Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  A damn bank? The irony, Hank thought.

  The center of the room was a stage shaped like an arched vault. It seemed like it was handmade, and it looked like it could rotate. Red curtains swept the sides, like peeking in a perfect window at a story about to unfold. Rounded tables were placed in front of it; similar to those areas in a bank you go to write your deposit. There was plenty of room to dance. And a marble and deep wood staircase with dark iron detailing led up to a second level.

  Hank heard the sound of clapping hands. The sound was echoing around the room.

  There was one clap. “He done made me purty.” A woman’s voice came from the back of the bar, and then out came the woman.

  She was tall and lusciously carved, with wild curls. The sandy color was streaked with black and was parted down the middle, making the hair around her head seem unruly to the first degree. Clad in all black leather, she strolled by, highfalutin, grinning, like a misbehaved cat that ate the canary. She stared at Hank and Curly as she did. A tattoo on her right forearm read “Only God knows my future” above a large cross. She had green eyes, Hank noticed.

  There was another clap. It was from Delilah. “He done made me smarty.” The wild-haired woman slowed and let Delilah go first.

  Another clap. “That bastard, he done made me hate men from the bottom of my big ole hearty.”

  Hank looked around and saw a woman on stage. How she got there, he had no idea. She was there, and she was moving toward Delilah and the other woman. She was wearing a tight-fitting, vintage red dress suit. A black feather stuck up from her bright red hair. She was on the short side, with a curvaceous body and skin like peaches and cream, with just a few scattered freckles. She had bright blue eyes.

  A double clap sounded from two different sides of the bar. Hank and Curly both looked around. Curly’s hair was matted with sweat; the bags were trembling in his hands.

  “He done made me loud.” Jo walked down the steps toward them. She was wearing worn-down cowgirl boots and a t-shirt that said “Daddy’s Girl.”

  “He done made me proud.” Another woman popped up from behind the bar.

  Damn. Where did she come from?

  A silk blouse clung to her tall, thin frame, while her black slacks moved easily with her long, elegant strides. Her platinum hair bounced with substantial, organized curls. She had blue eyes, too, just a tad bit darker than the redhead’s. Hers were like seawater on a cloudy day; the other’s were like the sky on a bright one.

  Heaven Almighty. These were not ordinary ladies. When this type of woman walked through the door, the whole room went on full alert.

  Curly leaned over. “Five,” he muttered, holding his hand up to Hank.

  They all met in the middle, huddling around each other, until there was a chorus of clapping, an energetic and catchy rhythm. A woman walked out with a sugary smile on her face, her arms out-stretched and reaching.

  “And girls,” she yelled, “he done made me want to blow him up into the clouds! Yeehaw!”

  They all ran to her, throwing themselves into her arms. She took turns hugging them, grabbing their chins and fixing their hair. The woman was older, with white hair, whiter than a pear tree in full bloom. Her eyebrows, on the contrary, were black as charred bark. She had red lips and was built like a ballerina, tall, graceful, but wearing western wear. Her red coat buttoned just below her sternum, flaring out, draping the floor. The sleeves were ruffled and her boots were creased with time and wear. She had stone brown eyes.

  Bingo, Hank thought.

  More girls came from the back. They all gathered around, their voices low, sounding like whispers in a packed church. Curly put his hands up again, just to throw them back down, shaking his head.

  The woman stopped her fussing with the girls. Her lips tightened as her eyes glazed over Hank and Curly, like the heat from a burning oven filled with ceramics. Her fiery eyes done with their appraisal, they seemed to lighten and she smiled.

  “Hello, boys,” she said, walking toward them. Her boots clacked against the wooden floor, but it almost seemed deliberate. She was putting together a song as she did. Delilah kept step with her, smiling at Hank. The rest of the girls followed.

  When Delilah reached Hank, she stood next to him. Hank felt good about that. She wasn’t ashamed of him. If anything, Hank felt like the look on her face was pride.

  “Aunt Katherine, this is Hank.” Delilah nodded toward him and then she introduced Curly. “Boys, I’d like for you to meet my aunt, Katherine Law.”

  They made pleasant small talk until the bright redhead with the speckle of freckles jumped in front and demanded to be introduced. Her name was Hazel Little Darling. The one who grinned like a misbehaving cat was Gillian Luann Lafontaine, and she introduced them to Melody Lane Montgomery, the platinum blonde with perfect curls. The proud one, Josephine “Jo” James, stared at them with daggers in her eyes.

  After that no more introductions were made. The named girls all stared at Hank, and he wasn’t sure what to do. He had never had a bunch of women stare at him like that before. His cheeks were burning while they looked at him, dissecting him, trying to figure out exactly what to do with him. He was new food on their platter of the usual.

  Delilah clicked her mouth. From the back of the bar came the undeniable sound of nails trying to gain steady motion as they scratched against the floor. A gigantic marmalade-colored bloodhound came howling toward them. He looked loaded, with his sagging eyes, jiggling dog flap, and elephant ears. His snout and the bottom of his ears looked like they had been dunked in coffee.

  Delilah met the dog on the floor, hugging the beast. “Freud!” She laughed, and it was so carefree and uplifting, Hank almost met her down there with him. But those women were still staring.

  “Finally, a few men to shoot the shit with. Thank Jesus.” The man’s voice was as deep as a whiskey river.

  Hank and Curly looked up, the women all moving aside, while a cowboy of a man slow-shuffled his way between them. He held out his hand to Hank and Curly, introducing himself as Hennessey Hide.

  “I’m Katherine’s partner in crime.” He talked straight from the side of his mouth. “Mostly just her partner in life, though.” He was salt-and-pepper gray under his camel cowboy hat. His mustache was snow white. When he smiled, it was only half way. He smelled like Stetson and leather.

  “Come on.” Hennessey grabbed Hank’s shoulders and yanked him toward the tables. “Have a seat. Take a load off. Stay a while. You stay too long with Delilah’s sisters and they’ll eat you two up and spit you out like grizzle in rawhide.”

  “Sisters?” Curly whimpered.

  Hennessey nodded. “Yep, that’s what I said. True, hot blooded sisters. There’s a bunch of ’em. Not including my two girls, who are working. Me and Freud are about the only guys ’round here, and Freud is usually a traitor if you have porkers to give ’im.”

  “Why do ya’ll call him Freud?” Hank looked at the dog with honest curiosity.

  “It’s just a name.” Hennessey paused for a second. “For a dawg.”

  They all sat around one of the tables, the sisters following. Curly and Hank sat on either side of Hennessey. Hazel Darling sat next to Hank. Jo sat next to Curly, and Katherine sat next to Hazel. The rest of the women pulled up chairs. Delilah hopped up on another table, crossing her legs, looking over them all. There was a bowl of brown beans sitting in the center of the table. Hennessey picked one up and Freud came running.

  “He’ll just about do anything for a porker.” Hennessey threw the bean in the air. The heavy dog jumped and caught it like a fly in midflight.

  Hank leaned over to pet the dog, and he growled, his teeth bared in a menacing snarl. Hank slowly moved his hand back and looked at Delilah.

  “Hank, Freud likes to be polite with his introductions. He’s a gentleman. Tell him your name,” Delilah said, looking him straight in the eye.

  Hank felt ridiculous. Everyone stared at him while he gave Freud his name. The peculiar b
loodhound looked at him with understanding eyes, which surprised Hank. A dog, nothing but a dog, he reminded himself.

  Freud sat down, regaining his friendly stance, and then his paw popped up. Hank looked at Delilah and she smiled and nodded. Hank gave Freud his hand and they shook. Hank petted him without a problem after that.

  Hennessey and Katherine started asking Hank and Curly questions. The usual ones at first, then the question Hank was dreading came up: why were they in Nashville? They laughed when he told them he ran behind a bunch of women bank robbers.

  “Were you trying to catch them to turn them in, darlin’? Or did you want to join?” Katherine smiled politely at him.

  “I wanted to join,” Hank said.

  They all laughed, even Curly. But it was nervous, forced, and a little whiney.

  “What do ya’ll do?” Hank asked the sisters.

  “I own my own herbal company. I used to be a doctor, but modern medicine wasn’t really my thang,” Melody said, her southern drawl more sugary than sweet tea. “You have to take an oath to save everyone, give them a chance. I still believe in an eye for an eye. Modern medicine seems to save all those who might not need savin’ and lose those who need savin’ the most. I like homemade remedies. For whatever a man sows, that shall he also reap.”

  Two of the girls from the back came by with trays, handing out cold beers. One of them put down bread with a sweet cinnamon flavored butter to go along with it. Hennessey went to stick his finger in the butter, but before he could, Katherine slid the butter to Jo, who slid it to Hazel, who threw it over her shoulder and into Delilah’s hand. In that instant Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Pride and Joy” started to play. It all happened like a planned skit.

  “Oh, and I’m a sweet girl.” Hazel Darling giggled. “I bake sweets, that is!”

  Curly sat back in his seat and appraised her. “Are you the face of Little Darling’s Sweet Cakes?”

  She turned her eyes upward toward the ceiling, tucked her finger under her chin, and smiled. Then she quickly turned her face. “That’s me!”

  “Your cakes are really good. My favorite is that chocolate one you have.” Curly licked his lips.

  “Oh, the Coca Cola Spice Cake! Took me forever to formulate that sweet daddy! My personal favorite is the white chocolate sweet buns. They’re a big hit.”

  Curly leaned over just a tad. “I smell the spicy chocolate on you.” He grinned. “Smells nice.” Then his eyes met Hank’s at the same time.

  Heaven Almighty! Hazel Darling? Hank didn’t see that coming. He looked away from Delilah and sucked down the beer. Hazel Darling was Pistollette? Couldn’t be!

  He looked Hazel in the eye and she smiled. When Delilah called her name, she averted her eyes to Delilah’s. Lordy be, not only was he in a love triangle, he was in love with two different sisters? He was going down in flames. He could already feel the fires of hell burning. If he wasn’t careful, he was about to get the pitchfork, or the pistol, right in the heart.

  No, he refused to believe it. Delilah was Pistollette. He could feel it. Hank had the feeling again. He was experiencing so many feelings, but the feeling was much more—it was his magnet to the truth. His intuition screamed at him that this group of ladies was the she-devils on heels—they just fit the bill, without him even having to think about the logistics much.

  Who was the woman he was in love with? Was Pistollette really Delilah? Oh, God Almighty, he hoped and prayed it was her. Hank, without drawing too much attention, started eyeing each one of them separately. None of them seemed to react to him, not until he got to Katherine. She looked him straight in the eye, then looked down, and then looked right at Hennessey.

  Hank was in real trouble. They were playing games. He knew one of them was Pistollette for sure. He just knew. The problem was—which one?

  The door to the bar opened, shining light in the barely lit space. A stocky man with a cowboy hat came stumbling in. He sat at the table behind them, snapping his fingers at one of the girls behind the bar. He searched his front pocket, looking for something. Finally, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He flipped his lighter and lit the cherry. Circles of smoke puffed out of his mouth, drifting over to Hank’s table with a reeking smell.

  Hazel Darling moved with the speed of a pouncing cat, the chair moving behind her with no sound. She walked lightly to him, politely asking him to obliterate his smoking hazard. She pointed to a blimp of a metal sign nailed to the wall that stated: “Though shalt Not light up a Smoke under any Circumstances.” The man, not so kindly, slurred back that he could do what he pleased. He was a man! He had the equipment to prove this, if she was inclined to take a look. Wink.

  Hennessey started cackling and leaned over. “Watch this. I just love this part. Ewee.”

  Hank looked to Delilah. She was staring at the man while her sister pulled something from the inside of her brassiere. The knife went spiraling through the air, stabbing and snatching the smoking hazard, nailing it to the wall with a loud and final thud.

  “Do it again and that’ll be your head.” Hazel winked at him. Then she started cussing and marched into the back room. Once back there, they heard sweet singing. Church tunes, maybe.

  Delilah whistled, the sound high-pitched before it went low. Freud went scrambling to the door, pushing it open with his large nose. The sun crept in, brightening the darkness once again.

  The man got up and wisely, Hank thought, stumbled out the same way he came.

  Hank sat back in his seat. He was full from the food Delilah had personally served him and Curly: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, country green beans, hush puppies, cornbread, and sweet tea. The tea was served in mason jars that had the bar’s name and Freud’s picture etched on. It was the best meal Hank had ever had. He was almost drunk off the fullness of it.

  Now that his belly was out of hock and his head a little light from the love he was experiencing, he decided sleuthing was in order.

  Curly and Hennessey were sitting around chatting about the vintage cars in the parking lot. The Dodge Power Wagon was his, and Curly was asking endless questions. Hank pretended to be interested, asking questions occasionally for show, but his eyes were steadily roving.

  Hank looked around for Delilah. She was doing odd things to get her place ready for that night. Freud wasn’t far behind her. Two of the bars bouncers arrived, Cash Bruiser and Leroy Blue. Freud mooched more pokers out of them, but other than that, he was Delilah’s shadow. If she were walking toward a door, he would run ahead of her and nuzzle it open.

  He’d wait for her to walk through, and then she’d turn to him and say, “Why, thank you, Freud. You are a true gentlemen.” He would bay a bit and then wag that tail something fierce.

  Hank never met a dog so polite. He was like the Rhett Butler of the bloodhound gang. He was so prim and proper when he wanted those porkers. He strutted around with such a low tolerance for impoliteness and rudeness, it was to the point of uncanny. Delilah taught him well.

  Hank had no idea what came over him then. “Hennessey,” he said, interrupting the man’s steady conversation with Curly, “is Delilah a good shot?”

  The conversation stopped.

  “She’s decent.” There was understanding behind Hennessey’s whiskey-colored eyes. “Hank, do you have insurance on that heart of yours? If not, you better invest in some. You better nail it down, because she’s a storm ready to happen. And you know what Mama used to say about storms? Nail down only what’s important, ’cause if you don’t, you’ll lose everything all at once.”

  A long, thoughtful pause stilled the air traveling between the men before Hennessey said, “I was thinkin’ about Wyatt the other day. He once told me, ‘Son, a woman is like moonshine magic. You know there’s logic there, but trying to find it is like tryin’ to keep sand between your fingers during a storm.’”

  Hennessey opened his palm, pretending to snatch the air right from under Hank and Curly’s noses. He looked around for a minute as if he was about to share a
n ancient secret never been told before. When he opened his palm, sand fell onto the table. He reached over and pulled something from behind Hank’s ear, just like magicians do with quarters. It was a curvaceous, sandy-colored glass woman. He handed it to Hank.

  Hank looked back at the table. All of the sand had disappeared.

  Hennessey moved his mouth to the side. “See how sneaky that wind can be? See how quickly it can disappear with everything you thought you held in your hands? You think you have one thing, but you come up with another. Where’s the logic? All you have is mystery and magic. All you’re left holding is a strange creature you’ll never understand but love despite not knowing. Women and storms. Different stories, all the same point. Just given by two different points of view. And you know what they say about points? They can go either way.”

  “Who’s been asking if Little Sister is a good shot?” Hazel Darling came bouncing over. Katherine followed right behind her. “She carries a gun, but she’s reckless, a true killer! Never trust her with a gun. She’s gotta carry one, though. You know, with killers out there and all. Just don’t sneak up on her if you can help it. She’s easily frightened.” Then Hazel became as still as a predator watching running prey. Her voice became cool, like mint. “Do you have a gun, Hank?”

  “No,” Hank said.

  “Hmm, can you even shoot if need be?”

  “I’m decent.”

  She leaned over the table, her bosoms squishing together. “You should take lessons. You should get one. One can never be too prepared, you know.” She winked and smoothly stood up.

  Hank was feeling nothing but bravery. “Miss Katherine, your sister, does she have any boys? Or did she just have all girls?”

  Katherine tilted her head to the side. “The girls share a sperm donor. Not the same mama.”

  Curly nudged him from under the table just as Delilah and Freud were making their way from the kitchen.