Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (30 page)

The ride back to Nashville was a quiet one. Hank slept most of the way. Most of the talk was about finding Pistollette. After they made it back to Dylan’s, the guys hovered around the table, going over plans once again.

Hank went along because he wasn’t sure where to turn after this. That prayer he was holding on to slipped right through his hands, lost in the winds of Nashville. He was at the end of the bridge, nowhere to go but to jump. She had set his bridge on fire. Or maybe he had set fire to his own bridge. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He sat at the table, quiet still, listening as they rambled on. He wasn’t paying attention. He just wanted to know the when and the where. He’d be there.

But the truth was, Pistollette was the furthest woman from his mind. Delilah had captured him. She was the only one he wanted. He would never understand why he didn’t tell her that in the lot. Why didn’t he just tell her? Why didn’t he just ask her? Oh, that’s right. Pistollette was just someone he couldn’t seem to forget; she was waiting in the wings, jumping out of those dark shadows, screaming—
BOO
.

N
ew Orleans, Louisiana. Two weeks later. The humidity was soggier than a sauna, the temperature as hot as the devil’s pitchfork. It was the middle of summer at the beginning of autumn. Not a single relieving wind in the air, not a cool breeze or a shady spot to take comfort.

Hank and Curly stood with their backs against the wall of some building somewhere in the French Quarter. They stared toward one of Cray Lusianno’s banks while the callous sun beat down on them. Relentless and renegade like, while the sneaky wet air drowned their lungs.

Waiting on fate and a woman carrying two pistols, Hank vomited on the side of the road. They were in the French Quarter, after all, and this shocked no one passing by. Hank and Curly look disheveled, tired, the perfect disguise of a night out partying in the Quarter.

As a bystander strolled past to the sounds of a saxophone melting with the heat, he said with a humorous intonation, “The street sweepers cleaned up last night, but by the looks of ya, they missed a few spots.”

Hank waved his hand in front of his face. This was no disguise. Curly was as anxious as a dog about to be fixed, and Hank was down with the bug. Whether it was the flu or the love kind, Hank wasn’t too sure. He vomited long and hard, not sure if he had anything left to give. He was burning up, his insides filled with chills. Every smell that passed him on the street made him heave again. Every movement felt like his last. Every beat of his heart ached with longing.

Heaven Almighty, Hank thought, why did they have to pick one of the hottest cities on earth to try first? There was no reasonable reason for it. They put all the names of the left-over banks in a hat and drew. They couldn’t find any structure to their plans, no patterns, nothing.

The only thing they could figure for certain was, they usually hit the banks just about every two weeks when they were on a roll. They hadn’t had a robbery since California. The days were a ticking time bomb. Nothing was certain. Not even the day. Tommy had picked a Thursday, out of a hat again.

Fate
, Hank scoffed and then spilled his guts onto the cobblestone sidewalk.

Hank rested a weak hand on the building, using it as a mighty crutch. He was drained, almost to the point of feeling faint. Curly was crunching on a New Orleans specialty— a strawberry snowball. He held it up to Hank, offering him some. Hank took a few bites. The ice was cool, but it only made him shiver. Finally, Hank thought it was time they moved. They had been watching the bank for two hours, and people were steadily moving in and out.

The bank was old, the air crisp and the scent like that of old blood money. There were just a few people working, and Hank smiled weakly when the teller girl spoke to him. As she started on his withdrawal, she told Hank he had a real nice smile. Then she said he didn’t look like he felt well.

“No, I’m dying. I have that flu that’s been going around real bad, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever had.” Hank had unintentionally leaned against the counter, anything in his path used to relieve his burden of sickness and heartache.

This set her off and she started making deep conversation with him. On and on she went, making Hank feel sicker than when he entered. Her mouth was moving too fast, the speed making him feel like he had motion sickness. After she was done, he asked to use their restroom.

Hank and Curly hid in the freezing cold bathroom for two hours before someone knocked on the door. Hank threw up again, and the person outside apologized and moved on. An hour later, the teller girl checked on them. They knew they had to leave then. Hank noticed only two tellers were working. The rest had disappeared. Where had they gone? The manager in the office was slumped over her desk, sleeping.

Hank smiled weakly to himself.

The bank was crowded, full of agitated bodies waiting in line for the two overworked tellers. Music started to bop. The door swung open. All Hank could see were balloons. Pistollette and her sisters had arrived. The same motions took place, exactly the way they had in Tupelo. Except for the music. Each run was set to a different tune. This bank was robbed to the tune of
“
Polk Salad Annie
.”
Elvis was narrating to the movements of tap-dancing, thieving ballerinas.

Lord have mercy, those women moved to the exact beat of the music! One of them was rolling her hips and winding her arm.

It was the same routine: “Excuse me, ma’am, you can’t bring those in here,” a teller said, and then the voice asking all of the women and children to exit the building. Tapping hands, communicating and moving, all of the men getting down on the floor, a much bigger audience than before, and then Pistollette shot the cameras. Every movement was executed right on time: flips, dancing, explosives, and the entire dizzying show.

If Pistollette was surprised to see him, Hank couldn’t tell. She ignored him for the most part. A part of the song played, a wretched, spiteful, straight-razor totin’ woman, and the girls all pointed to Pistollette. In return, she bowed at them. This time she shot small white pills out of the air. Medicated powder filled the room before the puffs dissipated like clouds of smoke—more impressive than before with the Dum Dum suckers.

Hank loved to watch her move, but the quickness of the motions was almost too much for his stomach. He leaned over and retched close to the guy next to him.

“Disgusting,” the guy whispered and tried scooting further down the line.

The guy next to the scooter leaned over and whispered, “I’m afraid, but honestly, this is the best show I’ve seen in ages. I don’t know what you’re getting sick over. I wonder if they do private parties? The damage I could do with those women. The damage they could do to me. Turn a man inside out.”

Pistollette shot the card out of the air, the half drifting over to Hank. This time it was half of a heart, bleeding. The sisters made their exit. As best as he could, Hank ran behind them. Rotunda Grinder met him in an alleyway. This time, she was dressed in an all-black tailored suit. Heaven Almighty, she was a tall one. Pistollette appeared from behind her and grabbed his hand. They were running, but Rotunda was taking her sweet time.

Hank screeched to a halt when they closed in on a funeral procession car. Written in eerily thin script on the side:
Jacob Schoen & Son Funeral Home, New Orleans, Louisiana.

The door was open and there was a dark wooden coffin in the back, open and waiting. Hank threw his hands in front of his face and shook his head. Pistollette was shoving the gun at him, and then at the box. Rotunda made her way and asked if she should knock him out. Pistollette shook her head, tucked the gun in her holster, and climbed in. She waved goodbye at him. Hank jumped in right before Rotunda closed the doors.

The coffin was deep and wide, fitted for one large person or two thinner people. Pistollette had tucked herself against one side, and he tucked himself against the other. They were lying on their arms, face to face. It was dark, confining, and smelled like must and pine. Hank was starting to hyperventilate a little. He was never claustrophobic, but he had always hoped before he jumped into one of these he’d be dead first. It was hot, too. Hank felt overheated as his body shivered from the cold chilling him from deep inside.

Hank prayed to God he didn’t vomit on her.

The coffin started to move. It was being raised up so that it was almost touching the car’s ceiling. Then the car started moving. He heard sirens. He started to panic, pointing behind them, gesturing as wildly as he could in such a confined area. Pistollette reached out and grabbed his hand. He could feel her moving, and a dim light came on, showcasing the ribbed pink satin material above. And that porcelain-like mask on her face, the exaggerated smile, and those live, blinking eyes.

She reached into her shirt and pulled out a pen and paper. She stuck it against his chest, wrote for a minute. After her mission was completed, she handed Hank the pen and paper.

She wrote:
It’s all right. The escort is here for us. We’re part of a funeral procession after all.

Hank shook his head, pursed his lips.

She wrote:
Why do you keep following me?

Hank wrote with a tremble in his flourish:
I can’t seem to stop. I have to know you.
I have to save you.

She wrote back:
You’re going to have to show me something I don’t know.

Hank’s mind was flying. Thinking about their first meeting, thinking of how much he felt he loved her then. Before Delilah, he truly felt it. He still felt it as strong as ever, but something had changed. He loved her still, but Hank loved her like you would love a part of someone that needed to be saved. You love them with all you have, even if you don’t like them, just to see them through.

He would have told her he loved her, he wanted to, but he refused. Not after everything between him and Delilah. Traitorous, is what that would have been, even if the feeling was alive between them, beating like a drum in the box of finality.

He could live with Pistollette. But he couldn’t live without Delilah.

The light switched off again. He felt warm skin touch his face. The tender hand wiped the sweat away, putting her wrist to his head, reading his temperature. She ran her hands along the shape of his brows, the slope of his nose, the curves of his lips and jaw. Hank could smell spicy chocolate again. She slid her hand underneath his shirt and kept it there against his pounding heart. He could feel her move into him, feel the padding of her fake body, and wondered what she was doing. After a few minutes of the voyage she took around his body, she fiddled with her gloves and then turned the faint light back on.

She pulled a needle from her pocket and held it up to the light. Hank pushed his back further against the stiff wall. And then he spoke for the first time.

“Will I remember anything?”

She nodded, touching his forehead with her gloves. She pointed to his arm and then shot him with the piercing needle in the same spot. The medicine burned cold against his hot skin. The ride continued as Hank moved in and out of consciousness. He felt much better. Better than he had in days. His head swam in a cool river, he felt so damn good. The light went out again and he fell asleep in her arms. When he woke up he was lying on a couch in Jo’s auto shop.

Jo was working on a car. When she heard him stir, she rolled out on the creeper. He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed at his eyes, and ran a hand over his mouth. His stomach was sore, he was tired, but he felt better. What in the hell had she given him? His clothes had grass and mud stains all over them.

“You were passed out in the grass again. Sad Sack came and got me. You owe him one. If it wasn’t for him, you’d still be lying in that grass. Just like a piece of trash.”

“Who’s Sad Sack?”

“Apparently, he was the man out there with you the first time. He remembered you.”

“Why do they keep leaving me here?” Hank batted his eyes, the glare sharp.

“How am I supposed to know? You’re next to a main highway. Maybe they had to empty the trash before they could drive on.” The creeper flew back under the car.

“Do you hate all men, Jo?”

“Generally,” her muffled voice came from under the car. “I super hate you.”

“How come? You like my little brother. You hate me so much. Why?”

“I tolerate the Cootie. And he’s not two timing my sister, now is he? Just because she thinks you have a nice smile and all that superficial bullshit. None of that works with me. One of these days I’m going to hurt you. I won’t right now, because Delilah would be upset if I did. But just know it’s on my mind.”

“How is she?”

“Delilah? She’s great. She has a date this weekend, and I hope that fella gives it to her so good, she forgets all about little ole you. He’s given her what she needs before; he’ll do it again.”

Hank stood from the sofa, reaching out for it as he stumbled back. He felt sick again. “It’s always nice talking to you, Jo. A real pleasure.”

She laughed, the sound like a serrated knife ripping through his tough skin, as he closed the door behind him.