The reward for a hard job well done...
It was only 15 or 20 people, but as the sudden center of their attention, I felt outflanked and surrounded.
“Look! There she is!”
“Will you sign my autograph book?” This was a small boy in a red jacket, pen and notebook in hand. I set down the box and took his notebook.
“Do you want an inscription?”
“Gee, thanks! To Kevin, please!”
I wrote: To Kevin, may you always have the strength you need, Best wishes Elja B. Johanssen. I handed him the book, smiling at him beaming up at me.
There was a rustling from my box, and I turned to see an pasty faced, overweight man rummaging through it. “Hey! Leave that alone!”
He popped up, startled, and took off running with a sheaf of papers in hand. I couldn’t follow. I was surrounded. “Stop!” I yelled, with no real hope. A stringy young man in Doc Martens ran after him, and around the corner. I grabbed the box and briefcase again, with no real hope of recovering whatever had been taken.
“Can I get a picture with you, Ms. Johanssen?” This from a brunette my age, in a short red jacket and black wool pants. I leaned towards her, grimacing towards a camera in the hands of another woman. Those two women peeled out of the crowd, leaving me face to face with a goth girl with pierced lip, spiky black hair and black t-shirt. “What was it like?” she asked, as if there was nothing but me in the entire world. “Was it like dieing?”
I shook my head. “It was strange. I can’t quite describe it.”
Still she gazed at me.
“Do you want an autograph?” I sallied.
“OK,” she said. She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, and seemed satisfied when I wrote Elja Johanssen on it.
I took two more steps toward my car.
“Ms. Johanssen! I’m with the Clarion. Can I get an interview?”
I looked at the remaining people crowding around me. “This doesn’t seem like a good time!” I called.
The small man in the Nike jacket stretched between two other bodies to pass me a card. “Call me as soon as possible, I’ll buy you lunch.” I reached and took the card. Hey, free lunch would stretch my budget by -- another lunch.
“Take off your shirt again!”
“No,” I said. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
There were several cries of disappointment at that. Funny, I didn’t think my breasts were that interesting. Geez.
The guy in Doc Martens, who had run around the corner, came panting back into view. He had a handful of papers. “I couldn’t catch him. But he dropped these.”
I took the papers from him. “Thanks. You’ve done a good deed for me.”
His acne scarred face broke into a wide smile, and he broke into a small dance, fists pumping into the air. “I’m a hero too!”
“Yeah. Thanks again,” I said.
“Way to go!” said someone else.
Amazingly, the crowd was breaking up. That last little drama seemed to have satisfied them. I tossed the recovered papers into my box, and took three more steps towards my car.
One last woman blocked my way. She was tall and fragile looking, with tight black curls falling to her shoulders. With her arms wrapped around herself, she looked at me with weary brown eyes, and said, “Please. Miss Johanssen. I need your help.”
Chapter Two. The reward for completing a difficult task...
I stopped, and looked up at her. Seems like a damsel in distress led me to this situation in the first place.
“Ma’am, I’m an unemployed legal assistant. What help can I possibly give you that someone else wouldn’t do a better job at?”
She shook her head, black curls tumbling. “No. You’re a hero. And that’s what I need -- a hero.”
“I was possessed by an avatar. It happens to people -- and no one can be one just by wanting to be.” Although -- my treacherous thoughts whispered -- you did choose, didn’t you?
“Then what avatar was it?”
And there was the question. I’d kept the identity of my avatar to myself, and hoped this would all blow over. It wasn’t blowing over. I couldn’t answer her.
“Look,” she continued. “I’ll pay you one hundred dollars just to listen to me. One hour. I’ll throw in lunch.”
And who published the story that I was a sucker for lunch? What was out there about me? Clearly, I needed to run Google on myself very soon. In the meanwhile, I needed the money and the lunch.
“All right.” I pulled a piece of paper from the briefcase, scribbled a name and address on it. “Meet me here at 11:30. I’ll listen to you then.”
She put a black gloved hand on my shoulder. “You won’t stand me up, will you?”
“No, I won’t. I don’t know how I can help you, but I’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” she said, and at last moved out of my way.
A half dozen people remained. I offered them all autographs, and at last I was free, to pile the remnants of my career in my car, and speed away.
Fortunately, no one was mobbing my apartment. I unloaded the box and the briefcase. Still no time to sort my papers and see what was missing. I moved my wallet, pda and cell phone to inside pockets on my trench coat, and hung it on a hook. I’d have much greater mobility that way than with the briefcase.
I had time to run a web search before meeting -- I hadn’t even gotten her name! Great.
I typed Elja Johannsen into Google. Three pages of links flowed onto my screen. The first url led to the video. No need to watch that again.
Several entries down, I found a long article from USA Daily, in their lighter side section.
Graduate Student Studying Avatars Has a Close Encounter
Riverside, CA. Ask Joshua Sung why he studied avatars, and he’ll say “My advisor said I had to choose something. Avatars sounded intriguing, and of course, I had a chance to work with Dr. Burton.”
Two months ago, an avatar did more than give him something to write a dissertation about. One saved his life.
“I was unconscious in a locked, burning building. If it hadn’t been for the avatar, I wouldn’t be here now.”
Sung accompanied his mentor, Dr. Burton, to the vacant warehouse previously occupied by Reginald’s Costumes late in the evening of January 19th earlier this year. He says he’s still not clear about what happened next. We showed him the recently released video that captured him emerging from the burning building on the shoulder of an avatar.
“Hey! Yeah, that’s me. And the woman is Elja Johannsen. I don’t recognize the avatar, though -- it looks like a completely new one.”
When asked, he continued, “We’ve only been documenting avatars for about twenty years now. There’s plenty we don’t know about them yet. Still, I recognize nearly all the avatars reported. Since our best theory at the moment is that they arise from the collective unconscious, they have to be well known figures.”
Then he lit with a smile mixing boyish glee and scholarly enthusiasm. “I have an inside track on this one. I’ll ask Elja to lunch and see what she says about it. She can’t resist lunch.”
Further pressed, he added that he and Johannsen have been dating long distance for a few months. “Yes, I am a lucky man. Not only did she save my life -- who wouldn’t want to date an eight foot woman!”
That was Josh all over. That habit of his -- of telling the truth without thought to the consequences -- was almost as endearing as it was infuriating. I’d strangle him -- if it wouldn’t waste my efforts saving his life.
I missed him. I hardly knew him. We lived six hundred miles apart, had been on four dates, and hadn’t seen each other face to face since he was released from the hospital after the fire.
The clock was ticking. I didn’t have time for an hour on the phone.
Following another link, I found I had an entry on an avatar fan site.
Real name: Elja Boadiccea Johannsen. Avatar: Unknown. Date of event:
January 19th, 2005. Action: Carried man out of burning building.
Looks and accessories: 50’s Cheerleader clothing, carries large hammer.
Notes: This is a strange one. There have been no previous sightings of
heroic, hammer carrying cheerleaders. Could this be the long awaited
arrival of personal avatars? If so, Ms. Johannsen, who works as a legal assistant in Fallon, NV, could be the first to have an avatar alternate
identity available at will and unique to herself.
I wished I could erase those words from the screen -- from the entire web. First, there was the appalling publication of my embarrassing middle name. Then, the author implied I could call an avatar at will. No wonder mobs were surrounding my ex-place of employment! They thought I was some sort of super-hero. And no wonder they were offering me interviews and pleas for help.
At least if I had been a superhero, I could have had the cloak of a secret identity.
I expected the woman who wanted me to buy her lunch was going to be very disappointed.
It was time to betray her hopes in person. I pulled myself into my coat, and went to meet her.
Chapter 3 ...Is another, even harder one.
I’d sent my mystery woman to my favorite diner. I spotted her sitting by a window at a table near the door, two glasses of water on the formica before her. I waved to my usual waitress, and took a seat across from the woman I’d come to meet.
She looked as out of place as an avocado in a fruit basket. Under the carefully tailored red wool jacket, she wore a long double string of pearls and a satin blouse. One of her long and perfectly tended fingernails was idly tapping near a coffee stain.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said.
“That’s probably about the fifth misunderstanding you have about me.”
“Really,” she said.
“I hate to take your money under false pretenses,” I said. “If you think I can become an avatar at will -- I can’t. If you think I’m a lawyer -- I’m not. If you think I can help you --” I shrugged. “I don’t know how. And if you think I break my word -- I don’t.”
“That’s only four,” she said.
“Well,” I said, “for all I know, you think I sell loaded dice. So why did you think I could help you?”
“Jane Morris attends my church. I understand you helped her gain a settlement from United Minerals.”
I leaned back against the vinyl bench. “That much is true about me. You’re more informed than I expected.”
“I didn’t expect to encounter a mob when I went to your office.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I’m not sure how to begin, Ms. Johannsen.”
“Your name might be a good start.”
She gave me a smile with an ironic edge. “I’m Jacinta Olivens. If you read the papers, you’ve heard the name.”
I had heard it. She and her husband Raymond were involved in a public and brutal divorce fight over the casino they owned jointly. The Phosphora Casino had grown over the last twenty years into the largest and, some would say, most tasteful independent casino in Reno. Her family money and his business experience had created a gaming destination alluring enough to pull customers from the downtown area to the southern edge of town.
“I’m not a divorce lawyer, either, Mrs. Olivens.”
She reached into her Prada purse and pulled out a matching red wallet. She snapped open the clasp, and pulled out a crisp one hundred dollar bill, and slid it toward me beneath those perfect red nails. “Money is no problem for me, Ms. Johannsen. I have hired excellent divorce lawyers. I need something -- a little more subtle from you.”
“I’m listening,” I said. I didn’t grab the bill. After a moment, she pulled her hand back and left it laying before me.
“My husband underestimates women. He always has -- that’s why he can claim now that my contribution to the Phosphora was merely start up capital. He’s also trying to hide assets from me. I know what we own. And I have accountants working the books. Still--” She broke off and studied me. “Why did you help Mrs. Morris?”
I picked up the cash on the table, folded it carefully, and slid it into my pocket. “It seemed the right thing to do.”
“There,” she said. “Just so.” She settled back into her seat with a small smile.
I watched her for a moment, not sure if my answer or my acceptance of her payment had pleased her. “I really don’t follow you, Mrs. Olivens. What do you want me to do?”
Her dark eyes glowed from beneath the subtly shaded frame of her lids. “You have a taste for justice, Ms. Johannsen. I see it in you. And that is what I want. Justice. Go out. Look around, and ask questions. Tell me what you see. I’ll give you five thousand dollars for one month. And then -- we shall go from there.”
It was twice as much as my final check from Utter and Winstead. I temporized, “Not everyone would say what I got for Mrs. Morris was justice.”
“Oh, I am a woman of the world, Ms. Johannsen. Especially now. I recognize what justice the world allows when I see it.”
“So, you’d like to hire me as a private investigator, then.”
“I prefer to think of you as an x factor. One extra roll of the dice, to catch something neither my lawyers nor my accountants might pick up.”
I felt every bit as impoverished as the traditional p.i.. “I’d need payment in advance,” I said.
She smiled, as fragile as a shard of broken bottle. “Oh, yes,” she said, reaching for the wallet again. She pulled out a stack of bills, bound with a folded strip of red paper, pushed it toward me. I examined it with a quick riffle of the ends -- it was ten five hundred dollar bills. “That settles everything, doesn’t it?” she said.
“All right. I agree to look into your husband and the casino for the next month.” I pocketed the five thousand. “How do you want me to start?”
“Oh, I’ll leave you entirely to your own devices. You cannot gain true randomness by placing the dice.” She looked around brightly. “This place no doubt serves excellent hamburgers. I believe I will have a double deluxe.”
Chapter 4. I have investigated that woman.
She raised a hand, and Maddy came over to the table. “Hi, Elja. Are you ready to order?”
“Hi, Maddy. I’ll have the usual.”
“Please bring me a double deluxe hamburger, a diet Coke, and a steak knife.”
“You got it,” said Maddy, scribbling on the order pad. She slipped pad and pen back into her maroon apron, and stepped briskly to the order counter.
“Do you have family in town, Ms. Johannsen?” Mrs. Olivens asked.
“No, my parents live in Washington state.”
“All on your own then. How romantic.”
“I came to college at Nevada State in Reno, liked the area. No mystery there.”
“And took a position in law. You really do have a tropism to justice.”
I shrugged. The legal assistant degree seemed more like convenience to me. The class work looked interesting, the job prospects reasonably rich. My advisor approved. No reason to attribute that to any deep psychological drive.
Not that I said any of that to her. Why not let the client feel insightful?
“Ah, another conversational sally gone stale,” she said. “I do not believe you would care to discuss the latest Versace styles. I flew to New York to see the Spring collection last week.”
I mentally upgraded the cost of her clothes. “Discuss away, I could use the education.”
“How boorish of me that would be! No, conversation must be a two way street. Tell me, have you been to my Phosphora?”
I nodded. “I like the poker room. Bright, smoke-free, fairly quiet, close to food and restrooms. Good decor, too.”
“The decor was all mine. Before we broke ground, I went to all the casinos in Reno, and in Las Vegas and Atlantic City, too. So many dark, enclosed rooms. Why have a casino be eternal dusk? Why not eternal day? This was before the new theme casino generation arrived in Las Vegas. So I raised the ceiling, put in brighter lights, carpeted the walls to the wainscoating for sound reduction. I chose the yellows, blues and whites, put in the little Greek key borders to tie it all together. We made it small, to begin, and the rooms a shade more luxurious than any other in Reno. Have you stayed there?”
“Never had the opportunity.”
“I shall have to comp you when this is all resolved.” She tapped her nails on the water glass. “Raymond loved me then. He had his doubts about the expense, but we threw ourselves into planning, building, hiring and marketing together. Those were good days.”
“The Phosphora has done well,” I prompted.
“Yes, we expanded twice, both times doubling the casino floor and the number of rooms. I’ve added a diverse and outstanding selection of restaurants, and the new luxury wing will hold its own against any hotel room in Paris. I live there, in the Penthouse I designed, watching all I built eroding while Raymond has the gall to bar me from the business.”
Maddy brought our lunches. “Thanks,” I said, as she set my plate of turkey sandwich and salad in front of me. I had vinagrette on the side.
Mrs. Olivens quirked her mouth, picked up the steak knife. “There I go, rambling on about my own troubles again. You play poker?”
I watched her slice a sliver of pickle and impale it on her fork, then carve a modest bite of hamburger and pierce that as well. “Yes, now and then. I like the challenge.”
She lifted the carefully loaded fork to her mouth, half-closed her eyes as she chewed. “Very good,” she said, after swallowing. “And do you try the other games, too?”
“Not really.”
“A careful gambler, then. We make relatively little from the poker players. A full service casino has to have a poker room now. Otherwise, it seems -- incomplete.” She took the catsup and made a small pool on her plate. Then she cut a portion of the meaty fries, lifted them on her fork, dipped them into the catsup and ate them. I picked up my sandwich in my fingers and took a bite.
“Have you tried our restaurants?”
“Only the sandwich bar by the poker room and the Phosphora Cafe,” I said. “The rest -- are a little out of my budget.”
“Not even the buffet? My, my. What is life without indulgence?”
I considered her narrow waist. She wore size 6, maybe even a size 4. She didn’t look like a proponent of indulgence. “An evening of poker seems enough indulgence to me.”
“Mmm,” she said. “This hamburger really is excellent.”
We exchanged only small talk as she ate the entire two patty burger and generous stack of fries with her knife and fork. When she’d finished it, she leaned back for a moment, looking content. There was not even a drop on her silk blouse.
Then she grabbed her purse and stood. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, and walked briskly to the rear of the diner and into the ladies’ room.
I let the door close behind her, then I stood and walked to it, leaning near. I could hear genteel retching behind the door. Then the toilet flushed. I heard a faucet start, and returned to my seat.
Maddy brought the bill. “Here you go, Elja. Everything all right?”
“Food great as always. Thanks, Maddy.”
It was several minutes before Mrs. Olivens returned to the table, smiling absently. Her clothing was still spotless, and her breath smelled strongly of mint. It takes a foresightful bulimic to carry mouthwash.
She slid into the table. “Oh, the check,” she said, taking it. “Did you want dessert?”
“No, I’ve had enough.”
“I have treated myself enough, too.” She glanced at the bottom line, fished a fifty and a card out of her purse. “I need to be going, Ms. Johannsen. Please use this to settle the bill. I will expect to hear your results in a week. You can call me at this number, days or evenings.”
“I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Olivens.”
“Yes, I believe you will.”
She looked me up and down one last time, then gathered coat and purse and floated out. I took out my wallet, left Maddy a twenty percent tip, and paid at the register at the door.
I saw Mrs. Olivens pull out of the parking lot in a baby blue Lexus. Her license plate read Phosphora.
Chapter Five. Gonna Roll the Bones.
My next stop was the bank. Carrying more than a couple hundred dollars is out of my comfort zone. I smiled at the teller, and said I hit a jackpot. Then I had her break one of the five hundreds into four hundreds and five twenties, and deposited the rest. It was still more than I liked to carry. But there would be no better way to take a low profile look around the Phosphora, than to bring in some cash, and play with it. I told myself the extra gambling budget would be a business expense this time. I don’t think I convinced myself, though.
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