The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Eleven
Decisions, Decisions
Mort
went back to his desk, the sound of his slinky jostling back and
forth in his hands lost among the buzz of conversation that went on
in the room. It was a few moments later that he heard him.
“Your
problem Mr. Rainey, is that you think too long. Your problem is you
think too hard. But I think your real problem is Mr. Rainey is you
just think.” The Mississippian accent raised the hairs on
Mort’s
neck..
“What the hell do you mean by that? I just think?”
Rainey answered Shooter.
“I mean, Mr. Rainey, that when you
think, he hears, and when he hears, he knows. So, in your case, there
is no element of surprise. You think too long and hard. You mull
things over and over until you’re beating a dead horse. Now I
on
the other hand…am a doer…an idea just pops into
my head and I
just follow through. No questions asked. Just do it. And that is what
I am proposing now.”
“What? What are you proposing?”
“Turn your chair around Mr. Rainey. I think you will
understand.”
Mort let a curse out with his breath as he
swiveled his chair towards the wall behind him. As he did, his foot
hit an object. He looked down and saw the shovel.
“How the
hell did that get there?” He asked aloud.
“There you go
again, Mr. Rainey. Thinking about things too much. Just pick it up
and do as I ask.”
Mort reached down and picked up the
garden tool, hefting it in his hand so the head of the shovel was
upward.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Pick someone.”
Shooter answered.
“Pick someone? For what?” Mort was
confused.
“The element of surprise, Mr. Rainey. Pick someone,
surprise them, they’ll never know what hit them.”
Shooter’s
voice remained deadpanned as he added, “ Oh, forgive the pun.
Sometimes I just get carried away with my own humor.”
“You
want me to hit someone with this?”
“Now once again, Mr.
Rainey, you’ve gone and let the cat out of the bag. You are
too
much of a girl, aren’t you Mr. Rainey. I guess then I have to
do it
myself.”
Shooter adjusted his hat he had found in the
bottom desk drawer. He put a firm hold on the shovel’s
handle,
estimating its weight and what it would take it to swing towards
his intended victim.
“Now, let’s see,” Mort heard
Shooter assess the room. “Who is the most annoying to me? Ah,
yes,
Mr. Wood. Every morning shouting his ranting through that
god-forsaken megaphone. He gives me a headache every time he speaks.
Yes, Mr. Wood, this is your lucky, or should I say unlucky,
day?”
“You can’t do Wood.” Mort protested.
Shooter waited
for his explanation.
“Look at him. Always happy, always
smiling. Yeah, annoying, but doing him is like taking out a puppy
dog. Hell, he’d probably keep smiling and tell you what a
great job
you’re doing as you bring down the shovel. No,
can’t do the puppy
dog.”
“Well, Mr. Rainey, if I recall, dogs are not a
problem for me.”
Mort shot a look to Chico, who was trying to
make himself a bed in the corner chair, occasionally shaking his head
to adjust the screwdriver.
“But” Shooter continued, “Perhaps
you might be right. Taking out a happy person might make the room a
bit, shall we say, unfriendly. Very well. You choose, then.”
Mort
did not have to think twice as his attention went straight across the
room to the pirate at the bar. Mort watched as Sparrow appeared to be
carving something into the wood with a small knife.
“Ahh,”
Shooter said as he saw his choice. “The dear Captain. And why
is he
on your A-list, Mr. Rainey?”
Mort furrowed his brow as
he continued to watch the pirate make his mark on the bar.
“He
is constantly trying to pimp my whiskey. Damn pirate. Besides, look
at him. When’s the last time he took a bath? You just got to
know
that something on him is rotting away beneath those filthy
clothes.”
But just as Shooter described, he thought too much.
“The
only problem is he’s armed. He has a pistol. He could pull it
out
and shoot.”
“But he only has one shot.” Shooter
reminded him.
“Yeah,”Mort answered, “but even when
he’s
drunk he’s quick and I don’t want that shot to be
meant for me.
No, Sparrow is too dangerous a quarry. I changed my mind.
You’ll
have to pick.”
“Very well, Mr. Rainey. I choose Mr. Duke.
He’s another one that brings on my headaches with that dang
accordion of his.”
Rainey thought on Shooter’s choice. He
had to agree. Between the accordion and the gonzo
journalist’s
constant nagging for him to write…yes…Raoul Duke
was the perfect
choice.
“Then it’s decided.” Shooter confirmed,
as he
picked up the shovel and made his way across the room.
Rainey
suddenly felt he could vomit.