The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Three
New Arrival
“Need
nourishment in here, Sam!” Duke called for Mike’s
cousin.
“Pronto, boy! Can’t live on rum and cigarettes you
know?” The
journalist waved his empty glass and burning stub above his head to
make his point.
The bedroom door swung open and out stumbled
a scruffy scrap of a man, the sound of beads and totems jangled from
his beaded dreadlocks, his mouth glittered with the gleam of gold. He
attempted to walk a straight line to the bar, but found himself a
fish out of water as he tried to maneuver on dry land. He nearly fell
forward, catching himself on the bar littered with glasses and
bottles. He glanced back to the room, his eyes slits as he surveyed
those around him, trying to keep a sharp eye out.
Assured
that he was not in harm’s way, he turned back to the bar and
snatched the neck of the nearest bottle. He tipped it to a glass but
found it empty. With a sound of disgust he slid the bottle aside and
grabbed another only to find that its contents were also gone.
He
held the bottle up near one eye, looking into it like a telescope,
but not a drop of the amber liquid came forward. He even went as far
as to stick his tongue into the opening, trying to savor any inkling
of the liquor. Still no satisfaction.
He slammed the empty
onto the bar and turned, a scowl on his face for all to see.
“You
bloody curs…why’s…”
“…the rum gone?” The room
yelled around him. Sparrow sneered at them and pulled out his pistol.
“You think you are wiser than Captain Jack Sparrow? You
won’t be so wise with a bullet in your brain. Who drank the
rum?”
he demanded.
“You did. This morning.” The voice came from
behind him and Sparrow spun on his heel to look, pointing the gun in
its direction.
Dean sat at the small table, never looking up,
glasses perched on his nose, the last of his cigarette burning to
nothing as he reviewed a book trying to find the solution among its
pages to help in their escape. It was his ninth book that morning.
“I did?” Jack’s body rolled slightly as
he pointed to
himself. “Oh, well,” he tucked the pistol back into
his belt,
“that’s different. Why didn’t you say
so.” Then turned back
to the bar, arms raised in the air, “Drinks all
around!” he
shouted, grabbing a tankard of ale and downing it.
“Here,
here!” Duke raised his own glass.
Mort pulled out a bottle
of Johnny Walker from his drawer and poured his own drink. It was his
own private stash and he’d be damned if he was going to
share.
Unexpectedly a pounding came on the door that led to …out
there.
Instantly, those who had them drew their guns,
pointing them at the door. Waiting, wondering. The room had become so
quiet, there was not even the sound of breathing among the men.
Finally, it was Ichabod who made his way to the exit/entrance
and placed an ear to the wood. Everyone waited.
The Inspector
jumped back , giving a high scream, when a fist hit the door again.
“Hello? Hello? Is there anyone in there?” came the
bonny
accent of a Scotsman.
“Who is it?” Crane inquired, having
removed his search goggles.
“Barrie.” Came the answer.
“James Barrie.”