Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (10 page)

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.

T
he 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.

“It’s just that, I know the lady who runs the store. She’s worried you boys are loitering out here.” She pointed to the cops, still staring at them. “I didn’t want to see you boys get into any trouble. You seem harmless enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Hank finally answered. “My brother and I, we had somewhat of a turbulent night. I know this is going to sound terribly strange, but we can’t remember most of it.”

The woman held her hand out. “Delilah Turner.”

Hank took her hand. It was as soft as a baby’s bottom. “Hank Rivers.”

Curly cleared his throat. “Hank, I believe your ears are smoking now.”

Hank nodded toward him. “My little brother. Curly Cootie.”

Delilah pulled her hand away and offered it to Curly. They shook, and Curly quickly pulled his hand back. Hank was sure she noticed his reaction, but she didn’t act like it.

“Nice name. Curly Cootie. I’m sure never to forget it.”

“I’d like to forget some things,” he scoffed.

“Me too,” she said without a moment of hesitation.

Delilah turned her face slightly and nodded toward Jo’s Shop. She started to walk away, and Hank slapped Curly, wanting him to move. She didn’t say anything else as they walked. She didn’t seem to have any answers. Hank didn’t have any questions at the moment. All he could think of was how he wasn’t just dizzy with one dame, but now two. Heaven Almighty!

As they passed the policemen, they stared in Delilah’s direction. They were watching her, like men watch women they want. She seemed to ignore them. Hank wasn’t concerned with them all that much either, especially if she wasn’t. But Curly was a nervous wreck. He loved Dylan, but he had a fear of the rest of them. He had what Dylan called
astynomiaphobia
.

They walked together into the garage, an old car of some sort awaited service. A head popped out from under the car. The woman was lying underneath the vehicle on a creeper. She was wearing a mulberry mechanic’s jumper, the name
Jo
stitched on her pocket. She had straight hair that was so black it almost seemed blue, and thick bangs that fell sideways across her forehead. She had striking green eyes. No brown. Hank was keeping count.

Curly nudged Hank and held up two fingers. Hank quickly pulled his fingers down.

“Where’d you find these strays?” the woman said in a tone that made it perfectly clear she wasn’t thrilled to have company.

“Be nice, Jo.” Delilah laughed. “Hank Rivers, Curly Cootie, meet Napoleon’s Josephine. Josephine James, these strays were going to be picked up for loitering. Sassy thought they were troublemakers. Thought I’d do my good deed for the day and help out.”

“The name’s Jo.” Then she disappeared underneath the car again.

“I’d apologize for her, but there’s no use.” Delilah smirked. “She’ll just be rude again. She hates men.”

“It’s all right,” Hank said. “Thank you for helping us.”

Delilah narrowed her eyes. “You live far from here?”

Hank swallowed hard, trying to quench his parched throat and suck down the lump that seemed permanently stuck there. “Not really. We’re from Tupelo. I’m familiar with Memphis, though. Preacher John, my daddy, he lives here. I spent many summers here. And I worked here for a year.”

Curly coughed. He looked like he was about to be sick. His face was pale, the lump on his head was red and swollen, and his eyes were heavy. His blonde hair was falling in his eyes, and the back was sticking straight up, nothing but a tangled bunch of knots.

“Would ya’ll like something to drink? You both look horrible.”

Hank liked her. She was a straight shooter. It was good to like the person you fell in love with. Sometimes you didn’t have a choice, like him with Pistollette. He wasn’t sure if he liked her, but he knew he loved her regardless. Romance and reality can sometimes be far apart.

Hank looked at Curly. “Yeah, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I think he needs something to drink and eat.”

Delilah smiled. She walked to the back of the station to an old red and white drink machine. She twisted the silver knob and then stopped short, turning around, her hand still in the same position.

“Ya’ll are not diabetic, are you? My Uncle Hennessey is, and he’s always trying to sneak sweets. He’s always trying to drink regular when he’s supposed to have diet—”