Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (5 page)

Hank scratched his head. He took another long sip of coffee. “Come again? What nonsense are you talking about now? I thought we were talking about cages.”

“Same thing, because once they’re caught, they’re going to be in cages.” Dylan threw the paper at him.

Hank pulled it forward. The headlines screamed:

GANG OF BANK ROBBERS CONTINUE CRIME SPREE

“I COULDN’T TELL IF THEY’RE MEN OR WOMEN,” WITNESS CLAIMS. “THEIR SEX IS MAGICAL”

Hank’s eyes were bleary, so he rubbed them until his vision became clear enough to stare at the picture on the front page. Even then he couldn’t make out anything. The scene was blurred and distorted, except for what looked like round balloons. If they were hoping to capture an image of the infamous, magical robbers, all they succeeded in capturing was that frustrating culprit called Blurry.

“That’s something, huh?” Dylan leaned over and thumped the paper. “Women bank robbers? What’s the world coming to?”

Hank held the paper up, as if he was showing the court a piece of crucial evidence. “Whatever happened to responsible journalism? This is a respected paper! And they are printing headlines like this one—magical sex?” He shook the paper a bit. “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. They might as well sell their souls to the tabloids.”

Dylan grinned in a cocky fashion. “They have no idea who these
people
are, Hank. What’s wrong with a headline like that? They can’t exactly call them women, because they’re not sure, and they can’t call them men either; therefore, their sex is magical—for the time being.”

“Beside the point! And women or not—” Hank threw the paper back on the table “—they should be caught and put to justice.”

“You know, Hank, sometimes you sound just like some of those old westerners, the ones who were always ready for a hangin’ or a good toosh thrashin’. You’ve got to lighten up a bit.”

“Lighten up? You’re the sheriff, and you’re telling me to lighten up? Is it just me, or is there something wrong with this picture?”

Dylan leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. “It’s you. Hey, don’t look at me like that. They didn’t rob my county. To his, or hers, their own, as long as they don’t bring it here. I mean, if you ask me, I think it’s pretty hot. I’d still arrest them though.” He laughed raucously.

“Dylan.” Hank shook his head, rubbed a hand down his face. “Sometimes I wonder about you. Your head is damn crooked while your spine is straight.”

“Just shut it and drink up. We have to wake the rest of these ninnies up and get them going. The day won’t wait around forever.”

Hank cranked his head back, about to guzzle the rest of his coffee, just to feel the burn down his throat, when he mumbled into his cup, “Blinded by women and money…never again, never again. Footloose, straight laced, and fancy free. Yessiree, that’s me. For the rest of my life.”

Dylan laughed so hard that he woke Jesse, Tommy, and Curly. Finally, when he regained his breath, he sighed. “Toots, never say never.”

“Never,” Hank said.

And he meant it. He truly did.

H
ank couldn’t wait to get home and take a hot shower. He was meeting the guys at Dylan’s before they headed to the batting cages, but his muscles still felt stiff, his entire body sore with what felt like the flu. Warm water seemed like a gift sent from heaven before he was off to abuse himself again with strenuous exercise.

As Hank passed his bank, he figured he should stop and get cash. The batting cages used tokens, and he needed cash for the coins. All he had was his credit card.

He walked into the cool air of the old bank, the coldness of it engulfing him. He shook his head, thinking about how much easier it used to be just to carry cash and not worry about a plastic card. After he saw the line, he thought,
Heaven Almighty, I’ll never make it back to Dylan’s in time to ride with them. This is going to take forever and a day.

The bank seemed to be cutting back on help. Lately a young girl had been working, and it was just usually her and the old manager. The man had been around since Hank was just a boy. Hank searched for him and spotted him through the glass doors in the back, slumped over his desk, fast asleep.
He should just retire.

Hank pulled out his gum and started to chew hard. After ten more minutes, two people had been helped and the line was finally starting to move. Still, the place was packed. An older gentleman was arguing with the girl teller, complaining about how in his day businesses catered to their customers, not the other way around.

“It’s a doggone shame how my hip is hurting me and you are taking your good ole time!” the old man rattled on, just like an old truck spluttering and backfiring down the street.

The girl wiped at her eyes, apologized profusely, but he was having none of it. He continued to complain, until finally, he asked to speak to Mr. Speckle, the branch manager.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weinzer.” The girl moved her eyes to the line and then over to the glass, where behind sat a still slumped over Mr. Speckle. She bit her lip for a moment. “Mr. Speckle has been having some troubles at home,” she whispered, and Mr. Weinzer put his ear up, closer to her mouth. “And he’s always so very tired. I truly apologize for the inconvenience, but if you’ll wait right here, I’ll get you some coffee for your time.” She smiled.

Mr. Weinzer hung his cane on the sill and slapped it with the other hand. “Coffee for my time?” He seethed. “I might be cold before the coffee, young lady!”

The girl looked sick or like she might cry.

Hank asked the man behind him if he would hold his place in line. The man agreed. Hank walked to the beginning of the line, excusing himself as he did so.

“Mr. Weinzer, is that you?” Hank asked, and the man nodded.

Then recognition lit up his expression. He grabbed his cane and poked Hank in the ribs with the dirty side. “Is that you, little Hank Rivers? I heard you were in law school…”

Mr. Weinzer went on and on, until finally the teller was finished with his transaction. As Hank walked away, the girl winked at him and mouthed “thank you.” Then she handed him a pocket protector with the bank’s name printed on the front.

Hank moved back to his rightful place in line. He looked at the pocket protector and laughed. Since he didn’t have a pocket on the suit, he clipped it between the spaces between two buttons on his shirt. It barely hung there and he had to secure it every time he moved up a space in line.

Hank kept yawning, really feeling the night. He wished they had some kind of music on to keep him awake. Anything. He wasn’t feeling picky.

Two hands wrapped around Hank’s eyes. He tried to turn but felt something pressing against his ribs. He moved a bit and knew it was fingers. When he turned around, it was Curly, laughing his face off. Even though they were grown men, the Cootie bug still followed him around.

“What are you doing here?” Hank said.

Curly plucked his pocket protector. “You’re not the only one who banks here. You don’t own the county, Hankie Pankie Toots.” Instead of asking the man behind them if he could cut, Curly just did.

Just then, music started playing. Hank looked up at the ceiling, wondering if it was a miracle, or if big brother was somehow tapping into his psyche. He recognized the tune but couldn’t automatically place it. Snappy and jazzy, it was just what he needed to keep his eyes open. It seemed, though, the teller was a little surprised by it. She was looking around, especially toward Mr. Speckle’s office. He was still in his office cutting wood.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” The teller pointed behind Hank and Curly. “You can’t bring those in here.”

Hank turned around to find a woman a couple of people back holding balloons. He couldn’t see her face because the inflated circles on a string hid it. Hank turned back toward the teller again, just for a brief moment, to see what her reaction was going to be. Her eyes were wide open and she was pale. Hank whipped around. Everyone was staring now, mouths agape. Even Curly was shocked still.

The woman with the balloons had somehow morphed into five. They were all holding balloons in front of their faces. They were in a line formation, and each was dressed exactly the same. Hank couldn’t tell one apart from the other. They were all wearing black, long-sleeve, button-down shirts with the collar raised around the neck, silky black pants that seemed to easily move with them, pink suspenders, and black high heels with pink soles.

They all seemed to be exactly the same…voluptuous. Every curve and dip was identical. Hank’s head was spinning with unease—how could one woman actually be five? Or vice versa?

What Hank hadn’t noticed at first was—the one in the middle had a pink holster around her waist, two pistols on either side of her lusciously shaped hips.

Oh,
hot damn
. Hank swallowed hard.

The woman to the left of the pistol-toting woman held an older-looking boom box. He realized then that the music wasn’t coming from the bank, it was coming from them.

The music bopped, and right on tune, the girls all held out one of their black-gloved hands so that each was available to the girl next to her. Then they did something that shocked them all; they began tapping in Morse code.

After they were done, the one with the radio held it up while still holding her balloons in the other hand. A formal voice broke through the jazz tune, asking all of the children and women to please exit the building in an orderly fashion. There would be someone outside to meet them, just for a few minutes, just until business could be conducted inside the bank again. They apologized for the inconvenience—
Thank you
kindly
for your understanding
.

Hank blinked and shook his head.

At the exact moment the woman who held the radio was doing her part, the center of them all, the one with the pistols, released her balloons toward the bank’s cameras. In the blink of an eye, both guns were pointed at the young teller.

The teller girl blinked twice and moved back. Something about the way she blinked seemed strange to Hank. It didn’t seem nervous. It almost seemed intentional, maybe? No, he was losing his mind. She looked scared.

It was all happening so quickly that Hank was getting dizzy. He was able to see the gunwoman’s face now. Her second face, anyway. Her real face was covered in what looked like an ivory mask that covered her ears down to her throat. It was almost translucent, the features feminine, the lips bright pink with an exaggerated smile. The only openings showcased her stone-brown eyes.

She wore a short blonde wig that barely stuck out of a top hat. Hank assumed they all matched. And Hank assumed right. There was nothing significant that helped him tell them apart. One small detail stuck out though. The one with the boom box had one eye set into a permanent wink. Some people just couldn’t conform no matter what.

Curly lowered his head and put his mouth close to Hank’s ear. “Heaven Almighty, they are feminists with guns, and they’re going to kill us all. We are the men on the sinking ship, left to drown like rats! I want to abandon ship, abandon ship!”

Hank couldn’t answer him. He was stunned into subordination. Finally, all the women and children had left the building, leaving behind only the men and the teller girl. Hank didn’t even think she had had a chance to push the panic button. Mr. Speckle was still snoring in his office.

Gunshots started ringing in Hank’s ears. The holster woman was blowing up the cameras with her pistols. The automatic reaction to cover his ears and close his eyes was tugging at Hank’s natural defense system, but all he could do was watch with wide eyes, ignoring the pain.

The motion of the pistol woman’s fingers on the triggers was almost too quick for Hank to see. She was shooting so quickly that it almost seemed like an illusion, an extremely well-crafted magic trick from one of the world’s most famous magicians—in this case, the pistol woman.

It couldn’t be a trick. The cameras were exploding and Hank’s ears were ringing something fierce. She was holding those pistols just as naturally, and as confidently, as some women hold newborn babes. You never try to take a crying baby away from a woman. Never, Hank thought.

A bunch of women? Hank could hardly believe it. These were no ordinary bank robbers. No, that would be a crime in itself to even try to call them that—these were simply
she
-devils on heels. Hank could tell.

After the pistol woman stopped her shooting, which only took a few seconds considering how quickly she shot, she pointed the gun at the crowd of men and they all raised their hands. She made a motion for them to get on the floor. They all followed her instructions.

Hank concentrated on the pistols for a second. They looked vintage and were decorated with intricate designs. One of the handles read:
Pistol
.

Hank stole a quick glance at the teller girl. Her back was against the wall, both of her hands up in surrender, one of the she-devils keeping watch over her. The she-devil keeping a firm eye on the teller didn’t even have a weapon. Hank wondered why.

Then it dawned on him, the one with the pistols was so quick, he didn’t believe anyone else needed a reinforcement of any kind. He was going to call the teller-sitter Antsy. Out of the bunch, she was the most anxious, but not in a worried way; she seemed to feed off the energy of the crime.