Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  You fatally wound a woman, you cut her so deeply, and no one believes she’ll be able to heal. A woman will heal. A woman will sew herself back together and wait years and years, until the outside world can’t seem to find a trace of the wound. But it’s there. The wound. It becomes a scar on the inside and she’ll always remember. She may forgive, but she never forgets. Especially when that scar starts to itch.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned—and in that van, there were a gang of them.

  A long toot resounded in through the highway air. Pistol looked out the window. A bunch of guys in an old beater were leaning out the window and hollering. When they rode up beside the gang, their mouths fell open, and Jellyfish made the sign of the cross at them.

  Pistol had to laugh. “Cheshire, what’d you do?”

  “Honk if you’re a horny toad!” Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham squealed out. “Bomp Bomp!”

  They all started laughing as Rotunda easily pulled the van into a waiting big rig. As the back came crashing down, the inside went dark, until the lights were turned on. Cheshire Cat popped the top to a champagne bottle and Rotunda turned the music up to high. This was their song, their time, the only celebration they’d allow themselves. They had to keep balanced—never getting too comfortable, never allowing their fears to drive them off the edge. You had to keep it at center.

  They wanted the fire of justice to burn them so deeply that it branded them for life. And it had. They each had a separate scar, all in thanks to an evil weapon. The evil weapon whose name they rarely spoke because it was a waste of their breath. The evil that they knew was so dirty there was not enough water in the universe to wash its soul clean. They didn’t have to repeat the name—their agenda was clear. Their point was being clearly made. No one was going to derail this train. It was going straight on to that station. Choo Choo! Here we come!, they were yelling.

  All in unison they screamed, “Wet Willie!” And Boom Boom gave Hank one. They all sang, and when the part came when Willie sang about holes in your shoes, they all screamed, “If we even had any!” Then they screeched with laughter.

  No one could steal this from them. Once, but never again.

  The song came to an end and they all went, “Woo hoo…Thank God!” coming together, wiggling their fingers and sighing. They had lived to see another run. That was good enough for today.

  “We ain’t ashamed of who we are, ain’t that right, shooters?” Boom Boom hollered.

  “Woo hoo…” they went again.

  “What’s next?” Rotunda screamed.

  The girls clapped in unison, once, twice, once again, and then three times in quick succession. “Go on, and take the money and run!” they shouted. The music was turned up.

  “Ah, Pistol, did you see those guys’ faces when you started shooting!”

  “I love when Connie puts out Dum Dums. I think it sends an especially vulgar message, don’t you?”

  “Girls, did you all see Pistol doing her spinning jive with her fingers for our special visitor here? I haven’t seen her do that in a dog’s age!”

  “Rotunda, I have no idea how you knock ’em like you do! Every time, like a charm!”

  “I don’t really know. I’m just so tall and everyone else is so short. I just stand over them and, bump! It’s like knocking moles back in their holes. Poor Hank Huckleberry caught me off guard, though, with his sad eye. My ring got him.”

  “He needs a name!”

  “Honey Hole! Yes, Hank ‘Honey Hole’ Rivers!”

  “Agreed,” they all said.

  The conversation went on just like it usually did. As the big rig made its way out of town, the gang became quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Pistol sat with Hank and held his hand. She rested her head next to his, knowing this would be the last time she’d ever see Hank Huckleberry Rivers again. Unless, of course, in court.

  Hank was the only man she knew she ever truly loved. How’d she know so soon? She didn’t have all the answers, she never did, but there are some things you just know.

  Wild Wyatt used to say, “When you have guts, you have half the battle. When you have gut feelings, you have the other half. If you have both, you have the world.’

  Pistol had enough of both for five women. She was owning the world, one bank at a time. When she shot, it wasn’t her vision that guided her, it was gut feelings, it was gut, and it seemed she was never wrong when she knew she was right. She never missed a target she was aiming for. It was like they almost fell out of the sky, like magic, because they knew she was near. They dropped in fear.

  Pistol was as dangerous as a fully loaded gun in the hands of a rookie shooter. She knew it too. She had to. One step in the wrong direction, one fear recognized in the midst of the action, and she’d wind up dead. And she couldn’t have that. No, not until it was truly over.

  It was just a damn shame. The outlaw and the district attorney had fallen in love, both seeking justice, just in two very different ways.

  Hank sat with his back against a brick wall. Curly’s head was on his shoulder, his curly hair falling around his head unkempt. Next to him sat an unknown man.

  Hank stirred and tried to open his eyes, but it was hard to do. It was like someone had pasted his lids shut. He absentmindedly wondered if, when that Rotunda of a woman clocked him, she made his right eyelid go limp, too.

  He didn’t know where he was when he finally had the strength to fully open his eyes. It was dark still, and there was dew on the ground seeping through his pants. They were sitting in grass, and the only light was a dim one, coming from the building he was up against. He looked over his shoulder and saw Curly’s head.

  Heaven Almighty, what in the hell happened to him?

  He pushed Curly off, and Curly fell right over and moaned. He had a beastly red lump on his head. Hank idly wondered how much damage Rotunda’s knock had caused him. Lord have mercy, popped by a woman. In all fairness, she was a big woman.

  Hank heard a man laughing, and when he turned, it was the unknown man. He was right next to him, a shaking cup of coffee in his hand. He smelled of rotten banana and two weeks’ worth of perspiration.

  The man lifted his cup. “Good mornin’ to ya.”

  Hank let his head fall against the brick wall. He knew his head should hurt, and it was a little sore, but in all honesty, he just felt tired.

  “Don’t worry.” The man’s voice was like gravel on old country asphalt. “I didn’t steal nothin’ of yurs. I actually have somethin’ for you.”

  “You do?” Hank sat up at snail’s pace, not wanting to disturb his equilibrium, lest it be off.

  The man dug in his pocket and then handed Hank the white card that was in his wallet, with his name and position listed on the front. Hank turned it over. There was a note written in sloppy handwriting.

  Convict of interests.

  That’s all she had left for him? “Convict of interests.” Hank turned the card over in his hands a few times, hoping somehow she used magic ink and it just hadn’t dried yet.

  “That’s all there is.” The man shrugged. “And it’s not convict of interests, it’s, conflict.”

  Hank checked his pockets. His wallet was still where he left it. Then he remembered the old bus ticket and frantically searched for it. It was there. Thank God. Hank had a feeling about that ticket, and he didn’t want anything to happen to it. That ticket was meant for him. The way it came toward him in the street like that, it seemed like a miracle, or something close to it.

  He checked his other pocket. The half man standing with one of the women, and the justice scale, was still there, too.

  “Wait, what did you say?”

  “You heard me, fella. I wrote the note. I should know.”

  “Did you see the people who dropped us off?” Hank said.

  “I sure did.” The man gulped the coffee. “A bunch of nuns. God bless ’em.”

  “A bunch of nuns, huh? Did you get a good look at them?”

  The man sat back, away from
Hank. “You were with them, why you askin’ me? Did they get you from the bin?”

  “No, it’s not that.” Hank pointed up. “I hit my head and my memory is a little fuzzy.”

  “Well, they just looked like a bunch of sisters to me. I was asleep when they woke me up. I’m not a heavy sleeper, and let me tell you, I didn’t even know they were there until they whistled at me. And you two were beside me all of a sudden. The one did tell me to mention to you that she had me write the note. She was a little harpy about makin’ sure I did, but she didn’t write it. Whatever that means. I smell something illegal going on here with you two. But who am I to judge?”

  Hank looked around real good this time. He was in a parking lot with an old gas station, a car station, and the red brick building he was leaning against. The car station had a bright, purple neon sign that was twitching in the night. It glowed: Jo’s.

  The grass he was on separated the building he was using and the other lot. There was a highway, but he had no idea where they left him, or Curly for that matter.

  “I know this is going to sound really strange, but can you tell me where I am?” Hank said.

  The man scooted even further way. “You’re in Memphis.”

  “Ahh,” Hank pretended to remember then. “That’s right.”

  Just then, Curly let out a yell and sat straight up. His eyes were huge and frightful. The man next to them grabbed his plastic bag, slinging it over his shoulder and taking a seat at the edge of the building, even further away. He sat with his back to the road and watched them suspiciously.

  “Hank!” Curly yelled. “Oh, Hank, is it really you?” He grabbed Hank and hugged him so tight, Hank’s head started to throb.

  “It’s me. Are you all right?”

  Curly released him with force. “Lord have mercy, I don’t know! I got hit in the head by a nun. A nun, Hank!”

  “How did you get hit in the head?”

  “After you ran out of the bank, I was afraid you were panicking. I didn’t know what happened to you. I went after you. I thought I could beat you, so I went out the front door and took a right out on the street. I ran down a ways and then took another right, you know, right on the corner, there?”

  Hank nodded.

  “I saw a van and ran toward it. When I got close, I saw a bunch of nuns, so I was going to ask them if they saw a man run by. I knocked on the window and it was them, Hank! Those feminist, showgirl robbers. They had those creepy masks still on their faces, and what was even more frightening—” he took a deep breath “—when I knocked, they all turned at the exact same time. Like robots.

  “It was like they were waiting for me, like they were counting my steps and knew exactly when I was going to turn up next to them. I’ll never forget that for as long as I live, I swear it. You know how people are afraid of clowns? I’m afraid of nuns now! They’ve ruined a sacred part of me, Hank.”

  “It’s going to be all right.” Hank went to pat him on the shoulder.

  Curly moved away. “No, it’s not. I tried to run away, I did. One of them got me, right in the head. I went down like a sack of potatoes, and I swear I heard the one who did it laughing at me.” He examined Hank more closely. “Why’d you run after them? I know you’re justice happy, ever since…but Hank, you can’t stop them, especially when they out-number you and are crazier than possessed bats!”

  Hank didn’t know what to say. How could he admit to Curly that he wasn’t running after them because he wanted to stop them—he just wanted to stop her? They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening as the steady stream of cars passed by. Tiny bugs on the ground hovered around the edges of the grass, and they had to keep moving their hands to keep them away.

  “Why are you not saying much?” Curly said.

  “I don’t know. Why are you not saying anything?”

  “Don’t pull that with me. I lived with a lawyer, Hank. I know the game. That’s why I always said you’d be a hot damn defense lawyer. You’re always skirting around the issues.” Curly looked down and saw the white card on Hank’s leg. He snatched it before Hank had the chance to stop him. “What’s this, Hank? Convict of interests? What in the hell is going on? Did they search you?”

  “Apparently.” Hank looked away, toward the man. They stared at each other, but he barely saw the vagabond. He was there but somewhere else entirely.

  Curly patted himself. “There ain’t no telling what they did to us while we were unconscious. I’m not a smoking man, but I’ll tell you this, I wish I had one! Did they take us as hostages? Dang, I don’t understand. It was like being robbed, bing-bang, me runnin’, and then boom!, lights out.”

  “No, I ran behind them.”

  “Hank, listen to me. And I want you to listen real good now. You’re hiding something from me. I saw the way you looked at the one. The one toting the guns. You were fine until she started creeping toward you. At first, I thought you were just afraid. She was coming at you with loaded pistols.

  “You started to sweat and I kept elbowing you, wanting you to look away from her, but you wouldn’t. Then you told her she was the one that needed saving. I heard you. It was like you were looking at her with love!”

  Hank refused to answer him. He just needed a moment to think. He needed more time, more time with her. He had to know her, and now he felt like he had lost her forever. Hank never lied to himself, and he wasn’t pretending now; he was heartbroken. When she robbed that bank, as corny as it sounded, she stole his heart.

  “Hank, do you think they left us because of this?” Curly held the card up. The white of the card was neon under the florescent light. “Because they found out what you do?”

  “I know she did. She dumped me because of what I do.” Hank hung his head. “Conflict of interests.”

  “And you sound sad about it? You have a pretty nice size lump on your head and stitches. I’m going to just lie to myself and believe, for just a little while, that’s why you’re being nuts!”

  Hank lifted his hand to his head and felt a rigid texture there. He felt the thread and winced. Things got quiet after that, while they both closed their eyes. What do you say in a time like this? What do you do? Hank couldn’t find it in himself to move. He didn’t have the want or the energy to do anything but sit there, with his head against the wall, and wonder why in the hell it had to be her.

  Would she ever come back for him? Did she even want him the way he wanted her? Did she feel it too? She was the only one who could answer those questions, and she was a fugitive on the run. Who knew where she could be by then? Mexico! What if that was her last run? For the first time since he wanted to rob a bank himself, he wanted her to do it again. He needed her to.

  He opened his eyes and stared at his shoes while he moved them back and forth in the grass. The little bugs popped up here and there, trying to avoid being swatted.

  Hank threw his head against the wall and winced. He blew out a big breath of frustration. Why would someone want to rob a bank in the first place? What would possess them to do such a thing?

  He was putting desperation in the center of his mental outline that he was drawing out. He drew a big red circle around the heart of it all—desperation—and from it a vein to money. Money could, no, would possess someone to do something so drastic. He drew another vein, this time mentally seeing the word personal. Something personal was driving them to do it, perhaps?

  Sure, when you’re desperate for money people will do dangerous things. But not all those banks. They wouldn’t need to. They got away with the first one, and he was more than sure the money from that robbery would tide them over for years, if not for the rest of their lives. They could be sitting pretty right now, not having one financial worry. Why push it?

  From his schooling, Hank learned that women usually don’t commit crimes that like. If they do, it’s usually for just what they need. What they can justify in their minds is the right thing to do because they have to.

  He imagined them again. He could still h
ear the music playing, the gunshots. He could see the way their fingers moved when they were communicating, how they moved like a well-oiled piece of feminine equipment. It wasn’t normal, and if they were going in just for the money, why did they stick around so long? Why did they put on a show? Why didn’t they just take the money and run?

  There was one thing Hank’s schoolbooks never taught him, but he knew. Women are the best grudge holders in the world. You hurt them deep enough, you can bet that one day you’ll get it back tenfold. Whether it’s from them directly, or they pray enough that somehow you get it indirectly, it happens. It always does. Hank didn’t have to think of why anymore. He knew. It had to be personal. He just didn’t know the secret they were hiding.

  Hank and Curly sat in silence until the first signs of dawn. Light stretched across the sky with the sun just behind it. Hank searched his pockets, but he must have left his phone in Wild Thang.

  He asked Curly if he had his, and he said no. He forgot it back at their parent’s house. Hank didn’t want to have to go into the convenience store. The other place, the garage, Jo’s Shop, wasn’t open yet. He looked around a little more and spotted an ancient payphone.

  “I’m going to call Dylan.” Hank sighed. His heart was aching; aching for answers, aching for her, aching to see her real face and body. Just to hear her voice. “You want to wait at the store while I go?”

  “Nah, my nerves are on edge. I can’t move.”

  “You want something from the store then?”

  “Just go ahead and call Dylan. I’m ready to go. I’m a nervous wreck, having visions of possessed nuns, and I’m wet and in a monkey suit. I want out. Next thing you know, they’ll be flying. I want to take shelter back home.”

  Hank took his time walking across the parking lot. His head was starting to hurt, like something wore off and he was getting hit tenfold with the pain. When he finally made it to the payphone, he picked up the receiver and there was nothing.

  Heaven Almighty, it just wasn’t his day.