Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (45 page)

Hank opened the note. Only three words were written in perfect script:
Ham & Rosie
. Ham & Rosie? Hank wondered if that was some kind of sandwich. He briefly toyed with the idea that Booty had left it for him.

The young girl snapped her fingers. “You all right, Mr. with a nice smile? It’s a silly question, I know, but one that is customary to ask.” She took a breath. “You know, you didn’t tell me what your lady was having a hankering for. It’s funny the things hormones can do to you. I’m no traditional girlie, but all I wanted when I was pregnant was pickles and ice cream. I’d get those big dills so cold, and then I’d eat them inside out. Sometimes, I’d scoop the flesh and seeds out with a spoon, then fill it with vanilla ice cream. Somethin’ about it being bittersweet filled all those wants in me. It was like heaven, you know? To crave somethin’ so badly and then to have it. It was like star dust to my taste buds.”

Hank looked up at her. She shrugged.

“I’m not your lady, but if I was…I’d tell you to get some sleep. I’d tell you that you’ve seemed to cool off and you look tired. I bet your lady loves you very much and she’s missing you right now. Just thought I’d tell you what I was thinkin’. Good night, Mr. with a nice smile.” Then she took her baby and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

Hank was suddenly very tired. He stood and wiped at his wet face again. He took a deep breath and looked up. He looked to see if she was there. Sure enough, there she was. Hank could see her as clear as if it were a bright day. Delilah had climbed up into his sky. She was hangin’ that ole howlin’ moon just for him.

H
ank and Curly sat on the same side of the booth in Denny’s. They watched as Barb gingerly picked at her light fare omelet. A lady always had to mind her figure, is what she had told the waitress when she took their order. Hank poked at his pock-like grits, the butter congealed on top, and then pushed his plate away. Barb pulled it closer to her.

She took a piece of his untouched bacon. “Don’t mind if I do. I don’t know what it is about eating off your man’s plate, but we women sure do like to do it, don’t we? Pickin’ here and there, sampling everything on the plate. I think it’s a territorial thing myself. Let me use my fork to hover around your food for a minute, ’cause yo’ mine.” Barb said “mine” with a breathy southern twang. “Let me stab what I want on your plate ’cause yo’ mine. Let me do it again ’cause my saliva has touched this fork and it’s going in your plate ’cause yo’ mine.” Barb bent over to take a bite of her food, and her blood-red church hat covered her face.

“Lord have mercy, Barb, whoever gets you is going to be one lucky fella!” Curly coughed, and then exploded with laughter, hee hee’ing like a monkey trying to catch his breath.

Hank shook his head and stood from the table. He told them he was going to use the payphone to call Dylan. He needed someone levelheaded to talk to before he saw Cray.

Curly offered him his phone, but he refused. He wanted to use the payphone again. He liked the idea of using it. He liked the idea that someone out in the world still depended on it for service. And he needed to walk.

Even though the sun was out, the clouds in the distance were starting to turn ashen. Rain was in the air.

At the payphone, there was no dial tone and Hank’s money was stuck. He shielded his eyes from the glare, banging the receiver against the body. He used a lot of choice words as he took his frustration out on the broken phone. Then he heard a nasally voice coming through on the other side. He stopped the beating mid-strike and stuck the phone to his ear.

“Excuse me, sir. Excuse me, sir. Please do not bang the phones in such a violent way,” the voice was saying over and over.

“How do you know I’m a sir? And how do you know I was banging the phone?” Hank said.

“I could hear you, sir,” the operator said tersely. “There are very few of these phones still available for use, and I’d like to keep my job.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Hank said, truly feeling apologetic for taking his anger out on the antique. “I’m usually not this aggressive, but I’ve just had a rough mornin’. I put money into the phone and it wasn’t working. I don’t have any more change left.”

“No problem. I can connect your call. I hope you have a better day. Number please.”

Hank gave her Dylan’s number and counted the five rings until he answered.

“Dylan, hey. Did I wake you?”

“Hell no! I’ve been driving all night. The boys and me are coming to meet you. Since it’s big fish day, we thought we’d join the fry.”

Hank could hear Jesse and Stroke laughing. “Stand By Me” played in the background.

“Is that Jesse?” Hank could hardly believe it.

“Yes, sir, brother. He ain’t afraid no more, of anything. No more wheezing, and somewhere between here and Tupelo, his sugar pills went flying out of the window.”

“Come on.” Hank smiled.

“I swear it on REO. Those girls have turned Jesse into a man and Tommy into Barb.”

“Barb’s all right. She’s a little prissy, but she’s nice enough.” Hank glanced over his shoulder quickly before he faced the sun again. “Dylan, you know, I’m a little nervous about this whole Cray thing. Everything is riding on him. Booty was nothing but a plaything and I almost got shot in the back. I just don’t know…maybe I should stay put. Maybe I should listen for once.”

“You got
the feeling
, Hank?”

“I don’t know what I have, Dylan. My feelings are twisted. Am I worried because I’m worried about Delilah and the baby? Or is it because I’m afraid for Pistollette’s life? Is my heart beating a mile a minute because I’m in love? Or is it because something bad is about to happen? I can’t tell shit from shinola no more.”

“It’s walking a tightrope over sharks here, Hank. Look, don’t rush. Wait until we get there and maybe we can figure something out. There has to be another way. Maybe it’s about time we get the law involved.”

“You are the law, Dylan, and you’re about the only one he doesn’t own.”

“He doesn’t have enough money in the world to buy this Cotton.”

“Heaven Almighty, Dylan. How in the hell did I get here? I was just going to the bank! Now look at me. I’m running behind robbers. I’m in love and going to have a baby. And in just a few minutes, I’m going to face some thugs who want to kill me. Who’ve wanted to kill me since I was a kid. My stepfather was using his son and me as insurance policies. June-bug and Preacher John. I’m just having a slight breakdown.”

“Love is never easy.” Dylan waited, and when Hank didn’t answer, he said, “Just stay put, Toots. Don’t do anything rash that you can’t redo. We’ll be there in just a bit. We’ll go from there. If we have to, we’ll put an SOS out for Pistollette and have a little pow wow. We’re going to make this right. Freedom is on its way.”

Hank turned his back on the sun and stared at the Denny’s. A stretched ’62 Cadillac limo was parked out front. The door to the Denny’s flew open. Curly walked out first, his hands stiffly at his sides. Right behind him a masked women poked him in the back. Same masks, same outfits, those same heels. Barb came right after him, another woman poking her in her back. A man in a black suit was driving the car, and Hank heard him tell Barb, after Curly had disappeared into the back seat, “You, too, girlie. Get in. Don’t make us hurt you.”

Hank had never seen him. Rotunda usually did their pushing and talking without a mask. Hank felt something hard, like a small rock, hit his back. When he turned the sun blinded him. He closed his eyes, seeing white spots in the darkness. When he reopened them, Pistollette stood with both pistols pointed at him.

She was dressed as the rest, in their usual get up. But her body was slim, no padding. Hank allowed his eyes to roam over her body, studying her carefully. He didn’t know why but he put one hand up as he did. Pistollette had Delilah’s build. She was slim, but able. No expanding pooch for a baby. Her waist was just as small as he remembered it. Hank swallowed the lump in his throat.

Dylan had been calling for him. Hank carefully, and slowly, put the phone closer to his ear. “Dylan,” Hank whispered, “Pistollette and her girls are here and they’re holding us at gun point. I—”

Pistollette took one of the pistols and pointed it at the payphone. Hank jumped out of the way. She pulled the trigger and shot holes into it. After she was done, she pointed one of the guns at the waiting car. Hank shook his head.

The gunwoman took fast steps toward him, keeping those weapons pointed right at his chest. When they were eye to eye, she put the gun to his temple. There was an angry urgency to her movements. She wasn’t cool, collected. She was bullish and aggressive.

Hank still refused to move. He never heard or saw the man coming up behind him with a big stick. He felt a blow to the back of his head, and then he crumpled to the ground.

Hank’s eyelids fluttered, an unpleasant and heavy motion, and the scene before him didn’t feel entirely real when he was able to see through the pain afflicting his head. The moments were coming to him in shaky and uneven increments.

The sky started to turn to steel as the Cadillac sleekly maneuvered the streets. Heavy raindrops pelted the body of the car, thumping against the roof, running down the windows. Steam wafted from the hood, cool water against a hot engine, just like liquid in a hot skillet. The smell of a perfect storm coming filled the air with uncertainty.

C
ray Lusianno was a handsome man. He had thick, black Irish hair, azure and emerald colored eyes, as shiny as the finest polished Italian marble. His skin was the smoothest of ivory, not a blemish or pockmark, and his cheeks seemed to be painted with peach dust. He had the body of a boxer, the perfect jaw structure of a sixties heartthrob. His hands were baby-bottom smooth, his nails finely cut. He dressed in custom suits, reminiscent of the old Bugsy Siegel days. He always wore suspenders and his shoes were always polished. He always smelled of the most expensive colognes, cigar smoke, and leather. His breath always smelled of the finest red wines.

Not one thing was cracked or crooked on him, except for his deep pockets and maybe his heart. Some said he had no heart. He was born of the devil.

He was raised in an Italian-Irish household of devoutly superstitious believers who he always felt raised him up right. His daddy had “more money than God,” he always loved to say. His daddy bought him a stellar education. He never had to work a day in his life. He was raised to believe the sun shone from his perfectly round ass, and his smile alone produced the stars up in heaven.

His mama was as pure as a virgin on her wedding night. She doted on him, and she loved the way he praised her. She bought him that ring on his pinky finger. She never wanted a scratch on his baby-soft skin, just in case those women’s bones would bruise him or their teeth knick him. He adored her so much he dropped his surname, legally changing it to his mama’s maiden name.

He was married once. To a heathen of a woman whose father was connected to the New Orleans mafia. Her Daddy was rich, richer than Cray at the time, and anything he said went. She was the only one to give him sons, but she was hell on two feet. She always had one tight-fisted hand on his profits, the other one squeezing his balls dry.

There were plenty of nights he dreamed of her dead body, sinking lower and lower into a nameless grave. But her daddy had clout, and he kept tight tabs on her. She was his baby girl, and in the south, they take their daddy’s girls seriously.

Cray was not a patient man. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. Oh, how unfortunate of a day it was, when his ball-breaker of a wife went with him to their sugar cane fields and her head was accidently cut off by a machete. By a worker who hadn’t seen her; God bless the man. Cray never blamed the poor fella who did it. He would have thought it was a two-headed snake too.

Damn, his sugar never tasted sweeter with her below it.

Oh, and how good it felt when Cray lied to Moneybags. He buried her in a hollow tomb, just to take her body to the fields and bury her beneath his profits. Why? Because he damn well could. Simply because he knew she would have hated it.

Cray was a man who enjoyed staring a dog in the eye just to watch it lower its eyes, cower away with its tail tucked between its legs, a river of piss behind it. He loved it even more when it was a woman; delicate flowers with dainty hands and soft skin. He would caress them. Whisper with a velvet tongue everything a woman would ever dream of hearing. He’d pet their thighs and kiss their lips gently. He’d do everything a good man should do. Then he’d turn around and beat them within an inch of their life.