Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (13 page)

She would laugh that laugh—and then the song would begin.

She looked at him with serious eyes, shaking her head. “One teaspoon away,” she muttered while sticking the old tape in. “Suspicious Minds” started playing. “That’s good that you like music, Hank. Real good. I love music, too. And do you know what my favorite part of the song is? The first line. The first line of a song is like a first impression. You can learn a lot from a first impression.” Then she leaned over and turned it up, just as the first line was being sung.

The car filled with an almost pleading emotion. Hank felt it was coming from them both. They were both pleading for two very different things.

Curly hit his head against the seat, muttering something about “Jailhouse Rock” being a better choice.

Delilah just smiled and reached out for Hank’s hand, never letting go, not until they arrived in Nashville.

Hank was paying close attention to the streets in Nashville as they made their way to Delilah’s bar. He was wide eyed and felt even more alive here, as if lightning had struck him, and instead of the jolt killing him, it had zapped him with energy.

Nashville had always done that to him. Occasionally, when Hank and the guys had free time, they’d jump in Curly’s old beater van and head down to Lower Broadway.

It was the entertainment district of Nashville. The energy of the area felt just like a zap of lightning over and over again. It was a feeling Hank got way deep down in his soul. It wasn’t just the area, but a place he belonged. It had that down-home feeling with all the perks of a big city.

The music was always served up warm and unique, and the atmosphere was always welcoming. To Hank, there was no other place like it. He was starting to wonder if the reason he felt so connected to it was because of her.

As they made their way toward the most popular area of Lower Broadway, Curly sat up and joined Hank in pointing out places they had gone, talking about things they’d done. Delilah had promised to point out her place, and Hank was expecting some little dive bar for some reason. His kind of place.

You didn’t have to put on fake pretenses or act with couth at a dive bar. You could just enjoy a cheap beer and a chat with some friendly folks who had real lives and real problems. Hank wasn’t prepared when they slowed in front of a two-story, red-bricked building that was sandwiched between other buildings, like a piece of Spam on a sandwich; one of them had a statue of Elvis playing his guitar right out front.

Hanging from the red-bricked place was a mammoth-sized neon sign, not yet lit. It was a woman close to Delilah in looks, with beautiful hair and an outstanding silhouette, with a holster hanging from her hips. Right below, looking up at her, was a saggy-eyed bloodhound. The sign was in the shape of a pistol.

“Pistol Fanny’s,” Hank read aloud and then looked at Delilah.

Curly whined a little underneath his breath.

“That’s my place.”

She drove just around the corner, parking in a lot filled with cars. Hank took her large bag and Curly took theirs. Hank noticed numerous vintage cars in the parking lot. Curly eyed them with want. They passed a truck, a dark green ’46 Dodge Power Wagon, that looked new but also vintage. It had big tires and was rugged looking, like the mountains of Wyoming.

Next to it sat a raven colored ’56 Porsche Speedster with its top down. In the dead of night Hank knew it would be just as disguised as a ghost.

Down the line was a shark-gray ’67 Pontiac Firebird that had chrome detail and looked like it wanted to eat you alive. Curly cried and hugged the devil-red ’62 AC Cobra. They stopped and admired the ’69 Lincoln Continental that seemed to come straight out of an oyster shell, like a pearl, and the bubble-gum pink ’57 Cadillac Deville.

Curly stopped dead in his tracks. Hank ran into his back, almost knocking him over. After Curly composed himself, he pointed at a fine looking black ’62 Cadillac Fleetwood limo.

Hank thought it reminded him of a funeral procession for some big-time country star. The sky would be ominous, the wind copious, the air chilled, while those left behind would ride the streets in style, in his honor, while his fans cried as they passed.

Curly pointed to a white sign dangling from the building, right above the car. “Reserved for the funeral procession?”

Delilah continued to walk, her steps light, laughing that free and wild laugh. Curly grabbed Hank’s shirt and raised his eyebrows.

“C’mon, Curly.” Hank pulled him along until they came to the back door of Pistol Fanny’s.

Delilah stopped and put her hand on Hank’s chest. Low music crept from inside, music you would half expect to hear at a gunfight. It was deep country, riding low, and something about it made you antsy. Delilah nodded her head and then opened the door. The cool air rushed over Hank, and he took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of musty old building and spiced perfume.

Inside the bar was set to look like a vintage bank. The bar was the teller area. Intricate black iron decorations made to look like gorgeous birdcages rose to meet the ceiling. Above the bar was a sign that read “Savings and Alcohol Department.” The background was all gold and mirrors, and it was lined with all sorts of expensive liqueurs. Ornamental windows etched with aesthetic designs shimmered with light.

A damn bank? The irony, Hank thought.

The center of the room was a stage shaped like an arched vault. It seemed like it was handmade, and it looked like it could rotate. Red curtains swept the sides, like peeking in a perfect window at a story about to unfold. Rounded tables were placed in front of it; similar to those areas in a bank you go to write your deposit. There was plenty of room to dance. And a marble and deep wood staircase with dark iron detailing led up to a second level.

Hank heard the sound of clapping hands. The sound was echoing around the room.

There was one clap. “He done made me purty.” A woman’s voice came from the back of the bar, and then out came the woman.

She was tall and lusciously carved, with wild curls. The sandy color was streaked with black and was parted down the middle, making the hair around her head seem unruly to the first degree. Clad in all black leather, she strolled by, highfalutin, grinning, like a misbehaved cat that ate the canary. She stared at Hank and Curly as she did. A tattoo on her right forearm read “Only God knows my future” above a large cross. She had green eyes, Hank noticed.

There was another clap. It was from Delilah. “He done made me smarty.” The wild-haired woman slowed and let Delilah go first.

Another clap. “That bastard, he done made me hate men from the bottom of my big ole hearty.”

Hank looked around and saw a woman on stage. How she got there, he had no idea. She was there, and she was moving toward Delilah and the other woman. She was wearing a tight-fitting, vintage red dress suit. A black feather stuck up from her bright red hair. She was on the short side, with a curvaceous body and skin like peaches and cream, with just a few scattered freckles. She had bright blue eyes.

A double clap sounded from two different sides of the bar. Hank and Curly both looked around. Curly’s hair was matted with sweat; the bags were trembling in his hands.

“He done made me loud.” Jo walked down the steps toward them. She was wearing worn-down cowgirl boots and a t-shirt that said “Daddy’s Girl.”

“He done made me proud.” Another woman popped up from behind the bar.

Damn. Where did she come from?

A silk blouse clung to her tall, thin frame, while her black slacks moved easily with her long, elegant strides. Her platinum hair bounced with substantial, organized curls. She had blue eyes, too, just a tad bit darker than the redhead’s. Hers were like seawater on a cloudy day; the other’s were like the sky on a bright one.

Heaven Almighty. These were not ordinary ladies. When this type of woman walked through the door, the whole room went on full alert.

Curly leaned over. “Five,” he muttered, holding his hand up to Hank.

They all met in the middle, huddling around each other, until there was a chorus of clapping, an energetic and catchy rhythm. A woman walked out with a sugary smile on her face, her arms out-stretched and reaching.

“And girls,” she yelled, “he done made me want to blow him up into the clouds!
Yeehaw
!”

They all ran to her, throwing themselves into her arms. She took turns hugging them, grabbing their chins and fixing their hair. The woman was older, with white hair, whiter than a pear tree in full bloom. Her eyebrows, on the contrary, were black as charred bark. She had red lips and was built like a ballerina, tall, graceful, but wearing western wear. Her red coat buttoned just below her sternum, flaring out, draping the floor. The sleeves were ruffled and her boots were creased with time and wear.
She
had stone brown eyes.

Bingo
, Hank thought.

More girls came from the back. They all gathered around, their voices low, sounding like whispers in a packed church. Curly put his hands up again, just to throw them back down, shaking his head.

The woman stopped her fussing with the girls. Her lips tightened as her eyes glazed over Hank and Curly, like the heat from a burning oven filled with ceramics. Her fiery eyes done with their appraisal, they seemed to lighten and she smiled.

“Hello, boys,” she said, walking toward them. Her boots clacked against the wooden floor, but it almost seemed deliberate. She was putting together a song as she did. Delilah kept step with her, smiling at Hank. The rest of the girls followed.

When Delilah reached Hank, she stood next to him. Hank felt good about that. She wasn’t ashamed of him. If anything, Hank felt like the look on her face was pride.

“Aunt Katherine, this is Hank.” Delilah nodded toward him and then she introduced Curly. “Boys, I’d like for you to meet my aunt, Katherine Law.”

They made pleasant small talk until the bright redhead with the speckle of freckles jumped in front and demanded to be introduced. Her name was Hazel Little Darling. The one who grinned like a misbehaving cat was Gillian Luann Lafontaine, and she introduced them to Melody Lane Montgomery, the platinum blonde with perfect curls. The proud one, Josephine “Jo” James, stared at them with daggers in her eyes.

After that no more introductions were made. The named girls all stared at Hank, and he wasn’t sure what to do. He had never had a bunch of women stare at him like that before. His cheeks were burning while they looked at him, dissecting him, trying to figure out exactly what to do with him. He was new food on their platter of the usual.

Delilah clicked her mouth. From the back of the bar came the undeniable sound of nails trying to gain steady motion as they scratched against the floor. A gigantic marmalade-colored bloodhound came howling toward them. He looked loaded, with his sagging eyes, jiggling dog flap, and elephant ears. His snout and the bottom of his ears looked like they had been dunked in coffee.

Delilah met the dog on the floor, hugging the beast. “Freud!” She laughed, and it was so carefree and uplifting, Hank almost met her down there with him. But those women were still staring.

“Finally, a few men to shoot the shit with. Thank Jesus.” The man’s voice was as deep as a whiskey river.

Hank and Curly looked up, the women all moving aside, while a cowboy of a man slow-shuffled his way between them. He held out his hand to Hank and Curly, introducing himself as Hennessey Hide.

“I’m Katherine’s partner in crime.” He talked straight from the side of his mouth. “Mostly just her partner in life, though.” He was salt-and-pepper gray under his camel cowboy hat. His mustache was snow white. When he smiled, it was only half way. He smelled like Stetson and leather.

“Come on.” Hennessey grabbed Hank’s shoulders and yanked him toward the tables. “Have a seat. Take a load off. Stay a while. You stay too long with Delilah’s sisters and they’ll eat you two up and spit you out like grizzle in rawhide.”

“Sisters?” Curly whimpered.

Hennessey nodded. “Yep, that’s what I said. True, hot blooded sisters. There’s a bunch of ’em. Not including my two girls, who are working. Me and Freud are about the only guys ’round here, and Freud is usually a traitor if you have porkers to give ’im.”

“Why do ya’ll call him Freud?” Hank looked at the dog with honest curiosity.

“It’s just a name.” Hennessey paused for a second. “For a dawg.”

They all sat around one of the tables, the sisters following. Curly and Hank sat on either side of Hennessey. Hazel Darling sat next to Hank. Jo sat next to Curly, and Katherine sat next to Hazel. The rest of the women pulled up chairs. Delilah hopped up on another table, crossing her legs, looking over them all. There was a bowl of brown beans sitting in the center of the table. Hennessey picked one up and Freud came running.

“He’ll just about do anything for a porker.” Hennessey threw the bean in the air. The heavy dog jumped and caught it like a fly in midflight.

Hank leaned over to pet the dog, and he growled, his teeth bared in a menacing snarl. Hank slowly moved his hand back and looked at Delilah.

“Hank, Freud likes to be polite with his introductions. He’s a gentleman. Tell him your name,” Delilah said, looking him straight in the eye.