The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Seventy-Eight
Sands Smells Something Fishy...I Mean, Corny
Sands
sat at his table, tapping his finger, methodically keeping a rhythm
only he heard in his head. The rhythm was a string of thoughts,
bouncing around, as he tried to organize them, attempting to get
order back into the Room.
The letter had almost been
translated and in doing so could have revealed pertinent information
as to why Jessi was in Mexico. He had no idea what she was thinking,
writing to Sparrow. The man was a menace and certainly would have
used what ever she had given him to his own advantage.
Sands
concluded that the woman was becoming too soft hearted..that for some
reason she needed to pour her soul out to the pirate. Hell, he
laughed, it seemed anyone of the opposite gender would pour
themselves out to him. He could not get a grasp on what it was the
pirate had that made women trust him so much, or want to try to help
him.
Wendy Syndrome, he told himself…women want to be a
mother to the little boy in every man. Barrie’s Scottish brogue
caught Sands' attention.
“And hail the man that gave that
syndrome a name,” he thought and lifted his glass to the Peter Pan
author. He threw the drink back, draining it and slammed it to the
table.
“Another one, Young Jack!” he demanded. The Private
Resort bartender rushed with another glass of Mexican beer. As young
Jack returned back to the bar, Sands became aware of a smell in the
air. He sniffed. Then sniffed again.
Despite his lack of
sight the agent turned in his chair towards the door behind him, the
kitchen door. Forgetting his beer he stood and made his way to the
kitchen entrance, pushing the door aside.
“Sam? Sam? You in
here?” The agent paused, tilting his head towards the interior of
the kitchen, listening for tell tale signs of occupancy.
“Yes,
Agent Sands. I’m fixing dinner. Do you need something?”
“Not
really,but I thought maybe the old schnozzola was tricking me. Do I
smell corn in here?”
Sands heard the clink of a spoon
against a pot as Sam finished stirring the evening’s meal.
“No,
I am afraid that I don’t have corn. I’m making chili. But if you
think there is corn somewhere I can cook that up too. Maybe make some
tamales if you like. I know you like Mexican food.”
As
Sands stood there his nose revealed that the corn had not come from
the kitchen.
“Thanks, Sam. If I find the corn, I’ll make
sure you get it. Would make for a nice change from potatoes and
bananas. No offense.”
“None taken, Agent Sands.” Sam
went back to stirring the pot.
Sands let the door swing
close. He stood there, sniffing the air, once again, catching the
scent of maize.
He shuffled a few feet ahead, using his hands
to check for obstacles. It was one thing he had learned was that the
rats in the The Room never put anything back. He was on his own
trying to maneuver The Room.
The agent continued breathing
the air, following the trail, moving and adjusting his trek as the
odor got stronger or weaker.
He arrived at his final
destination…Mort’s desk. His hands explored the top, running over
the keyboard, bringing the screen to life with a beep.
Mort,
who had been facing the wall again, juggling the slinky, swiveled
back around when he heard his computer.
“What the f--k do
you think you’re doing, No-Eyes?” Mort demanded to know as he
shoved Sands off his keyboard. “Didn’t you get enough out of
shooting my PC?”
Sands straightened, bringing up both
gloved hands, index fingers up. “Circumstantial evidence. Crane has
not proved that I, or anyone in this Room for that matter, was
responsible for the demise of your computer.”
“Well it
sure as hell didn’t shoot itself, did it? You need to back off. Can’t
work if you’re hanging over me like a sightless vulture looking for
roadkill.” Mort sneered at the blind agent.
“Still don’t
know how to play well with others do we, Rainey?” Sands came back at
him.
“Course you know all about roadkill…no, wait…Chico is
still alive, isn’t he?” He turned his head left and right as if
trying to locate the dog.
Sands stepped away from the desk
when he heard Rainey shove back his chair to give himself room to
stand.
“Leave my f--king dog out of this.”
Sands
held up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “You’re the one
that brought up road kill, not me. Oh…yeah…okay…understand…it’s
not the dog that’s road kill,”
To Mort’s amazement, Sands
pointed to the chair where Chico slept.
“It’s the old wifey-poo
probably dumped along the side of some godforsaken road
somewhere…forgot…my mistake, old man.” The sound off Mort
scrambling around his desk sent Sands stepping back again in an
effort to avoid body contact. As if they were ready for the assault,
Brasco and Armacost were there to fend off Rainey’s attack on
Sands. They held onto the writer until he showed signs that he would
not try to go at it with the CIA agent again.
The New York
cop and astronaut released Mort, who pulled his arms away and
returned to his chair.
“What’s up with this?” Brasco
asked in his thick city accent. “Why you harassing Rainey? What’s
he done?”
“He’s hoarding.” Sands accused. “He has
food he’s not sharing with us. I just felt it was my duty to
confiscate the contraband.”
“Is that true, Mr. Rainey?”
Brasco asked. Armacost stood silent, waiting for the writer’s
answer.
“Check his drawers.” Sands ordered.
“What?”
Brasco exclaimed. “I’m not doing a strip search for corn. You may
be into that, but I ain’t”
Sands head dropped to his
chest. Was this Room really filled with idiots?
He brought
his head back up. “Not his freaking pants, you moron…check the
desk drawers.”
“Oh, oh, yeah right. Go ahead
Spence...you’re closer.”
The astronaut nodded, reaching
down and yanking out the top drawer, revealing crushed bags of
Doritos and empty Mountain Dew cans. He slammed it shut with a mutter
of “nothing there” and moved to the second, bottom drawer.
Mort
stuck a foot to the drawer, pinning it closed.
“You got no
warrant to go in there.” He reminded them.
Sands drew his
weapon. “This is my f--king warrant. Now let Armacost open the
drawer.”
Rainey shoved off, giving Armacost room to open
the bottom drawer.
“Bingo!” Brasco yelled. “We’re
having corn for dinner tonight boys!”
A cheer rose from the men
as their mouths began to water for the luscious kernels, smothered in
melting butter, salted to perfection.
“It’s there?”
Sands inquired. “Yep,” Brasco answered. “At least five dozen
ears, I swear it.”
“But that corn is mine.” The
Mississippian twang broke the joviality of the Room. “You can’t
take my corn. It was a gift to me…all the way from Pennsylvania.
She knows me and Mort are crazy for corn. How can you just come in
here and steal it away from us? That’s not right. That’s plain
not right.”
Brasco reached out and snatched the black hat
off the man’s head.
“Give it up…the corn is ours.”
Brasco and Armacost helped themselves to the ears, using their shirts
as makeshift carriers.
The man with the southern accent sat
back into this chair.
“Not right. Not right t’all. It is
a mystery to me that you all can do that.” he said mournfully as he
watched his precious corn head for the kitchen.