heard sirens, and this time, he knew he wasn’t imagining it. The sound pierced the air like emergency vehicles on their way to rescue a victim shot down by lightning. What sort of fool plays in an electrical storm anyway—with metal clutched in his mere flesh and bone grip? Apparently one in love with two women—one daring him to hold the conductor while the other walks away. Either way, he’s doomed.

  Rotunda said real casually, “Will you boys please hit the floor?”

  They guys did as they were told. The van started to pick up speed, tires squealing, plenty of swerving. Heaven Almighty, how are we going to get away in this van! It is a beater for God’s sake! Hank lifted his head just a tad and chanced a tentative look out the window.

  The van was going much faster than he ever expected. Everything was a blur as they sped down the streets. Hank’s heart was pounding and he was sweating uncontrollably. Rotunda had pressed a button and something clicked every few seconds. Rotating license plates, he was informed, each set with different numbers.

  Rotunda knew exactly where she was headed. She never asked for directions or instructions, she just kept her foot to the petal. Pistollette and her girls sat with their faces turned forward. If they had something to say they tapped or clapped. The masked women were pleased with the action. There was an undeniable energy in the air, one that thrived on the beat of the music they danced to.

  The van started to take off roads, the direction of that feral wind taking them toward an overly populated area filled with trees. More sirens. Hank noticed premade tracks already leading from the road to the entrance of the woods.

  Pistollette tapped on Jellyfish’s hand and then Jellyfish leaned forward, whispering something in Rotunda’s ear.

  “I made the tracks from here clear across to the highway,” Rotunda said, nodding her head. Her determined eyes met Hank’s for just a second. “Decoy van already there waiting at the end of the tracks.”

  Pistollette clapped her hands. She took out her two pistols, barrels glinting in the honey colored sun, turning her body around to face the back of the van.

  “She’s not going to shoot at the cops, is she?” Dylan’s voice trembled.

  “No
, she won’t hurt them. She’ll just shoot their tires out,” Rotunda said matter of fact.

  “Oh, sh-shi-shit,” Tommy stumbled out.

  Dylan and Stroke started praying, their eyes closed tight, their hands locked together, rocking back and forth into each other.

  Hank wiped the sweat from his brow. He stole another peek out of the window. They were still following premade tracks.

  Come on, Rotunda Grinder, lay that hammer down.

  Rotunda never veered from the trail once. Jellyfish knocked on the window three times and it came open. Cool air rushed through the interior. Burnt leaves and soggy mud perfumed the air, instantly burying the smell of sweat and other odors that nervous people usually produce during times of panic.

  Jellyfish put one hand on her hat and one on Pistollette’s. Pistollette tore the robe off and then stuck her body out of the window, her two arms outstretched, her fingers on the triggers. Jellyfish worked as a third arm for her. This was just one big, well-oiled woman machine.

  A lone man stood in the woods. He was waiting by an entrance. It looked like an uplifted platform, the sides being held up by large trees, by long ropes on either side. Grass, leaves, and vines were dangling over the top. As soon as the man saw the van, he ran into the hole dug deeply into the ground. Pistollette pulled those triggers, each bullet slicing through the ropes. The top collapsed and everything stopped and went dark.

  Tommy and the guys looked at each other. “L-L-Lord have mercy, she i-i-is Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley’s lo-love child,” he stuttered out. “She’s am-ambidextrous with tho-tho-those w-w-weapons. That sh-shot has got to be d-d-damn near im-im-impossible with two guns.”

  “How many of them?” Rotunda looked at Pistollette.

  Pistollette tapped on the seat five times. A few seconds later, they heard one car speed over the top, like they were underneath a bridge. Pistollette tapped once. Each time another would pass, she would give the seat another vigorous thump. Five, just like she had predicted.