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The Waiting Room

~ Chapter Sixteen


BonBon's Hobby


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Two of us are missing.”

Blake’s words failed to register at first with Mort. But across the room a set of ears heard it all.

Sparrow popped up from behind the wood bar, the glint of steel in one hand.

“Missing? Who is bloody missing?”

The Captain caught his breath when he realized the gypsy Roux was coming his way. He quickly hid his hands below the bar before the Irishman reached him. Once out of view, Sparrow’s sleight of hand made the object disappear as easy as a magician hiding a coin.

“What are you doing pirate? You are carving Megan’s name again?” he accused Sparrow.

Jack held up his hands, waving them forward and back to show that they were empty. He leaned over the bar, sneering, one side of his lip curled upward.

“Ye can’t carve it if ye ain’t got a knife, now can ye?” Jack wiggled his fingers then put them out palm up for Roux to inspect. “Now, if ye will excuse me, there seems to be the pressing matter of a misappropriation of our population.”

Jack slid casually away from the bar, leaving Roux to inspect the under ledge of the bar where he saw that indeed, Jack had once again carved the woman’s name into the wood. He concluded it was best to wait to fix it tomorrow and turned his attention to the discussion of the missing men.

Jack cursed himself for being careless and made a vow to find another place for Megan’s name. He glanced up towards the ceiling, checking for the monkey, but the creature was nowhere in sight.

“The book delivery kid.” Blake explained. “Noodle-boy, or whatever his name was. Must have slipped out during Roux and Cesar’s little battle for the chair.”

At the mention of the chair, Roux and Cesar glared at each other, determined that they would be the first out of the room to find the Lady Covington.

“And Brasco.” Dean announced, throwing a newspaper down on the table.

“What the f--k?” Duke spun around to see his drinking buddy gone. “S--t, the bastard never even said goodbye. Well” the journalist waved his hand, cigarette ash falling all around, “Jesus, see if I give a s--t. Never much liked the sonofabitch anyway. Hell, what does a man have to do around here for a decent scotch?”

Sparrow had made his way to Dean’s table, gripping two tankards of ale. He slid in clumsily across from the book collector, sitting one down in front of Dean, sipping from the second tankard himself. As he brought the tankard down to the table, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then propped an elbow on the table, pointing a finger.

“May I be privy to how young Brasco and that whip of a boy, escaped the confines of the room?” The Captain asked, determined to find out the secret of freedom.

“He’s back in the news. The trial started. So his name is headline news again.” He pushed the paper, The Owensboro Messenger, towards the pirate. It had been tucked among the new book delivery. On the front was a picture of a Mafia kingpin, who had been taken down by the undercover cop some years before.

“ Depp must be reading about it. He remembers him. His memory takes you out of the room. He won’t be gone long.” Dean lit another cigarette and went back to one of the many books that lay open on the table.

“And the boy?” Sparrow inquired. “How does he come by being able to come and go as he pleases?”

Dean shrugged.

“If I may be so bold?” Ichabod stepped cautiously to the center of the room, a finger pointing upward to try to gain anyone’s attention. “I have a theory, bare-thin as it may be.”

The room waited for him to continue. Crane cleared his throat before beginning.

“I believe that Mr. Noodlemantra will be able to come and go as Mr. Depp reads his selected books. When he finishes a book, he will bring it to Dean. The more books he reads, the more I have concluded that we will see Mr. Noodlemantra.”

He stood waiting for a response.

“S--t. What the hell?”

All heads turned towards Dean who sat at the table, holding another book in his hand, as he read the spine.

“Why in the hell did the kid bring this in? What the hell will I do with a book on knitting?”

At the word knitting, Bon Bon spun around, a look of surprise crossing ‘her’ face. She crossed the room, hips swaying, boa swinging until the she-male reached Dean’s side. Gently she coaxed the book from his hands.

“I believe that is mine.”

Dean did not let go of the tome.

“How can it be yours? No one can have things sent in here.”

BonBon pouted. “I don’t know what you are talking about. All I know is that my friend Erin has sent it to me.”

BonBon managed to wrestle the book from Dean and slowly walked back to her place, flipping through the pages, wondering what wonderful creation she could make.

If only she had some yarn.



 

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