Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (32 page)

The teller, who was wide awake, backed her story without a moment’s hesitation.

Rotunda finally showed an hour or so later. She held an arm out to Hank. “Well, Honey Hole, I’ve done seen it all. It’s final. You boys have gone crazy! I was hesitant about telling my mama that I like girls, but seeing you all, she sure is proud of me. That’s why I love women. No balls making them go buggy! Is that what it is, Hank? Oh, well, I’m glad you waited for Pistollette. You know she changed her name just for you? You didn’t…Anyway, she’d be in a pepper mood without you…You know I’ve always loved her. I’d never let anyone hurt her…”

In Wimberley, Texas,
“
The Fire Down Below
,”
Hank didn’t feel right. Something dangerous and fully charged zipped through the air—something electric, deadly. It was like holding a metal rod in a raging lightning storm, daring life to take its claim.

Hank felt nervous, which he rarely did. His hands were shaking. His stomach was off. All throughout the show, he found himself staring out of windows, looking over his shoulder, constantly on high alert. He swore that he heard sirens.

Tommy, Dylan, and Stroke sat beside him, dancing to the music. The show went off without a hitch, light laughter following as Jellyfish tried to push Tommy out the door while Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham tried helping him in.

This time they were in an old beater van, the painted sign on the door read:
Little Sisters of Mercy Choir. We sing to the chorus of angels.
The gang was all dressed in red silk robes. Gold crosses hung around their necks. Hank had seen the necklaces before, but this day he paid close attention to them. They were wearing them for a reason.

As soon as they started to pull away Hank heard sirens, and this time, he knew he wasn’t imagining it. The sound pierced the air like emergency vehicles on their way to rescue a victim shot down by lightning. What sort of fool plays in an electrical storm anyway—with metal clutched in his mere flesh and bone grip? Apparently one in love with two women—one daring him to hold the conductor while the other walks away. Either way, he’s doomed.

Rotunda said real casually, “Will you boys please hit the floor?”

They guys did as they were told. The van started to pick up speed, tires squealing, plenty of swerving.
Heaven Almighty, how are we going to get away in this van! It is a beater for God’s sake!
Hank lifted his head just a tad and chanced a tentative look out the window.

The van was going much faster than he ever expected. Everything was a blur as they sped down the streets. Hank’s heart was pounding and he was sweating uncontrollably. Rotunda had pressed a button and something clicked every few seconds. Rotating license plates, he was informed, each set with different numbers.

Rotunda knew exactly where she was headed. She never asked for directions or instructions, she just kept her foot to the petal. Pistollette and her girls sat with their faces turned forward. If they had something to say they tapped or clapped. The masked women were pleased with the action. There was an undeniable energy in the air, one that thrived on the beat of the music they danced to.

The van started to take off roads, the direction of that feral wind taking them toward an overly populated area filled with trees. More sirens. Hank noticed premade tracks already leading from the road to the entrance of the woods.

Pistollette tapped on Jellyfish’s hand and then Jellyfish leaned forward, whispering something in Rotunda’s ear.

“I made the tracks from here clear across to the highway,” Rotunda said, nodding her head. Her determined eyes met Hank’s for just a second. “Decoy van already there waiting at the end of the tracks.”

Pistollette clapped her hands. She took out her two pistols, barrels glinting in the honey colored sun, turning her body around to face the back of the van.

“She’s not going to shoot at the cops, is she?” Dylan’s voice trembled.

“No, she won’t hurt them. She’ll just shoot their tires out,” Rotunda said matter of fact.

“Oh, sh-shi-shit,” Tommy stumbled out.

Dylan and Stroke started praying, their eyes closed tight, their hands locked together, rocking back and forth into each other.

Hank wiped the sweat from his brow. He stole another peek out of the window. They were still following premade tracks.

Come on, Rotunda Grinder, lay that hammer down.

Rotunda never veered from the trail once. Jellyfish knocked on the window three times and it came open. Cool air rushed through the interior. Burnt leaves and soggy mud perfumed the air, instantly burying the smell of sweat and other odors that nervous people usually produce during times of panic.

Jellyfish put one hand on her hat and one on Pistollette’s. Pistollette tore the robe off and then stuck her body out of the window, her two arms outstretched, her fingers on the triggers. Jellyfish worked as a third arm for her. This was just one big, well-oiled woman machine.

A lone man stood in the woods. He was waiting by an entrance. It looked like an uplifted platform, the sides being held up by large trees, by long ropes on either side. Grass, leaves, and vines were dangling over the top. As soon as the man saw the van, he ran into the hole dug deeply into the ground. Pistollette pulled those triggers, each bullet slicing through the ropes. The top collapsed and everything stopped and went dark.

Tommy and the guys looked at each other. “L-L-Lord have mercy, she i-i-is Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley’s lo-love child,” he stuttered out. “She’s am-ambidextrous with tho-tho-those w-w-weapons. That sh-shot has got to be d-d-damn near im-im-impossible with two guns.”

“How many of them?” Rotunda looked at Pistollette.

Pistollette tapped on the seat five times. A few seconds later, they heard one car speed over the top, like they were underneath a bridge. Pistollette tapped once. Each time another would pass, she would give the seat another vigorous thump. Five, just like she had predicted.

Hank turned his body, trying to see. He looked up at the window he knew was there and was met by a small blue light, a puff of smoke, and the face of the Joker. He flung his body back into the seat. A light came on in the cabin. Pistollette was looking down on him, her eyes steady and strong.

The Joker man pointed a finger at Hank. He was smoking one of those electronic cigarettes; puffs of white smoke followed him around in the blackness, turning their underground world grey.

“Are we safe under here?” Stroke whispered.

“As safe as was we gonna be.” Rotunda sighed. “We’re going to have to wait a while, and when Pistollette says it’s time to go, we move. No questions, you follow. Don’t make me pop you again.”

Hank sat next to Pistollette. His hands were shaking so bad, he felt like he had tremors. He leaned his head against the seat and took a deep breath.

“Are you always trying to bury yourself?” he whispered.

She shrugged. Tap to Jellyfish, tap to Rotunda. “Honey Hole, Pistollette says she doesn’t know what you expect from her. You’re running with a bunch of outlaws. You seem to forget that. It’s ride or die, baby.
Ride or die
.”

Hank stared at Pistollette. She stared back. Hank made a writing motion with his fingers. More taps, and then a pencil and pad were passed back.

Pistollette wrote first:
Why you following me around like a wild heathen, anyhow?

Hank wrote:
I told you why. I have to save you.

There ain’t no saving me.

You think you’re running your own life, but you’re not.

No, you’re right, my life runs me.

I don’t see you dancing and having as much fun as your sisters.

I’m the designated driver. I have a responsibility to keep my girls safe, to keep those people in the bank safe. To make sure no one gets hurt. This is no game. Even though, it is fun sometimes.

Do you get an adrenaline rush when you rob banks? Does it make you feel good, like you’re high?

Pistollette paused, and Hank could imagine a smirk underneath the mask. She wrote:
Not nearly as high as I feel when I’m around you. Just the thought of you gives me more adrenaline than I know what to do with. Beyond robbing. Beyond butterflies.

Hank took a moment to catch his breath. He tapped pen against paper. “Hey Rotunda, how fast can she shoot?”

“Put it this way. You see that fly on the window next to Cheshire Cat here? She can shoot it dead before it knows it’s even landed. I guarantee. Ain’t nobody shoots as fast as Pistollette. She’d win records if she could enter contests. I bet she would hold the world record. I guarantee. She can split a bullet in half when she aims at an axe head. That’s how accurate she is.”

Pistollette threw her hands up and they landed on her thighs with a welting
slap
.

Rotunda laughed. “She’s perturbed with you, Honey Hole. You’re asking questions like she ain’t here.”

The fly buzzed around the interior. Everyone swatted at it occasionally. Jellyfish knocked on Cheshire’s shoulder. It landed on the window again. Cheshire watched it, like a cat would watch a fly swimming around in milk. Swat. It was dead.

Hank wrote:
I’m not sure how to feel about this. Any of it. I’m so damn confused. I’m holding on because I need you. I need to feel whole. I know you need saving, but I think I need it too.

She scribbled for a moment.
Whatever you want from me, you can have it. I don’t know why I need you either. I just want you to stay with me while I’m here. You give me good dreams.

Hank had to steady his hand:
Who are you?

She didn’t hesitate:
Remove my mask.

Pistollette moved closer to him, her eyes never leaving his. She stared at him so intensely that he couldn’t catch his breath. She was stealing his air, his everything. He was trapped, wrapped up in her, not sure if he could ever untangle himself.

Slowly, she moved up on her knees and, one leg at a time, she wrapped them around his waist. She placed a hand on each of his shoulders, rubbing her body against his until they were eye to eye. She turned the lights off again.

Her hands moved gently down his arms until their fingers were tangled. She moved them up and down her body; it was foreign and unknown to him. He could feel the padding, the cold metal on her sides. He could feel the deep sway of her hips, the roundness of her stomach, her ripe, succulent breasts.

Hank leaned forward, pressing his lips to her ear. “Are you…” He could hardly say the words. It was Delilah, him, Pistollette, Delilah, him and Pistollette…They were all so damn tangled together. His head was dizzy and all the blood flow in his body was being sucked downward.

She pressed her finger into his chest, moved his hands to her face. She was daring him. Always daring him. His hands were trembling as he felt the porcelain texture of the mask. Almost like second skin on her body and delicate as gossamer wings. He ran his fingers down her neck. Before he reached under and discovered her, he pulled his fingers back, like he’d been burned.

“I can’t…I just can’t do it,” he whispered.

He could feel her head move up and down, nodding her understanding, and then she moved her body away from his. She turned the light back on. More taps. Rotunda said they’d be there for a while, so they might as well get comfortable. Everyone seemed to relax then. The guys on the floor relived the robbery, the chase. The girls would nod or have Rotunda talk for them when they had something to say or were asked a question.

Hours passed and Hank wrote another note to Pistollette.

Feeling better after having the flu?

Pistollette wrote:
Not really. It did a number on my stomach.

“Did you know I was going to be waiting on you in those banks?” Hank said aloud.

Pistollette nodded. Her eyes met Rotunda’s.

“A woman named Barb spread some rumors around town that you’d be waiting for your Pistollette. We coordinated our mines—I mean—our schedule with your schedule.”

“It really wasn’t fate?” Hank said, a slight edge to his voice. Even though he considered Tommy’s plans loose, he always kept just an ounce of hope that fate did have something to do with it. Maybe the risks would mean something then—that he wasn’t just delirious with love and danger.

“A little. It was fate we could change our plans, but it was mostly Barb,” Rotunda said.

Hank looked at Tommy.

“I g-got you here, didn’t I?” Tommy whispered and then shrugged. Then a slow smile lit his face with accomplishment.

Hank hesitated but went with it. He wrote:
Why did you kill that man in California?

Pistollette shook her head. She wrote:
I didn’t.

Who did?

Another woman in California.

Hank crumbled the note after that, not able to communicate any longer.

Once night fell upon them, they were asked to wait outside of the van with the man— the electronic smoker with the Joker face. The girls emerged not long after, each holding a bag. They each had to climb a ladder to climb their way out of the hole.

The woods were dark and cold, the guys all rubbing their arms from the frost. They walked in silence, Pistollette leading the entire group, Rotunda leading the men. As they walked, the Joker slapped Hank in the back of the head. Hank stopped for a moment, staring at the man. He wanted to say something, but he was just too damn tired. Pistollette slapped the Joker and shook her head.

When they arrived at the edge of the highway, there were two cars waiting. Rotunda directed the guys to the car intended for them, and her and the girls, along with the Joker, got into the other. Stroke had a note from Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham tucked into his back pocket. Rotunda had written it, while Zoo Zoo and Wham Wham tapped her fingers away. Even though they trusted the guys, they didn’t.

Hank and Pistollette stood at the end of the road. She handed him another note.

This is the end. No more riding along.

Hank shook his head. “I don’t want it to be. You know the life of an outlaw ain’t no good without her sidekick. She’ll just get lonely.”