The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Eighty-Four
Saturday Night Specials
Crane
held the paper close, his eyes scanning the information. He mumbled
as he read.
“This is not possible,” the constable
grumbled, dropping his arms down, the paper held between both hands.
“Not probable,” Sparrow replied to Crane as he sauntered
to the constable’s side.
“I could not but help notice that
your package has seemed to put you in distress. Let me offer you a
fine round of rum to ease your anguish.”
Jack shook a
bottle of the amber liquid in Crane’s direction. “Hate to drink
alone, ye know, though at times me company is all I can stand in this
Hell hole.” Jack narrowed his eyes as he glanced around the gathered
men before coming back to Ichabod Crane.
“No, no, thank you,
Captain. But I am working and besides, I do not partake of hard
liquor.”
Jack winced. How could someone not enjoy the fine
flavor of a well aged rum.
The pirate then shrugged, uncorked
the neck and gulped a mouthful of the liquid heat. He brought the
bottle back down, wiping at his mouth and smacked his lips.
“Suit
yourself, Constable. All the more for meself, then,” he leaned
towards Crane, emphasizing his words. The smell of the rum on Jack’s
breath sent the constable back a step, bringing his hand to his nose.
“Now,” Jack continued, looking down at the bullet in the
bag, “what appears to be impossible?” He lifted the bag to have a
better look but Crane snatched it from him. Jack frowned as he looked
to the police inspector, then let his eyes fall to the bag.
“What’s
so bloody important about the damn thing?” he asked, waving the
half-empty bottle in its' direction.
Crane tugged at his
jacket as he stuffed both the bullet and the report back into the
envelope.
“It was a Saturday Night Special.” Crane
explained.
Jack pursed his lips, gazing back at the man who
spoke.
“Saturday Night Special?” Jack inquired, the words
spat out the side of his mouth, slurring from the drink. “Didn’t
know that there were guns ye could only use certain days. I find that
fascinating. What would one use on Tuesday, say, if one had a mind to
eliminate certain parties?”
Crane watched as Sparrow tried to
stay standing, wobbling in place, moving slightly, facing the
opposite direction, and still he put the bottle to his lips to take
more rum. The New York cop was amazed at how much the pirate consumed
in a day and remained intact. It was already late morning and the man
had already downed two bottles of rum.
Jack turned to face
back to Crane and as he did the Constable caught another whiff of the
inebriated pirate. Crane could barely catch his breath.
Good
Lord, he thought. This man was in desperate need of a bath. The
constable brought a scented handkerchief to his nose to ward off the
offending odor.
“Saturday Night Special refers to cheap,
junk guns, my dear Captain. Nothing extraordinary about them. Dime a
dozen, so to speak. Practically anyone can purchase them, legally or
illegally and they sometimes are just cast aside after a crime, never
to be found.”
“And that is where that bullet came from?”
Jack noted as he pointed to the envelope.
“And that is
where the bullet came from. You are correct Captain Sparrow.” Crane
viewed the Room. “But I am afraid everyone here, present company
included, surrendered their arms for inspection and I fear not one
falls into the category of a Saturday Night Special.”
Sparrow
looked to the mangled computer that once graced Mort’s desk.
“And
why, pray tell, Constable, is it so important to find the person who
pulled the said trigger of this unremarkable gun?”
“Find
the gun that shot the bullet, find the man who pulled the trigger,
and in finding the man, identifying who among us needs closer
supervision. After all, if the culprit was willing to shoot Mr.
Rainey’s hardware, in the open and in a roomful of men who were
armed as well…well, Captain Sparrow, I can only surmise that this
criminal mind may be willing to do further harm to protect his
information.”
“But I am sure, Constable Crane, a fine
upstanding officer of the law, such as yourself, must warrant a
thought on who is responsible? And if you do succeed in finding this
marauder, what are your plans, if any, to confiscate said weapon and
curtail the dog from doing further assaults?”
Crane became
depressed at the question.
“I do indeed have a thought and
to quite honest, Captain, I do not know if there is anything I can do
about the whole situation.”
Crane thought about a past
conversation and what was being protected. If he did indeed
positively identify the man he thought was the shooter, arrest may
not be an option. He felt as if his hands were tied.
“No,
dear Captain, there is probably not a thing I can do about it.”
“Then forget about it, Constable, and come have a drink with
old Jack. It will do ye a world of good. Forget yer troubles and all
that!”
Crane sighed and looked at the pirate.
“Perhaps
you are right, Captain. Perhaps I will come to the bar with you and
have that drink! But just one, mind you!” Crane held one finger up,
indicating he meant business.
“One it is, Constable! And
perhaps if you find the taste to yer liking, another? But fer now, one
is a good start!”
Together, Sparrow and Crane made their
way to the bar, and in their absence from the table, a manila envelope
disappeared.