Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  He clanked the receiver against the machine. It was greasy and smelled of rusted coins. He pressed the hook a couple of times and, finally, he heard a faint dial tone.

  He pressed zero and waited. The operator came on, and he had to resist the urge to ask her how many of herself and these phones were still available, because before today, he had forgotten about them.

  And when he thought back, it was like they vanished off the face of the earth. Got wiped out, like the dinosaurs. Instead, he asked to make a collect call. He gave the operator his name and Dylan’s number.

  Dylan answered on the third ring and accepted the charges.

  “Hank, is that you?” Dylan yelled into the receiver.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Hey—”

  “Thank God! Did they hurt you? Where are you? What happened?” Dylan was talking so fast, Hank could hardly keep up. His head was pulsating.

  A loud roar of an old car filled the lot. A pair of lights shone on Hank before they faded. The car was growling louder than it should.

  Hank tried to speak over the engine. He plugged one ear with his finger. “Dylan, we’re all right. I have Curly here with me. I panicked and ran from the bank. Curly followed me.”

  “Hank, listen to me. Is anyone there with you? Is someone making you say that you’re okay?”

  “What? What are you talking about? I’m a grown man, why would someone make me say that?”

  “Hank, is someone there with you?” he said more forcefully. “Are they forcing you to say that you’re just okay?”

  Then it dawned on Hank that Dylan thought he was being held hostage. “I swear on REO it’s just me and Curly.” Hank could finally take his voice down. The car was quiet. He noticed the lights in the car shop turn on too. They blinked before they exploded with light.

  “All right, that’s good. This is massive, Hank. We thought they took you and Curly. We’ve been searching all night long. These girls, or women, or whoever they are, they ain’t playing around, Hank. The FBI is all over it. They can’t find a damn thing on them. Not one—single—thing. Please, tell me what you know.”

  Hank leaned his head against the clunky body of the phone. “Not much. I mean, it happened so fast. They were there with balloons, then they made all the women and kids leave, and then after a few minutes, they were gone. Just like that. They put on a show in-between. They had dance music and everything. Something blew up, and poof, they were gone.”

  “Poof, just like that?”

  “Poof, just like that. An extremely real, carefully constructed magic trick. Or so it seemed.”

  “Damn,” Dylan growled. “The FBI won’t even let us go anywhere near it. Those women, they’re good, I’ll tell you that. The thing is, what they do, they have no real reason to. I mean, explosives? They get into the safe without it. If you ask me, my gut says that they just like to go around blowing shit up. The public likes them, too. They are calling them modern day Maid Marians with the bravery of Robin Hood.

  “Out of the ten banks that have been robbed, the exact amount from eight of the banks they believe has been donated to charity. They’re betting the other money has been donated too, but in smaller chunks so it’s not as noticeable. I’m wondering why those eight banks? Why not donate it all like they are doing now? You know why? I believe it’s because those eight banks are personal.”

  Hank knocked his head against the machine a little.

  “I told you, Hank, if they kept it out of my county, to each their own. But it’s personal now. No matter if they donate the money or not.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said. “It’s personal for me too.”

  Hank twisted around with the phone, the cord pulling against the base. He wanted to check on Curly. Dylan started to ask another question, but the phone dropped from Hank’s hand. He could hear Dylan yelling for him, but he couldn’t pick it up again. Not right away.

  There was a woman walking from the store. Hank was moving toward that black hole again, time creeping, before he eventually knew once he fell in, it would stop all together.

  He watched her move toward her car. The loud car, the one that he couldn’t hear over, was a glistening purple 1970 Plymouth Barracuda Hemi in pristine condition.

  A surging gust of wind blew as she walked with ease toward her car. The air blew its fury against her small frame, her shoulder-length brown hair and her long, thin white skirt temporarily caught in its tantrum.

  Hank watched with a wide eye, as she seemed to walk right through it, leaving the whirlwind behind her steps. He felt like that whirlwind was going to sweep him up and carry him to unknown places. In this moment, he was made of nothing but air. He could float. He would float. To anywhere she pulled his string.

  If she were flying in heaven, he’d be right beside her, wings on. If she were in the fiery pits, he’d be right beside her, mixing their ashes together. If she were lying, he’d be there, backing her story up. If she were a thief, he’d run behind her, making sure she never left anything behind. If she were a drifter, no place to call home, he’d be right beside her, her arms the only place he’d call home.

  Hank shook his head.

  Oh love, Hank thought, what have you done to me? Was it the knock to his head that had him so delusional? Could it be? He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. Was it her—Pistollette? Had she come back for him? If she had, that meant more than any word her mouth could speak. It took faith and love to do something of that magnitude. She was building the tracks before the train was even invented.

  Or was he falling in love again with a woman he never even knew? Hank had a feeling he was falling into an inferno of a love triangle, but he ignored it.

  “Hello! Haaaank!” Dylan screamed so loud into the receiver, Hank jumped.

  He put the receiver back to his ear. “I’m here. Sorry. Just give me a minute, will you?”

  “Why are you breathing like that? Hank? Hank!”

  Hank couldn’t answer. He was watching the woman. She made it to her car and was now pumping gas. Her face was to him, but she wasn’t looking at him. She had her back resting on the car while she gazed up at the roof. He could tell she was moving her legs, her body rocking with the motion. He heard Elvis singing “Stuck On You.”

  She was pretty short, which would mean if she was Pistollette, those heels had to be absurdly high for her. Her hair was cut in layers that framed her face. Hank knew this because Hank always paid attention to details. She was soft and sweet looking to him, and he wanted to suck on that candy. He was hot, hotter than he should’ve been.

  He didn’t even notice the sweat rings forming underneath his armpits from the extreme physical reaction he was having to this woman.

  If Pistollette was anyone, anyone at all, Hank prayed to God then that it was the woman in the parking lot. As soon as the thought came to his mind, the woman stilled her movements, looking directly at him. Their eyes met from across the lot. After some hesitation, Hank smiled first.

  The woman smiled back, her teeth beautiful, filling out her face. They stared at each other, neither one turning their eyes away.

  Dylan’s loud voice was impossible to ignore anymore and he could hear two sets of everything being said in the background. Tommy must have walked in.

  “You don’t have to scream. I’m here,” Hank snapped. Dylan became quiet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I’ve just had a rough night.” Hank refused to turn his back on the woman. He had to talk to her, but what was he going to say? He had to tread lightly.

  “It’s all right. Listen, June-bug is having a nervous breakdown. Mrs. Presley had to go over to her place and knock her upside the head with her Bible preaching. Where are you, Hank? I’m coming to get ya’ll.”

  “No, not yet,” Hank rushed. “We just need a little more time.”

  “Time for what? Lordy, Hank, what’s going on? Where are you? Why are you lying to me?”

  “Listen, I need you to settle everything at home for me. We’ll be home soon. Tell everyo
ne not to worry. I’ll talk to whomever I need to once we get back. I swear. I just need some more time. Can you give me that?”

  Dylan hesitated. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, Hank. I’ll do it. Damn. Those women must have really screwed with your heart. Now you’re acting funny.”

  “Yeah,” Hank muttered. “Not all of them. Just one.”

  Then Hank hung up.

  “Is Dylan coming to get us?” Curly asked as Hank approached.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Hank stood with his back against the red-bricked building, watching her. She had finished pumping gas, and now she was cleaning her windshield.

  “Why not?” Curly studied Hank for a moment and then followed his stare to the woman’s figure. Curly shot up off the ground and stumbled at first. When he found his footing, he screeched, then yelled, “Hank, don’t bite that apple! Don’t do it. I know it seems tempting, but it’s forbidden fruit. Don’t even go near it!”

  Hank quickly put his hand over Curly’s mouth.

  When he released it, Curly said, “Lordy be, it’s her, isn’t it? You’ve been waiting for her! That’s her, isn’t it?”

  Hank shrugged. Curly slapped him across the face. Hank shook his head, not expecting it. If it were under any other circumstance, Hank would have fought him. But he knew Curly was scared.

  Curly screeched like a girl and started turning in circles. “Are you in on all of this? Tell me the truth, Hank. No, don’t tell me the truth. Let me think about this. No, I have to know the truth. But I have to think. It’s hard to think, though, when you have a lump the size of a tomato pulsating on your head!” He paused. “I understand now! You have Stockholm syndrome. That’s the only thing I can figure.”

  Hank grabbed Curly’s arm and stopped him from moving. “No, I don’t. Curly, listen to me, just listen!”

  “What’s happened to you, Hank? It’s like I don’t even know you. Who are you? Yesterday, I felt like I knew you better than anybody. Today, you are someone I don’t even recognize. We made a pact, at our tree house, to always keep justice. You made a promise, Hank. Or, or whoever the hell you are!”

  “You do know me. It’s still me, Curly. I’m just so damn twisted in this all of a sudden.”

  “Why, Hank? You gotta tell me why! Or I’m spillin’ the beans.”

  Hank pulled Curly further down the wall. He made him turn so he was facing her. She was walking back toward the gas station.

  “The truth?”

  Curly nodded.

  “I think…I think…Well, I think I’m in love.”

  Curly swallowed hard. He couldn’t answer at first. When he did, his voice trembled. “With the one…the one with the gun? And with this one? The one in the parking lot?”

  Hank nodded and looked down at his feet.

  “Lord have mercy, I always knew you was twisted, but this, Hank. This is just down-right messed up. You do know that’s her, right? The one in the parking lot has to be the same woman—the gunwoman! It’s too much of a coincidence not to be. Or did you two plan this out? Did you plan on meeting her here?”

  “No!” Hank yelled, then took a deep breath and released it. “No, I have never seen Pistollette before she robbed the bank.”

  “You named her—”

  Hank cupped Curly’s mouth again. “I had to tell them apart, didn’t I? I don’t know this woman either. They could be the same person. I have to find out. I have to know.”

  Curly moved his face. “How do you plan on going about that? Walking up to her and saying, ‘Hey there, sweetie, rob a bunch of banks lately? And, oh yeah, also clock a couple of innocents as you were getting away with your feminist, robotic sisters in religious habits?’”

  “No, I think I might be able to tell….”

  “Hank, if you don’t come clean now, I’m bailing. I’m serious. I’m going to call Dylan and squeal. I swear it on REO.”

  Hank stared forward. He could see her shopping the shelves in the store. “No, there are two things I believe will prove to me it’s her. She had a tell. When we were staring at each other, she looked away. She turned her eyes away from mine. I know this is going to sound even crazier than this whole situation, but I believe she did it on purpose. Or couldn’t control it.

  “A woman who has enough guts to rob a string of banks doesn’t just do things just because. And she had a particular smell. People don’t always lose that. Sometimes it’s natural. She smelled like spicy chocolate.”

  “You are just going to walk up to her and what, sniff her?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just going to wing it.”

  “Wing it with the feminist, gun-toting robber. How clever of you. Every ounce of her movement is planned out, and you’re going to wing it. I don’t know why I always follow you around. It only leads to trouble.” Curly blew hot hair from his parched mouth.

  Hank punched him lightly. A slight smile appeared on Curly’s face before he started pouting again.

  Hank turned his eyes a fraction. The homeless man was still watching. He had moved himself further down the wall. Hank had an idea. He held up a finger to Curly. Curly rolled his eyes.

  “Excuse me?” Hank said.

  The homeless man looked up from the ground. “Yeah, what do you want now? I’m just mindin’ my own business, just mindin’ my business is all.”

  Hank pointed to the glass window of the store just as the woman came walking out. She had a paper bag in her hands. “Is that the same woman who had you write the note?”

  The man looked for a moment. Hank noticed he didn’t narrow his eyes, or anything that would lead you to believe he had eye trouble. “No, that’s not her.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  The man looked again. He didn’t turn his eyes until the woman made it to her car. The man then nodded at Curly, who was also staring at the woman. “Your friend there, doesn’t he have blonde curly hair and blue eyes?”

  “Yeah, he does.”

  “Well, if someone came up to me and asked me if you were him, I could tell them no, couldn’t I? I just told you what he looked like. And I’m telling you that wasn’t her.”

  “All right,” Hank started to walk away. “Thanks.”

  Before he made it back to where Curly was still staring, the woman started walking toward them. Hank’s stomach felt like it had been left behind after hitting a bottomless dip in the road he didn’t see coming—just after two police cars came pulling into the parking lot.

  The police cruisers smoothly pulled into two parking spots directly in front of the store. Two policemen got out of each car and stood there for a moment. They watched while the woman walked toward Hank and Curly. They were watching her walk, and when she made it to Hank, they seemed to be keeping an eye on him, too.

  Hank couldn’t seem to breathe. His heart was beating overtime, and he was feeling the sweat underneath his arms. The woman seemed to come to him like a warm wind blowing. She was wild honeysuckle, midnight swims in a cool lake, an old gravel road, and that lonesome sound of the train whistle as it passes through town. She was Southern summers.

  “Are you all right, Hank?” Curly said.

  “Are my ears smoking?”

  “No.”

  “I’m all right then.”

  She stopped when she was directly in front of him. She was wearing a light blue, long-sleeve jean shirt, rolled up to her elbows, over a long white corset dress that made her skin seem delicate and tender. It brought out the mixture between light and dark brown in her hair. Just around her face was a subtle difference—the pieces seemed like they were alternately picked from deep fields of gold and sweet fields of strawberries. She had a raised, flesh-colored, crescent-shaped scar directly in the center of her forehead, just below her hairline. She wore cat eye glasses, thick rimmed and leopard print, which gave her a fierce but smart look.

  Even though Hank couldn’t breathe, he moved toward her and she moved toward him. They stopped only when they were a foot apart.


  Hank made a point of looking her in the eye. He believed you could tell a lot about someone from their eyes. And if she were Pistollette, maybe she’d avert her eyes again. If not, then she could either be the kind of woman who was so naïve that she would come this close to a man she didn’t know because she believed nothing could ever happen to her. Or she was the type of woman who knew damn well what the risks of being this close to a strange man were and she was well prepared.

  She was the latter, Hank believed. He didn’t know why, he just got the feeling.

  Hank liked eyes. He loved hers. Hers were whispering a million secrets, and if he were a betting man, he’d bet she’d never say to him the things her eyes were in this moment—not too soon anyway.

  Her eyes were large, deliciously almond shaped, like a snow leopard’s. They were a bit guarded in one way, suspicious, and expressively lethal in another. Not only were her eyes dangerous, they were exotic.

  The color, the color was mind blowing. Behind those black pupils exploded a honey-colored sun, and its light reflected the bluest of skies, and the greenest of fields. What shocked him the most were her limbal rings, the rings around the iris. They were the blackest and thickest he had ever seen. This woman had storm clouds in her eyes. Hank could see that storm; it was brewing, right in front of him.

  The pressure surrounding those peregrine colors was rising. If the rings were to ever lessen and become what he knew they could be, she could take the world down. She could destroy your home, brick by brick, nail by nail, window by shattering window. She was somehow blowing his world apart. He didn’t think she was even trying.

  Hank saw something move in his peripheral vision. When he turned to look, it was Curly, sniffing in her direction. Curly shook his head and mouthed “coconut” to him. Then he made the sign of the cross and looked to the sky. Hank’s heart fell just a little.

  “Is everything all right?” the woman’s soft voice asked. She had an accent, that sweet southern drawl, but it was light as sugar on toast.

  Hank couldn’t answer. She barreled through the silence.