Death by Sales Pitch - 04
4th of the "Death by Advertising" series: Another mysterious death like the one which has haunted him. That one where he found it was faked, and he couldn't get her hologram out of his mind since...
This delightful detective-mystery follows “Triangle - A Memoir, Part 1” from last week (link below.)
Click also to see the full version as this doesn’t fit most emails...
ANOTHER DEATH - OF someone too young, too healthy.
Another full-page ad in the New York Times for his funeral services.
Except this funeral was in Austin, Texas – not NYC, not even upstate NY.
A few phone calls resulted in confirming the same pattern being used: Cremation, ashes spread with no witnesses - only a video as "evidence".
This was the same scenario used when my lover disappeared. Only, she was still alive - somewhere.
All this meant: someone was sending me a message to come resolve these serial "deaths"...
I
- - - -
I WAS AT MY DETECTIVE DESK in the New York station house, leaning back in my worn swivel chair. It's classic, all wood frame over a steel mechanism that complained under my use. Apparently it only like swiveling, not reclining.
Disregarding it's squeal, I looked over today's Times. I was skimming, as usual. Between working on real cases, and not wanting to finish the paperwork on the solved ones, or take up the new pile of folders next to them. Missing pets, runaways, unsolved thefts. Nothing major. Nothing remotely interesting.
Of course my heart had gone out of the detective business. Ever since that one case. And the woman who stole my heart when she disappeared.
Turning yet another page, I stopped – and sat up. The chair did not complain. But that old empty feeling returned at what I saw.
A full-page ad for a funeral.
It was perfectly designed. The photo looked like it had been posed for – and then smoothed over digitally to make the image look like something out of the 40's. Even the typefaces used were custom. I couldn't put my finger on what it was.
Wait.
The newspaper fell flat on the desk when I let it go to open a bottom drawer of my desk. A heavy cardboard folder there allowed me to slip in between it's bottom edges to slip out the one article it preserved.
As I pulled this to the desktop, I unfolded my prize reminder.
The funeral ad for the one woman I'd ever considered I truly loved.
Setting this side by side with the new ad, the effect was unsettling.
Other than the photo, they were basically the same ad.
I scanned down, my eyes flipping from one to the other and back. They were the same.
Except the date, the person's name, and the location.
This new ad had the funeral being held in Austin, Texas.
I only got one conclusion from that comparison: someone was sending me a message. And if that someone was Judy, there was a chance she was still alive.
Refolding her funeral ad carefully, I then tore that new ad out of the paper and folded it to the same size. The rest of today's paper went into the trash bin beneath my desk.
Standing, I reached for my travel-worn and still-sturdy trench coat, then shrugged into it. The two folded ads went into one of its roomy pockets.
Without pushing in my chair, I stalked off down the hall. All the noises of phones and bantering detectives fell into a distant hum, no louder than the ever-present sirens that were always following some criminal somewhere in that never-sleeping city.
I was headed to the personnel office.
This case was going to have to be something to do on my own time. I counted the accrued leave in my head, and who I could borrow money from in a following thought.
Not enough of either.
The door to Personnel was not modern, it was wood with hand-painted wording. Something that had never had to be updated in maybe a half-century.
But some things are timeless. Like love – and death.
II
- - - -
FLYING TO AUSTIN ENDED up anything but simple. To begin with, the only plane with available seats was a red-eye. But there was some discount due to either the hour, or the route, or both. While I had to lounge around for hours at the terminal, my wallet tried to reassure my patience to just wait it out. A faster route there was only available the next morning, and the couple of hours I spent here pared hours off my arrival time there.
Sure, under most usual circumstances, I could catch a jet out of LaGuardia almost anywhere. And still, airline travel was safer than any other mode of transportation, but this particular plane on this particular route wound up with electronic difficulties almost as soon as it crossed the Texas border. The pilot got an emergency landing at Dallas-Ft. Worth.
And we all got referred to waiting commuter planes – those prop-driven ones where you sat under the wing and bent your head to find your seat. There was only one narrow seat on each side, and one-size-fit-all meant long knees like mine either squeezed up against the seat in front of them or had to stretch out into the aisle at an awkward angle for that cramped, but thankfully short flight.
- - - -
I DIDN'T KNOW IF IT was a dream, a nightmare, or a bad memory.
The inside of my mouth hurt from chewing on it to disguise my reaction to the answers I was getting. I had to keep my professional appearance, and keep my head clear from being emotionally involved with the “victim”.
Especially when Tessa got Judy's avatar to appear on top of that rolling “toaster” in her office – the day after that funeral ad was run.
Fortunately, I played a lot of poker in college, so had a pretty practiced neutral face. Although Judy knew my tells...
We'd first met when I was investigating a missing person's report about someone in a freelance computer company working on AI. Judy was one of the part-owners of the firm, so got my questions about when and where she was at the time of the disappearance. She answered all my questions perfectly – a little too perfectly. While her honest smile won me over.
The case went into dead files, as no body ever turned up or even real proof of a violent crime. We waited to start two weeks after the first report, as usual, so all the leads were cold ones.
The next time we met was when her offices at that computer firm and also her apartment were ransacked. And she called me – from the card I'd given her months before. She wanted to officially inform the NYPD of the crime, but also wanted it wrapped up quietly. And again, that winning smile made me take her side. But her distraught face at her apartment also made me bend some department rules. She had no other place to go, and didn't want to tell anyone of what happened. It being a Friday, I let her have access to my apartment – while I took the couch – over that weekend. She spent most of that time repairing her apartment and installing security measures. Although she also made time for dinners each night with me.
I was able to help her by consulting and also helping to install some of the wiring. She had someone else bring in special electronics to monitor her rooms.
That is how I got that key. And my own set of alarm pass-codes to let myself in.
She knew from that weekend that I wouldn't go further than she wanted. And I knew I couldn't go any further than she would let me. Rules of engagement.
By the end of that weekend, we were both back to work, but that key was burning a hole in my pocket to find a reason to see her again.
Too soon, that ad appeared. And so did my poker face.
Inside, I'd lost a true friend, and a true love as well – even though I hadn't told her.
She probably knew, though. From the long kisses we shared.
Yes it hurt me to find out she had faked her death. But I had an inkling of what she was into from that office break-in, so she was probably keeping everyone nearest to her safe in the only way she knew how.
At least that's what I told myself.
And that's what I told Tessa when I'd call to “check on her” - but she and I both knew that I was still chasing down leads to find out where Judy had gone. And while the conversation was always warm between Tessa and I, she was deeply involved in keeping her business afloat – and that led her to move back to Iowa, with its lower overhead and less competition. She had nothing to prove to anyone in New York anymore.
So I now had another friend to miss... just not the same way.
Another bump showed me the reminder for the cheek-chewing was real. That thin armrest of that tiny commuter plane seat had me resting my cheek on my fist to support my drowsing head.
Just as the announcement came over the tinny plane speakers that we were coming in for a landing.
- - - -
WE LANDED AT AUSTIN'S Executive Airport, which was at least modern looking. But it was still pre-dawn. The fourteen miles to Austin proper was too expensive to take by taxi, so I found a city bus that made the route.
To where I didn't know. The ad agency was named, but no address.
Once I was free of the airplane cabin, I pulled out my phone to see if I could search for that address. Once I turned the phone on – simpler than just turning it to airplane mode, as I tended to forget I'd set it that way – then my messages started flooding in.
One stood out as I scrolled down the list. “Have a nice flight.” was all it said. But it was from a number I knew.
So I called it back.
And got a Not In Service recording.
Just as the last time I'd called it. Calling Judy's desk is usually how I got in touch with Tessa from time to time. “Just to keep track.”
Again, I felt for the key in my pocket through the fabric of my slacks. The one tangible gift from Judy that I had to remember her by.
- - - -
ONCE WE PULLED INTO a bus transfer station near Austin's city center, I was again at a loss for where to go. That ad agency turned out to be fake.
And it was still hours before this relatively quiet Texan city would be up and running anywhere near the bustle I was used to.
My next lead showed up as my phone as it buzzed in my pocket. It read: “You have a reservation at 'The Casa'.”
An empty taxi pulled up beside me at that moment. The driver rolled down the passenger side window and yelled at me, “Hey! Yeah, you. Did you order a taxi?”
I shrugged. “You know a place called 'The Casa'?”
“Casa del Blanco? Sure. Hop in.”
And these “coincidences” were getting too uncanny for me. Again, I knew someone was leading me to solve these funeral ads as a case. Solving that one puzzle. One which might lead me back to Judy.
III
- - - -
AS I LEFT THE CAB, I dug into my pocket for fare.
But the cab driver waved me off as he held up his smartphone. “Already paid, Sir. And thanks for the tip!”
My single suitcase and I were left standing outside the Casa Del Blanco. It's thick wooden doors, together with the stucco exterior, were more reminiscent of some Morocco or North African restaurant circa World War II.
Two long planters located next to the building on either side of that door contained evergreen plantings that were as well-suited to Texas as their native North African origins.
Even a couple of palm trees had been planted for the scant shade they offered – above the metal framed outdoor tables and chairs on the wide sidewalk.
For some reason, I got the feeling I was standing there almost undressed without a fedora.
At that thought, the door's lock sounded as it clicked open. The otherwise quiet Texas morning was undisturbed by traffic noises at this early hour.
“Monsieur Rick Johnson? Detective Johnson?” A well-rounded fellow in a black tuxedo jacket and bow tie pushed through the doors toward me. His pudgy hand quickly sought mine for a fast handshake. As he smiled into my face, he also scanned the street a bit nervously.
One of his hands picked up my suitcase while the other touched my back lightly. “Monsieur Rick, please – this way?” He nodded toward the open door and I entered ahead of him.
Only when the door was again closed behind us, with the bolt of the lock then clicked firmly into the door frame, did the tuxedo-suited man seem to relax.
“Detective, my name is Carl, the Restaurant Manager.”
As Carl relaxed, so did I. My obvious shoulder slump added to my tired eyes to let me know that my utter exhaustion was imminent.
He noticed this. “Monsieur Rick, I was going to offer you some breakfast, perhaps a beverage – after all, for us, the restaurant is always open – but let me instead show you to your room.”
My eyebrow went up at this, and I looked at him directly.
Carl smiled, and again picked up my bag. “Yes, the Management has arranged for you to have the use of a small apartment upstairs for the duration of your stay. All at our expense, of course. Please, this way.”
I followed his broad back up the elegant curving stairway that led to an upper level, one that had several closed doors on an over-arching balcony that overlooked the restaurant below. The layout was reminiscent of the old, small hotels of an earlier time. Of course, the open center area let the smells and noises of the evening rise up to that upper level. Above it all was a skylight which right now was tilted open slightly to freshen the air with the dry Texas winds of this season.
Whether I was going to get much sleep before the evening's festivities began was in question – but I also knew that if I as much as sat down or leaned against something solid, my eyes would soon close on their own.
Carl opened the door in front of me and handed me the keys. He gestured toward the big bed that took up most of the space in that room.
Leaving the suitcase by the door, he smiled and left the room with an easy grace. The door clicked shut, swinging on silent hinges.
Each of my steps toward the bed left me even drowsier.
At last, I shrugged out of my trench coat and draped it over the bed before I sat down.
Because darkness enveloped me as I began to lay back...
- - - -
I DIDN'T REMEMBER TAKING my shoes off or getting under the covers, but that was where I found myself when the click of the room's door woke me.
No one was in the room. And I could see through the open bathroom doorway to verify I was alone.
As I threw back the covers and swung my legs out, I could feel the painful relief when the various seams of my pants, belt, and shirt quit digging into my skin.
Pushing my hand through my hair hopefully got it into some sort of shape, but as I slid my fingers over my chin, I was reminded of the last time I'd shaved almost two days before.
I could see the afternoon sun leaving long shadows across the room, so lunch was long over. Various noises came through the door, of furniture being moved, bottles being rearranged, and other bustlings. These told me that café below was beginning it's set up for tonight's crowd.
I stood and took my bearings in the room as I got my balance. In the space between its bathroom in the corner and the outside door, there was a small table with two chairs. One of the chairs had light-colored suit draped across it, protected by dry cleaner's plastic.
On my way to the bathroom, I stopped to check out the small note attached to the plastic - “Courtesy of the Management. A meal awaits at your leisure.”
While other needs were pressing me to keep moving to the bathroom, I did register this as another clue. Not that any of these were forming into a coherent theory of anything at this point.
A shower and shave should push the cobwebs out of my sleep-addled mind.
After that, I could proceed in my search for my mysterious benefactor with their non-too-subtle hints and directions to get me here.
To my mind's eye, all these separate items seemed pinned to a wall somewhere in my mind, but there were no strings connecting them together at this point – other than someone needed me here at this time.
And was putting me more and more into their debt...
IV
- - - -
THE OFF-WHITE TUXEDO suit-jacket and pants fit like they had been tailored exactly to my dimensions. The black bow tie and white shirt were simple and comfortable. Even the polished black shoes were almost heaven to walk in. Stiff, but supportive.
As I walked down the curving stairs from the apartment's upper level, I took in the sights and sounds of the evening preparations. There were some clients at the long bar, but the tables visible in the main salon were all empty. Apparently their idea of “Happy Hour” had its limits.
Technicians were moving through that main area, taking measurements, pushing tall ladders here and there to adjust the lights and other gizmo's mounted in the overhead areas. The motions seemed repetitive, climbing up and down, fixing or replacing items, checking and double-checking everything.
Here and there, moving on their own through the restaurant area, were 3D holograms of Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. Then I recognized the theme – Casablanca. Of course. There were other images that showed up from time to time, Peter Lorre, the character of Victor Lazlow, Inspector Renault. Sometimes in several places at once. All moving through as if they were replaying their choreographed parts in that movie.
At I reached the bottom of the stairs, Carl was waiting for me – a smile on his face. “I hope your rest was peaceful,” he asked. “If you come with me, I'll show you your table and bring you an early dinner. Tonight's special is Carne Asada, or garlic-lime steak with tortillas and beans.”
He led the way, I followed, and my stomach rumbled in assent.
On our way, I halted several times to let the 3D holograms pass in front of me, even though I could have walked through them. These holograms were particularly life-like, and almost opaque in their intensity.
Of particular interest was the likeness of a blond Ingrid Bergman. But her face was featured more like someone else. I couldn't put my finger on why I kept watching her – other than her captivating beauty in general.
Carl soon gestured to a small table with a white table cloth and chairs for four, a small table lamp in its center. He pulled out a chair to one side where it backed against a nearby wall. I sat, and he smoothly glided away to get my “order”.
From this view, I realized why the restaurant was so popular. It was high-tech entertainment in a high-tech city. And I wouldn't doubt that the male visitors were required to wear suit and tie (preferably tuxes), while the female customers were expected to wear 40's style gowns of that period. The audience was as much a part of the show as the holograms.
Carl came back with a platter held high while his other hand carried a folding table, which he expertly flipped open to one side, then settled the platter with its dish covers smoothly onto its surface. Quickly moving an empty china plate along with stainless cutlery over in front of me, he removed the dish covers to expose the steaming steak and other side dishes.
Again, my stomach rumbled again in anticipation.
“You choice of drink sir?” Carl was waiting.
“Iced tea, please. Unsweetened.”
“Very good, sir.”
And I almost didn't notice his exit as I piled the mouth-watering food onto my plate.
Several mouthfuls later, Carl returned with a long-necked bottle that had a French label on it. I frowned in disappointment.
Carl held a finger up. “Monsieur Rick, this is just for appearances. To maintain the motif. There is no alcohol involved.”
Deftly setting down a small, fluted cognac glass, he uncorked the “vintage” and poured into the glass a libation that nearly filled it.
I tasted it, and it was simply Pekoe Black tea. Brilliant. While I liked big tumblers of the stuff in general, these small details tended to transport me to that time and space, as if we actually were in World War II Morocco.
- - - -
AS I FINISHED THE LAST of the meal, sopping up the meat juices and beans with a warm tortilla, Carl again returned, this time to sit.
“Monsieur Rick has found everything satisfactory?”
I emptied the cognac glass with a wide smile and nodded,
Carl smiled widely in return as he refilled my glass. “I expect you have some questions, then?”
I slid the empty plate along with its cutlery onto the nearby platter and wiped my mouth with the soft, cloth napkin – that itself topped off that plate. “More than a few.”
An observant waiter quickly glided over, replacing my nearly empty “vintage” of iced tea with another dew-covered bottle. He then picked up the platter and table to disappear through the restaurant - undoubtedly to the kitchen area in back, somewhere.
I turned to Carl. “This is not perhaps the first question I should ask, but I'm not accustomed to be treated this regally as a detective on a case.”
Carl smiled. “The Management only wanted you to be comfortable, not to influence the outcome of your investigation.”
Nodding, “I don't know that such treatment can be disregarded so simply.”
Carl looked around the empty room and lowered his voice. “Monsieur, there are appearances and then there are appearances. Management would prefer that you were well-rested and well-fed so that your detective work was not impeded. As well, since you are named Rick, it's only fitting that you be seated at Rick's table and have Rick's apartment. In that way, you don't stand out as a detective.”
I leaned closer, my own voice low. “Because even though you are the restaurant manager, there is Management above you – and you probably aren't at leisure to tell me those names.”
Carl only shrugged and smiled.
“Very well, Carl. Then I can lay these cards out. That ad someone placed in the New York Times brought me here. Because it matched one other, of a certain woman I knew there. Someone I have unfinished business with.”
Carl again only shrugged. His smile this time was not as genuine. “The monsieur is now 'hot on the trail'. And all of the resources of this establishment are at your disposal.”
“OK, then, explain these holograms.”
Carl gestured to the overhead areas. “These are displayed by projectors high in the upper areas, and mimic the actions of those stage actions that the original characters from Casablanca. Some of those characters, like my own, are played by actors and are quite real.”
“But you are, in fact, this restaurant's manager?”
He nodded. “Yes. But my hair has been styled to match, and as well, I carry a bit more padding than my own weight.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “A necessary part of stage costuming which tends to become a bit too warm, even on one of our rare cool Texas nights.”
I looked straight into his eyes, waiting to ensure I had his full attention. “Alright, Carl, then explain how all this stagecraft works into the faked disappearances.”
Carl's eyes went wide.
V
- - - -
THE RESTAURANT MANAGER surveyed the still-empty main room. It's preparations were nearly completed for the evening, the ladders and technicians removed elsewhere.
“Monsieur Rick, are you ready for a tour? I think you will find our facilities quite interesting?”
He stood, and I followed his lead. We moved over to the stand-up piano in front of the orchestra pit. “This piano is stationary, different from the one in the film.”
Carl nodded to a technician nearby, who clicked on a tablet he carried. A black pianist, Sam, started in on “As Time Goes By” while a digital orchestra appeared to fill in the rest of the arrangement. The singing was an exact copy of what I recalled from the film.
He explained, “Like a jukebox, our visitors can download an app that puts their request in front of 'Sam” to play – for a fee. When each song is finished, another payment option comes onto their screen asking if they would like to 'play it again?'”
Carl took my elbow to continue as I was held mesmerized by the accurate details of their holographic show. He led me to view another area over at the side of the restaurant.
Through its wide-open door, I saw roulette and card tables, plus some other gambling games.
Carl gestured to another technician and the holographic entertainment started. “In through that area is the gambling casino. While the laws are becoming more favorable, we only allow virtual gambling here, which means that no winnings can be cashed in for real money. This is the single location where our members can participate in person. This setting is also virtual online, but will require those clunky VR goggles and gloves. Of course, members can buy more chips when their fortunes decline below the minimum for each game, but that income is kept by the house to defray its 'overhead'.”
He smiled and leaned closer to me. “Of course, it is rumored there are online forums where they can transfer their excess winnings to another member, and the real world exchange of valuables reportedly takes place at other pre-arranged locations. I have heard, and this is only rumor, that certain winning members have exchanged portions of their digital accounts for very real souped-up sports cars.
“But again, I would be 'shocked – shocked' to find such gambling payouts actually occurring, especially anywhere near these premises. What happens in the Casa del Blanco stays here, and what happens outside this establishment stays out there.” Carl waved broadly, and the holograms disappeared.
- - - -
THAT ARM ON MY ELBOW steered me through the back, along a wide hallway with potted palms and framed period etchings at intervals. He went through a wide door and we found ourselves on a sound stage with a complete life-sized model of the two-engine Lockheed used in that movie. The floors and walls were painted to emulate an actual 1940's runway in Morocco.
“The plane holds six passengers along with the pilot and co-pilot. This is perhaps what you mean by 'disappearances'. Victor Lazlow and Miss Bergman boarded that model plane to escape Casablanca and make their way to America.”
Nodding to yet another technician, the lights dimmed and the film selection showing that final flight then appeared on a great screen at the back, while the digital engine noises loudly echoed in the building.
Carl explained. “Our members can pay the requisite fees to enjoy this trip as if they were themselves taking the 'last flight out to Lisbon'. But I can assure you that it is just an entertaining show – we even bring in realistic fog to match the weather conditions that night.”
I only nodded with Carl. That he said no one really disappeared here tended to give me a clue that just perhaps...
But that was probably the point.
- - - -
IN THE MAIN SALON, the orchestra started up again. Some early members had arrived and ordered their food and drinks. I settled back, again at my reserved table, where I had a view of everything. Another chilled bottle of my “vintage” was waiting, along with four glasses.
Carl had excused himself to take care of other matters, such as greeting particular guests.
I was left to wonder what my other three guests would be for the night – with not long to wait.
A hologram of Sam made its way over and sat in one of the chairs. “How's it going Rick? Long time, no see.”
He was looking directly at me. Like that hologram of Judy in Tessa's office.
I raised an eyebrow. “Your photo is in that ad.”
Sam smiled and nodded. “Correct.”
“So you didn't really 'die'?”
Sam smiled wider and shook his head no.
“I'm looking for Judy, Sam.”
“That you are. And why you're needed here. She's in a peck of trouble and needs your help to get out.”
I leaned forward. “Is there anything I should know?”
Sam looked around that room with his wide smile, then stood up. “Well I have to get back before someone misses me. But 'Miss Ilsa' and 'Victor' have a part to play at this table every night. Perhaps one of them might know something.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and I almost felt it. A look of concern on his face that disappeared quickly. “Enjoy yourself Rick. And take it easy on the hard stuff, OK?”
Sam ambled back over to the piano and walked right through a real chair that was out of position.
That left me trying to remember the plot of the original movie, where that couple came over to Rick's own table. But my memories were distant down that line.
VI
- - - -
THE CAFÉ WAS NOW FILLED with clientèle, except for one reserved table in the back corner, opposite mine. Six empty chairs surrounded it.
Just as I noticed the discrepancy, a troupe of men dressed in black suits filed in to occupy that table. Now all its seats were filled.
Carl was conveniently nearby. I signaled him. He came and sat.
“What's the deal with them?” I asked.
“Mostly FBI, some IRS.”
“And you let them in here?”
“Not doing so would raise more suspicions. As long as they pay their bills by the end of the evening, they are allowed to stay. And they know it wouldn't go well to try to arrest someone here. Texans have a raw taste for independence, and many of them 'carry' during their nights on the town. So it wouldn't serve them to have any 'accident' happen at their expense.”
I looked around. “And how is it that the holograms also avoid them?”
Carl leaned in, his voice more quiet. “Although they already know this, that single table is the only one they can reserve.” His voice was now nearly a whisper.” Certain frequencies are blocked in that location.”
“Like cel phones?”
The manager nodded. “And anything else they are carrying of that nature. Such blocked frequencies limit rendering an optimum appearance of our holographic projections.”
I smiled as I remembered that scene now. “So they are the 'Nazi's' of this generation.”
Carl only smiled and leaned back in his chair.
The character of Ingrid Bergman was crossing the room, and stopped, looking directly at me. I was riveted in my spot. Now I knew. Beneath those gorgeous blond locks, that face was Judy's.
Carl noticed the interchange and quickly stood to take care of other matters in the café.
The blond hologram in a precisely-tailored beige outfit made her way toward my table and sat in the chair Carl had just left.
“Rick.”
“Judy.”
She smiled, and that smile took me back to what we had before.
“You know I missed you, every day since you left.”
She leaned forward and put her holographic hand on mine. As close as she could come right now. “I said I would never leave you. And I'm sorry, but where I was going, you couldn't follow.”
“And yet you've sent for me.”
“I can't fight it anymore. I ran away from you once. I can't do it again. I wish I didn't love you so much.”
“Are you in trouble? How can I help?”
She looked at the table with the Men in Black.
And I got the point.
- - - -
THE HOLOGRAM OF VICTOR Laslow was making his way toward where we were sitting. Tan-suited with a dark tie, just as in the movie. This was probably the point where he would make the plea for letters of transit for the two of them.
“Victor” sat in another chair to my opposite side. Judy removed her hand from covering mine and sat back, more demure and in character. I was still entranced by her presence.
Victor leaned forward. “So you have an idea of why I'm here.”
“But I have no transit letters for you.”
He looked around the room. A singing soloist playing her guitar had moved into position for a solo – standing between our table and that of the Men in Black. Her loud song covered our conversation.
“Judy is in trouble. And those men over there would arrest her if they could find her. Not for anything she really did – they want the technology that she has, her connections, how she enables people to live out their lives free from surveillance and interference – for a price.”
I leaned in myself. “Taking her intellectual property without paying, while holding her as prisoner – that's like the Chinese Communists.”
Laslow shrugged and smiled wryly. “Not much difference these days.”
He looked around, out of habit. “Look. They think they can claim she's a 'terrorist' and take everything, lock her up forever, with no trial and no access to anyone else. And they are closing in on her real physical location, which is no longer safe.”
My face drained when I connected the dots. “So where do I come in?”
“Captain Renault will be by shortly. He's the one who has to approve all visas. He may help you find those missing transit papers.”
With that, Laslow sat back, smiled in character, and stood to help Judy stand and smile in her own character. They left me sitting there. Two cognac glasses were now laying on their side. I refilled my own and waited for my third visitor.
- - - -
THE SHORTER CAPTAIN Renault, in his dark-colored, gold-trimmed French uniform, soon ambled over to my table.
“Rick, how are you tonight?”
“Just fine Captain, how are your women, the one's looking for safe passage?”
“All adoring, all of them want something I alone can give them.”
“When it comes to women, you're a true Democrat.”
Renault smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “Letters of transit have to go through me. And some use different means to pay their price.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So, how does that work? You aren't connected to Judy, then.”
“No, our worlds revolve in different arenas. She pitches the clients, does all the ads, but I – well...”
“Meaning, you have the connections to make the disappearances, the physical end.”
Renault only smiled. He picked up a suddenly-appearing holographic bottle and poured “wine” into a holographic glass. “While I can't deny or confirm your supposition, it does seem to explain how the script we are all running on aligns with the real world outside. Of course, none of this can be proved.”
“Captain...”
“Louie, please, Rick.”
“Louie, I don't know how this script is going to play out. I've seen these Men in Black do their work before. Once they set their eyes on something, it seldom ends up well for anyone involved.”
The captain leaned forward. “And now that you have placed yourself into our little play-acting, you yourself are in danger.”
I looked into his eyes. “There's one reason I came down here, and it wasn't to solve some continuing mystery of disappearances. Whatever goes on here is secondary to my finding Judy. You can continue whatever game or business after I'm gone. But I intend to find Judy and take her with me.”
The captain sat back, a thin smile on his face. “And so, Love itself becomes a major player in this script. Next I suppose you want me to sign those letters of transit in your pocket.” He looked pointedly at the left side of my suit jacket.
I slipped my fingers into my inside chest pocket and found a thin packet of papers. Pulling this packet out, I found the papers it contained were was just as Renault described.
Across the room, I noticed one of the Men in Black had risen and started toward us.
Renault didn't turn. “That would be their chief henchman. Coming over to put some pressure on you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you know if they get me, they'll have you.”
Above the captain's shoulder, I saw the avatars of Laslow walking with Bergman down the long hallway toward the sound stage.
Renault smiled. And slipped the letters of transit from my fingers. “And so we have but one choice at this point.”
I smiled in return. “Follow the script.”
VII
- - - -
ME AND THE CAPTAIN caught up with the other two the airport staging area. The fog was thick enough to keep any clear vision of what was going on indistinct until you were almost next to what you were focused on.
I was more than surprised when we got close to that couple.
Laslow was the same as before, with his tan suit coat and now wearing his off-white fedora. But what I thought was the Bergman hologram was now dressed in a conservatively tailored dark suit, with a high lace-collared silk blouse. Instead of blond locks curled at the base of her collar, she now had brunette hair that hung just beyond shoulder length and lay in natural waves, parted on one side and tucked behind an ear. Her broad smile melted my heart.
It was Judy. In the flesh.
And she ran to me and folded into my arms. I had to blink to clear my eyes as they were suddenly too moist.
After a few delightful moments, I reluctantly pushed her back to arm's length. I scanned her over carefully, then held her close again. “I'm so happy to have you safely back in my arms,” I whispered
She took a step back and looked up at me with trouble in her eyes. “Not quite safe, but nearly so.”
I frowned. “This isn't in the script.”
Her smile melted my heart again. “Welcome to my world.” She looked around me to the shorter Captain Renault. “Louie, would you make out those letters of transit, please?”
I turned to see him write on those papers: “For the use of Det. Rick Johnson and wife.”
As I glanced up at Laslow's face, he was smiling broadly. “Yes, Rick, we're all in on this. After all, holograms can come and go at will. That real plane only actually transports real humans....”
Judy folded herself into my arms again, I could feel broad smile on her face.
We heard the engines of the plane start up. Nodding to the Captain and Laslow, I turned with Judy to make our way over to the plane.
- - - -
THE FOG BECAME THICKER, and the props on that plane were very real, blowing the thick mist behind them and across the plane's wings.
On the screen above, the a clip from the movie started up – showing the plane's door being sealed by an anonymous actor. The following footage was edited to only show the plane itself as it taxied out and onto the runway. Meanwhile, the rest of the lights had dimmed on the physical plane in front of us, shrouding it in darkness.
As if on cue, that single Man in Black suddenly emerged on the scene through its thick fog and paused, then realized what was happening. Glancing past both Renault's and Laslow's holograms, he stalked toward the location of the plane with rapid steps.
Only to fall, twitching, onto the tarmac.
In Laslow's hand was a taser.
Captain Renault and Laslow smiled at each other. The taser fell to the ground.
Shortly, the remaining Men in Black also emerged upon the scene.
The Captain turned toward them. “Your man has been shot. I suggest you round up the usual suspects.” A grin showed on his face, completely out of character.
At that point, the overhead lights came on, the two holograms froze in place, their smiling expressions remained unmoving. The movie had run its course with the plane flying away. And that screen now held only a still image of a plane disappearing into the sky.
Industrial-sized fans roared to life, pulling the fog out of the sound stage, and all that remained on the sound stage floor were the stilled avatars standing next to a chest-high table, and the life-sized plane model, its rotating propellers stilled.
Those several black-suited men rushed to the plane model, finding it empty of occupants. A search of the rest of the sound stage found only a couple of doors going to the alley, which showed no sign of recent use.
The lines of disturbed dust on the floor below the plane were unobserved.
Those black-suited men then picked up their fallen leader and made their way back down the long hallway to the café again.
Once they were out of hearing, the two holograms returned to motion.
Laslow spoke first. “Well, I suppose they'll close down the café now, and our operation is over.”
Renault cocked his head to the side. “Well, Victor, I've been doing some thinking. You know, we'll always have Paris.”
Laslow frowned. “Not 'Paris Texas' – that movie lacks any real adventure.”
The captain chuckled. “No, I was thinking more along the line of 'An American in Paris'.” Then he broke out into a short set of soft-shoe steps.
Victor Lazlow chuckled out loud. “You take Kelly's character and I'll play Guétary's. But we'll need a couple of vivacious, sure-footed women.”
Renault turned with him to walk back toward the café. “Leave that to my expertise. I think I know several that would jump at the chance to perform with us.”
Laslow replied only, “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
VIII
- - - -
I LOOKED OVER THE VALLEY that stretched out in front of our rustic cabin. Thick oaks and hickories towered overhead, blocking our cabin and the several others in this valley from any satellite views. Pools of water and tended gardens filled the spaces in between, along with small grazing livestock here and there.
Judy told me that this was one of several locations where the “disappeared” found new homes. The valleys had no cel service, but antennas on the valley rim received Internet service from outside, and scrambled it through telluric currents in the ground, that were in turn decoded by buried modems outside each cabin that fed wifi connections inside each.
I'd heard from our neighbors that the occasional drone or low-flying aircraft most often developed electronic troubles and were forced to stumble away, to make their forced landing or crash in the rocky areas beyond this verdant and lush valley.
What we needed from outside was brought in through the few logging trails that hadn't been overgrown in the centuries since they were first cut. There was, some time ago, a wide two-lane road that accessed the valley from outside – but a “freak” avalanche had closed it many years ago.
Down at the bottom of one of the pools was an early version of a surveillance drone. On bright, still days you could make it out clearly on that pool's bottom. It's said that someone came to investigate it once, but since they couldn't get a crane truck around the tight twists of that logging road, the drone had been left as it lay.
Life was quiet here. Simple.
And I had every reason to just sit here on our porch in this swinging bench in my long plaid bathrobe, my arm resting across its back. I had no job outside this valley to concern myself with. Cutting firewood and gardening kept me in good shape. I'd even gotten a bit of a tan.
I was free of any surveillance or government troubles as long as I stayed in this valley.
Of course, I had the greatest company in the world to keep me from getting bored or restless.
As if sensing my exact thought, Judy came out with two mugs of coffee, and handed me one. She sat down next to me, dressed only in one of my over-sized plaid flannel shirts, which accented her own tan. She curled her long legs under her and snuggled next to me – holding her own steaming cup with her two hands. Her long brunette hair cascaded across her shoulders.
I dropped my arm from it's resting place across the top of that bench down to gently lay across her shoulders and the top of her arm. My other hand was busy holding my own coffee so I could sip it.
This picture of contentment was interrupted by a pair of buzzes. Our burner phones were vibrating. So we adjusted our positions to fish them out.
I could see that Judy had gotten the same text as I did. “Looks like it's time for a road trip.”
Judy looked up at me and smiled.
And without spilling a drop from either coffee mug, I gave her a light kiss.
- - - -
THE WEDDING CEREMONY was gorgeous. Only close friends and family.
We met Tessa and her new husband on their farm, just two of the many family and friends who came to wish them well.
In the reception line, after the ceremony, was the first time the two women had been able to talk in person since Judy's disappearance.
They hugged, wide smiles on their faces.
Tessa spoke first. "So you two are back to being an item?"
Judy held up her hand with the ring on it.
That brought tears of joy to Tessa's eyes and another deep hug for her dearest friend and former partner.
Then Judy told her, "Oh, when you get to the presents, ours is the chromed 2-slice toaster. But it's not for bread. Put your smart phones in it and they'll recharge. And also be loaded up with any messages we want to send you."
Tessa raised an eyebrow. "Of course. I should have assumed that the new marketing account from an untraceable location was yours. The money, of course, deposited just fine."
Judy nodded. "I've been taking up writing romances."
I cleared my throat.
She continued, "...with mysteries in them. My 'in-house expert' does my proofing and gives me story ideas. And we could think of no one better to market them than you."
Tessa beamed at the compliment, while her husband hugged her waist.
After shaking hands and more hugging, we made way for the next well-wishers in line behind us..
As we disappeared into the crowd...
- - - -
WE TWO COUPLES STAY in touch by “toaster” ever since.
Book Universes Notes
- - - -
THIS IS THE MIDDLE of a trilogy which starts with “Death by Advertising” and completes with “Death by Marketing”.
It all started with one of my readers saying that she really liked the ending where Judy and Detective Johnson showed up as married at that ending of the now-third book. But her next question was “But how did that happen?”
And so – this story.
Somehow, an idea of creating an homage to Casablanca then further fueled the story. Taking the holographic images in the first story then developed Rick's café into a very high-tech restaurant in Austin Texas (which has become a high-tech center of its own).
You'll find ample references to the movie, and some of the original character's lines became dialog of various characters in this book. Often with new meaning as someone else says them here.
Of note is that the 3D hologram of Bogart is mentioned, but never appears as a character itself – reason being that Detective Johnson fills that place, being also named “Rick”.
Satirical descriptions of the “Men in Black” have been well-earned by their actions in recent years and before.
Telluric currents were in use during the early days of telegraphy.
The reference to “toaster” is explained in Death by Advertising, its predecessor…
Next: Triangle; A Memoir - Part 2…