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The Waiting Room

~ Chapter Fifty-Four


Books and Letters


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Crane returned to his own table, satisfied that Sands' actions had been justified. But for how long would Sparrow bear the silence, not knowing why the agent had demolished Rainey’s computer?

“He will just have to accept that what is done is done. An unbearable burden, but just the same.” Crane told himself. The inspector stiffened as he watched the pirate make his way towards him.

Jack Sparrow was not a man he wished to spar with physically or verbally. Crane’s mind raced as he tried to find the words to soften the blow that the truth was to remain hidden.

But there would be no need as a knock pounded upon the door. The suddenness of it drew Jack’s attention from Crane. He noticed a look of anticipation on the Captain’s face. He was always still waiting for the call to come, the call that would take him from The Room.

“Come in!” shouted Wood through his megaphone. The director brought the shiny call horn down and gave a quick wipe with his sleeve adding a shine to the polished speaking aid. Wood caught the eye of the Frenchman and quickly hid the megaphone behind his back. He did not wish to lose another one.

The door opened and Noodlemantra made another entrance, his cart loaded with books and boxes. A quiet murmur filtered through The Room as all wondered what was being delivered today. He followed his routine, pushing the heavy cart to Dean and began to place them on the table.

Dean put his half-finished cigarette in his mouth, freeing both hands to handle the books, squinting through the rising smoke. He pulled the top one off the pile and glanced at the title.

“On The Road,” he repeated the title. “Again? I swear we have twenty-five copies in here already. Doesn’t he read anything else?”

He waved the book in the air, showing the men watching. “This is his brother’s doing you know? Gave him a copy when he was like fifteen. Reads it every year, I swear.”

Dean threw the book aside and grabbed the next.

“In Dante’s Hand? He only read that one two months ago. Why did he read that again?” Dean flipped through the pages wondering if something new had been added.

“He’s been asked to do the audiobook reading,” Noodlemantra explained. “He wanted to refresh his memory. So he really just skimmed it. But it still gets delivered.”

Dean nodded to the remaining books. “Anything interesting in the rest?”

Noodlemantra shrugged. “Mostly some French novels and one on poetry from Vanessa that she gave him for his birthday back in June.”

Dean pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew a stream of smoke.

“Lotta good that’ll do me. Can’t speak it, can’t read it.” A thought crossed his mind and he looked up into the sea of faces.
“Hey! Frenchy!”

The Frenchman looked around then pointed to himself. Dean waved him over and indicated that he take a seat.

Meanwhile Noodlemantra wheeled the cart into the kitchen to find the young man doing the baked-potatoes-on-the-forks dance. He dropped them when he saw he had company.

“It’s okay Sam. I won’t tell. But I’m sure those guys out there will be getting real hungry real soon. Here, this box is for you.”

Inside was a new set of paints and a newly published cookbook.

Sam pulled the paints out of the box, admiring all the new colors.

“For me?” he asked quietly.

Noodlemantra nodded. “Yeah, some girl in Holland. Said she saw one of your paintings in an art gallery. The one that had a bunch of irises under a rainbow. Thought you might need some new supplies.”

Sam gave a smile. “Tell her thank you when you see her.”

Noodlemantra smiled back. “Will do, my friend.” He gave Sam a salute and headed back out of the kitchen, leaving Sam with his paints and the new Chipotle Restaurant cookbook. He wondered if there were any Mashed Potatoes-Banana recipes as he opened it to the first page.

Out in the room, Noodlemantra continued on towards the exit, passing Jack, who sat, elbows on the bar, his back to The Room downing what had to be his fifteenth rum of the day. As he sat there fuming over the fact that Crane refused to answer his questions, he felt something brush his arm and looked down to see a pile of envelopes tied together with a ribbon being pushed in front of him.

He turned to see Noodlemantra nod towards them.

“Personal delivery,” he barely whispered and kept going as if nothing had happened.

Sparrow looked down at the different colored letters. The top one had his name scripted in a familiar hand. He picked them up and flipped through them. Each one was addressed to him. Each one in a different hand.

Jack smiled at the cleverness of his girls. They had found a way into The Room.



 

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