The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Sixty-Nine
Deadly Combinations, Secret Alliances
Jack
wandered back to the bar where young Jack had another bottle of rum
and a clean glass waiting for the pirate. As he squirmed into the seat
Jack took the third letter and placed it on the bar, smoothing the
crisp white envelope beneath his calloused hand.
As Jack
filled his glass he felt the presence of a body invade his space. He
gave a slight look to his right to find Duke in his attempt to be
chummy, eyeing the newly opened bottle of rum.
“You won’t
mind sharing that now with an old pal, would you, Sparrow?” Raoul
Duke inquired, waving his lit cigar in the air, sending smoke and ash
across the bar. The question caused the pirate to pause his pouring,
holding the bottle deftly above the waiting glass.
From the
kitchen Sam burst forth, banging a pan with a wood spoon, proclaiming
that a new recipe had been developed, that they would be having
something new for dinner.
The ruckus that Sam made caused both
pirate and journalist to jump.
Jack spilled the rum, its
contents flooding from the bottle. As Jack jerked back, realizing the
mess he was making, his free elbow jabbed the journalist's arm that
held the cigar. The burning stub flew from his hand, landing smack in
the middle of the liquor puddle. Immediately a hungry flame came to
life consuming the liquid, it shot across the bar like a feral
animal, taking every thing in its path; including Jack’s letter.
“NO!” Jack cried horrified as he tried to pull the
burning envelope from the fire. The heat was too much as it licked
its way across the bar.
In an instant young Jack, his resort
training still fresh in his mind, smothered the blaze with the nearby
fire extinguisher, the cold white foam replacing the heated yellow
fire. The contents of the extinguisher not only diminished the
threatening flames but also covered both the pirate and the
journalist.
“F--k me boy!” Duke exclaimed. “ Good
reflexes! Did your see that, Sparrow?” Duke nudged the pirate.
“Quick thinking on his part. Hell, probably saved my f--king life!
Jesus…probably saved both our lives. Did you see how close those
damn flames were? Amazing just amazing! Did you see tha,t my fine
friends? Another disaster diverted!”
Duke pounded Jack’s
back with a mighty hand slap. “What do you say Captain? We buy the
lad here a round of drinks. A way of giving thanks?” Duke then
picked up the soggy cigar, wiped it off on his shirt and proceeded to
jam it back into his mouth, though aware that there would be no way to
light the thing, knowing that tomorrow there would be fresh cigars
waiting him.
The pirate stood there, the foam trickled down
him from head to toe. Finally he lifted both hands to his eyes and
wiped away enough for him to see, flicking the foam to the floor.
It was then that young Jack saw the hatred in the pirate’s
eyes as he stepped closer to the bar. To protect himself young Jack
stepped away, pressing his back against the bottle lined shelves
behind him. But the pirate made no move for the resort employee.
Instead he shoved his hand into the jiggling mountains of foam from
the class B extinguisher until he located the object of his search.
With two fingers he withdrew the envelope, dripping and
damaged, drenched beyond recovery. Even as he held it now, between
his index and thumb, the paper began to disintegrate, the corner
ripping away, the rest of the envelope falling back to the bar and
disappearing into the foam.
Young Jack made a move to recover
it but the angered pirate held up a hand to stop him.
“Unless
ye be wanting to be a left-hander the rest of ye life, I suggest not
to touch the letter,” he warned the young man.
Like a parent
wishing to be the one to lift an injured child Jack gently placed his
hand back into the white mountainous mixture and once again came into
possession of the saturated letter.
But Jack knew that it was
beyond saving, that the words would no longer be his to read and
savor. He bowed his head and took a deep breath.
The very
thing he had tried to avoid had come to be…his fears realized…that
if he tried to read the letter it would somehow be taken from him.
And now it was gone. His letter from her was gone.
The Room
had withdrawn into itself. Even Sam and the Constable had fallen
silent and awkwardly began to serve the evening’s dinner. Crane
pushed the cart while Sam spooned out the new concoction. When
someone quietly inquired about the night’s meal, Sam informed them
that it was based on a combination of ingredients extracted from
Depp’s Dreams Of Food Cookbook they had discovered beneath the
kitchen cabinet. It was a trial and error type creation and was aptly
named Lori’s Lasagna.
As they circled the room Crane felt a
small pointed tap at his elbow, drawing his attention from the task
at hand. He turned and was surprised to see Scissorhands, his pale,
almost albino like skin a sharp contrast to the black leather he
constantly wore. Hanging from his other scissor-grip were fine
cutouts from decorative paper. Ichabod could see that he had been
busy with his scrapbooks.
“What is it, Master Edward?”
Crane inquired. “Do you wish for me to see what you have learned
from Miss Karyn again? Did she teach you a new move with the
scissors?”
The shy young man gave a quick look down at his
latest project but just as quick brought his eyes back up to the
constable, shaking his head. He then glanced briefly in Sands'
direction which Crane followed, then slowly, methodically but with
such finesse, snapped the scissors twice, a signal to Sands that
Crane was now watching.
Just as deliberately Sands pointed in
their direction, the constable confused at the gesture, then became
aware that the CIA agent was pointing behind him and Edward. He
turned slowly as not to draw attention to himself and saw DeMarco,
hunched over a letter, scribbling words on a second sheet of paper as
if deciphering the words.
He looked back at Sands whose head
was tilted, waiting for a second signal. Edward clipped his shear
hands again. When he did Sands lifted a notebook on which he had
written one word, the letters oversized, out of alignment, yet still
got the point across.
“Oh my,” the constable whispered.
“This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”
Sands then
lowered the notebook back to the table, face down so no one could
read what he had written, so that no one could see the letters that
spelled the name of a certain cook from a certain ship who had stayed
behind in Mexico.