The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Forty-Six
Incoming Email
“Tis
the same paper, I tell ye,” Sparrow waved the note in Spencer’s
face, then brought it down so not to draw attention.
“You
can be assured, my dear pirate, that there are others out there that
use the same kind of paper. I am sure your Shelley," Spencer
pointed at the note, “must use the same brand.”
Sparrow
eyed Spencer, rolling his head slightly back, then down to the note in
his hand.
The astronaut could be right, but what where the
chances? He turned his heated gaze to Rainey. Mort sat unfazed,
crunching his chips, brushing his hands on his shirt, as he stared at
his computer.
The pirate watched Mort Rainey through
suspicious eyes. He could not trust himself to confront the New
Yorker with his accusation. His anger was too heated at the moment
and he knew he would end up using his one shot on the writer. No, he
thought to himself, wait until you can think more clearly. Wait,
watch and listen, he told himself. He returned to the bar to down
another pint of ale, another shot of rum.
“Bloody ‘ell,”
he mumbled aloud, “I might even go to the kitchen and eat one of
those bananas that Hannah sends Sam.” As much as he hated bananas
he thought he’d try anything to get the sick taste of
dissatisfaction from his mouth. He disappeared behind the kitchen
doors.
From the corner of his eye Mort watched as the pirate
let himself into the kitchen. He had held his breath when he heard
his name mentioned between Spencer and Sparrow. He had no idea what
they were talking about as the pirate waved a piece of paper and
spouted off about monkeys and cages and bananas.
Whatever it
was, it seemed to have had its moment and passed. Mort returned his
attention to the laptop, glancing briefly over to Chico. A sadness
came to his eyes as he saw his dog try to get comfortable despite the
screwdriver. He would have removed the tool, but had already seen
that it would not make a difference. Tomorrow it would be back,
sticking out of the dog’s head. The Room was relentless.
He
turned back to the computer and was surprised to see a pop-up, an
Instant Messenger window.
“R U there?” the message read.
“This is new,” he grumbled. What else was Depp going to
do to his computer? Well, he thought…what harm would it do to
answer him?
“Yeah, I’m here. What do you want?” he
typed. The Instant Messenger lingo was not in his vocabulary, he was
a bone fide writer. He would not use slang or abbreviations.
“Rlly
U?”
Mort let go a heavy sigh and cracked his jaw. How long
was he going to play the word games. Let’s get to the chase, shall
we?
Mort typed back. “Cut the bullshit. What do you
want?”
A message returned in a blink of an eye.
“Still
hostile r we? Hvn’t 4given me yet 4 leaving? U desrvd it U know?”
Mort shook his head confused at the message. What in the hell
was Depp talking about? Left him? Deserved it? The man has smoked one
too many funny cigarettes, Mort thought.
“I don’t know
what you are talking about.” Mort wrote back.
“HA! Don’t
b acting like that BonBon! U know full well what I am talking about!”
Came the reply.
Mort was getting agitated.
“If I knew
what you were talking about we would not be having this conversation.
Now tell me, Mr. Depp, what is it that you want? I am trying to work
here.”
No reply came immediately. Mort waited. Time seemed
to stand still as the computer’s cursor flashed, waiting for a
return answer.
A good twenty seconds passed.
“Well
that’s it buddy,” Mort said, as he reached for the keyboard,
ready to close out the program. But just as his fingers touched the
board the screen came back to life.
“Who is this?”
“Who
is this?” Mort read aloud. “You’re the one who contacted me,
remember?” Rainey talked to the screen.
“R U still
there?” The words appeared. “Who is this?” The question was
repeated.
“Jesus,” Mort pulled himself to the board to
type his name.
“I’m who you wrote to, Mr.Depp…Mort
Rainey,” He pressed the ‘send’ key.
Again there was a
long pause.
“I wasn’t writing to you.” Mort noticed a
change in writing style. Depp was getting more formal.
“Well,
this is my computer. Who did you think would answer?”
“Sparrow.
Captain Jack Sparrow.” Came the answer.
Mort pinched the
bridge of his nose, trying to ward off an anxiety headache. This Depp
is a real hole if he thought he could get Sparrow on his computer.
He punched at the keys with another question.
“Why
do you think Sparrow would answer you on this computer?”
“Sam
wrote me a letter telling me how to get in contact with him. Got it
this morning from the Noodlemantra Delivery Service. I thought maybe
Jack was ready to talk about Mexico.”
Mort shook his head.
Mexico? Why would Depp and Sparrow discuss Mexico?
“Mr.
Depp,” Mort wrote, “not to be rude, but why would you want to
discuss anything with that filthy pirate? He’s been nothing but a
pain in the ass, drinking, fighting, chasing a monkey. Not a pretty
sight, I might add. It would be so beneficial if you could get one of
us out of here…mainly me, if you please.”
Again, time and
space passed before the answer returned.
“Depp? Why are you
calling me Depp? I’m not Depp.” The words shot across the screen.
Now Mort was confused. He typed in the obvious.
“Well,
if you are not Depp, who in the hell are you and why are you on my
computer?”
The answer flew back.
“I told you, I
am looking for Jack Sparrow…sorry…CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow. And as I
said before, I am not Depp…
Mort waited for the rest as he
tried to understand what was happening. Then the remainder of the
answer appeared.
“I was the cook on The Black Pearl…my
name is Jessi.”