The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Four
Barrie's Question
They
stood about in a semi-circle, Hanson, Lerner, Blake, Brasco, Duke,
Victor, Jung, Abberline, Sparrow (eh, Capt. Jack Sparrow) facing the
door, guns drawn. Edward backed them up, clicking his shears.
All
were standing except for Sands who stayed at his corner table, his
back to the wall, waving his pistol in a wide arc left to right ,
then right to left.
“What the f--k is going on?” He
demanded to know.
Wood looked down at the agent, noting that
today he wore a shirt with the letters JDOCD. He had no idea what it
stood for, but he wasn’t about to ask a man with a loaded
gun.
Golly, he thought to himself, Sands probably doesn’t even
have any
idea what he was wearing today. Pity.
The director leaned in
Sands' direction, his eyes back on the armed men.
“There’s
someone at the door,” he whispered to the blind man.
“No
s--t, Sherlock,” Sands sneered from one side of his mouth,
hovering
the gun in Wood's direction. Carefully Wood took a finger and placed
it on Sands' hand holding the weapon, gently pushing it back towards
the door.
“That way, if you would be so kind. I tend to get
nervous with a gun pointing at me.” When he had Sands' weapon
facing
towards the door he sighed, “Ahh, that’s much
better. As I was
saying, there’s a gentleman at the door, claiming to be a one
Mister James Barrie. Must be the new guy…let him in my dear
friends! We could use some fresh blood around here.”
The
door inched open, just enough for a man, similar in build and
features as Ichabod, but who carried himself with more confidence. He
stepped just inside the door.
“Grab the bloody door!” The
Black Pearl’s Captain shouted, as he made a clumsy attempt to
shove
his pistol in his waistband and push his way to the exit. But he was
too
late as the door closed with a solid thud.
“Damn it! You
good for nothing cur,” he screamed at Victor who had been the
closest. “Didn’t you see the bloody damn thing
closing? We could
have escaped!” Sparrow pulled his pistol out and aimed it at
Victor’s head.
The Lieutenant never blinked. In fact he
gave Jack a disgusted look and turned to return to Bon Bon’s
side.
“There, there, my dove, “ he cooed. “All
is back to
normal.” He stroked her boa, touching it to his face, then
gingerly
led her back to her own seat.
The whole time Sparrow kept his
gun aimed at Victor. Slowly he came to realize that no one was paying
attention to him. He nonchalantly put away his weapon while
grumbling, “Shot wasn’t meant for you
anyway.” He staggered to
the bar for another tankard of ale.
At the center of the room
Barrie stood trying to understand what had just happened. He looked
at each man (and was that a woman with the yellow boa?), trying to
find a friendly face. But no one seemed to want to acknowledge him.
Over in the corner, Sands still had his weapon drawn. “I
don’t hear anything. What the hell is going on?”
Wood
brought his megaphone up, pointing it directly at the agent.
“It’s
over. They’ve put their weapons away.” He boomed at
Sands.
Sands
leveled his gun at the sound of Wood's voice, his gun aimed down the
barrel of the megaphone.
“I’m blind you bastard, not
deaf.”
The director stepped back, tipping slightly in his
heels. He certainly did not want to eat a bullet today.
“Eh,
sorry there my dear man, my mistake. As I was saying, all is well,
you can put that weapon away.”
Sands tilted his head,
listening to the room. He could decipher that everyone was once again
moving about, no longer concerned about the newcomer. He disengaged
his gun and tucked it away, then went back to eating his pork dish.
“Hey, how’d he get lunch?” Jung
questioned, then shoved
Duke, “I thought you called for lunch a half hour ago. Where
is
that mental case?’
“Good question, my friend!” Duke
climbed to the top of their table, his accordion still strapped
around his body.
“Sam, Sam, get your ass in here with lunch. We
have mucho hungry men in here! As much as we'd love to, we
can’t
drink all day!”
“Why the bloody hell not,” a sour voice
came from the bar. Duke ignored Sparrow.
The kitchen door
swung wide and Sam rolled out, somersaulting, and landing flat on
his fanny. Amazingly, he carried a plate of fresh hot-ironed grilled
cheese sandwiches. He sprang to his feet, flicking his hat from his
head as he bowed to an unappreciative audience, then placed the plate
on Mort’s desk. The accordion tune caught his attention and
he
two-stepped it over to the journalist to enjoy a special little dance
all his own.
Mort picked up one of the sandwiches and sniffed
it before throwing it back onto the plate.
“You brought us
freaking grill cheese sandwiches. I wanted Jif peanut butter with
Doritos. Besides,” he continued, pushing the plate to the
edge of
the desk, “these aren’t even sliced in
half.”
Without a
second thought, Edward rushed over to the
plate…snip-snip…perfectly
sliced and ready to eat! He smiled at Mort as if to say, There you
go…then shuffled over to the radio, attempting to tune in a
station.
“May I?” Mort looked up from watching
Scissorhands to see Roux pointing to the plate of sandwiches.
Mort
waved a hand towards them, “Knock yourself out. Just watch
the ones
with the scorch marks on them.”
Roux flashed a smile as he
took a bite. “Mmmm, my favorite,” then wandered
back to his
guitar.
Mort played a bit with the slinky again, staring at
the couch, crowded with the morons he was stuck with. He then looked
at the door that led to the bedroom. He would love a nap, but that
damn kid from Elm Street had grabbed it again first.
“Eh,
excuse me?”
Mort shot a look upward and saw Barrie standing in
front of his desk. Mort grabbed the plate and threw it down in front
of the Scotsman.
“Here, I don’t eat cheese.”
Barrie
scrunched his nose at the offer.
“No, thank you. That is not
what I wanted. What I wanted was an answer to my question.”
Mort
leaned forward across the desk, “Not that I should give a
s--t
about your curiosity, but what was the question again?”
Barrie
looked around him, at the room, at the men, at that woman (?). He
glanced up at the books that lined the walls, the doors and the one
window that a young man was trying to open. He was taken aback when
he noticed for the first time the dog curled up in a chair, a
screwdriver extending beyond its skull.
He gathered his
thoughts before turning back to Mort.
“My question is what
exactly is this room and how in the bloody blue blazes did I get
here?”
Mort leaned back in his chair, the slinky bouncing
from hand to hand.
“Well, that my f--ked up friend, is an
excellent question. Let’s see if I can answer it for
you.”