Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (9 page)

“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 hear 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.

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 everyone 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!”