Lithium City Blues: Opera House

         The Opera House casino was a throwback from much earlier times, before the mine, before TerraCorp, and though it's owner held on and fought tooth and nail to keep the doors open, the multi-million dollar resorts going up in the glitzy side of town had cut a big chunk out of revenue.  The fact that it's parking lot was right off one of the major roads through the city didn't seem to help one bit, and while traffic continued to surge, patronage slumped.  It got a crowd of older folks mostly.  Folks who were just plain used to going there.  The occasional middle-aged person would filter in, but typically they were castoffs from Neon Row, people who had been thrown out of the bigger casinos or couldn't afford to gamble there anymore.  It was a square, one-story building that sat on a lot big enough for a building twice it's size.  In it's heyday, the extra space was necessary for parking, but nowadays there were never more then 3 or 4 cars at any given time.
         I pulled my car into the lot, found an open space near the door, and parked it.  Mikala regarded the building with the same scrunched nose and almost condescending gaze I had seen when she first saw my car.  "Welcome to real life, Princess," I thought with maybe a bit too much self-satisfaction.  I opened my door and climbed out, closing and locking it before moving around to the other side.  I intended to open the passenger door for her, but by the time my feet hit the sidewalk, she had already clamored out of the car and closed the door.  I couldn't decide if it was because she wasn't the spoiled women I had thought she was, or if she couldn't bear the passenger seat and it's thin upholstery anymore.  If it was the latter, I sympathized.
         She'd chosen a simple outfit for what I promised her was not a date, but rather an interview.  Faded jeans that rode low on her hips, a tight-fitting pink shirt under a thin white jacket-type garment that I was sure had a name even though I didn't know what it was.  I felt faintly overdressed in my khaki slacks and black shirt.  Where she had chosen sandals to show off her candy apple red toenail polish, I was wearing black boots which matched my belt as my 9th grade etiquette teacher had told me was proper.
         I walked her to the door, pulling it open and ushering her into a small glass-encased ante-chamber with a couple of aged red candy machines that probably hadn't ever been refilled and a corkboard mounted to wall where a bunch of flyers and pamphlets hung.  The smell of cigarette smoke permeated the main door and filled this small chamber, and I could tell Mikala's nose was wrinkling again without having to turn around. 
I grabbed the handle of the inner door and pulled it open, and the sound of plinking coins and beeping machines filled the air along with a much higher concentration of smoke and alchohol odor.  It was a smell I was used to thanks to the kind of job I do and the kinds of places I frequent, but I still noticed it.  I slipped through the door behind her and let the door swing shut behind me.
The bar was right next to the door, which was appropriate since it did the most business.  Seperated by a red cordon hung across gold plated posts and an engrave sign that said "Under 21 Not Allowed", the bar itself and the shelves behind it were a dark cherry, laquered so thickly that the grain was fuzzy to the eye in some spots.  Built into the corner in a triangle shape, it had a row of stools and a few tables.  Across the carpeted walkway were the banks of slot machines that mostly sat unused.  Some were broken, their lights dimmed, but no one had bothered to put an out of order sign on them.  Or perhaps they had at the time and then snatched it away to put on something else.  The revenues generated by the place were just enough to keep the bills paid and let the owner live a life of relative comfort, but repairs and maintenance just weren't part of the equation.
         Next to the bar were the table games.  Roulette, poker, the standard faire for any building that dares to call itself a casino.  Those too were mostly empty.  The green felt was pitted and stained, even torn in some places revealing the wood underneath.  Nearby an employee sat on a stool like the ones at the bar, wearing plain clothes and a nametag, the only thing that would identify him as an employee.  He had a cigarette in one hand and an electronic newspaper in the other.  Further down the crimson walkway was the reason I'd come.  The reason I came almost every Thursday. 
         The Opera House Cafe was almost a full-quarter of the floorspace,  and had, at least in my own humble opinon (as well as that off the cook), the best spaghetti in Lithium City.  I'd tried more then once to charm the recipe out of the matronly woman, Rowena, who cooked it every week, but she would laugh and say that even her children, now grown and moved away, didn't know the recipe either.  I asked if she had it written somewhere on a recipe card, or unlikely, archived on some equally matronly MAAP, but she would smile and shake her head and tell me she planned to take the secret with her to the grave.  She said that the spaghetti was the only real proof she really existed and made a difference, and when she was gone, it would be gone too, as proof that she had passed on.  It made a strange kinda sense to me, but each time we talked and I got close to asking her more about her views on death she would wave a wooden soup spoon at me and tut.  "No more talk of this, it's much too depressing.  You should not be so interested in death, young as you are."  And she would withdraw to the kitchen and get me another heaping helping of the spaghetti, and I would lose my will to chat.  The spaghetti alone would have been enough to keep me coming back each night if my bank account allowed it, but tonight was Bottomless Bowl night, where the old woman would happily cook and serve as much spaghetti as a diner could stomach for about 7 dollars, which included a drink, a small salad, and a hunk of garlic bread, all of which were just opening acts to the feature that was the entree. 
         The noodles themselves were unremarkable, probably the same store-bought noodles I bought at the grocery store, it was the sauce and the meat that made the dish.  More then once I'd been chased from the kitchen by Rowena, waving her wooden spoon like a saber and calling me a rogue and a cad, all the while grinning widely as only older women can.  I had long ago resigned myself to the fact that she would never reveal the secret to me.  I'd idly considered snatching one of the other cooks and "interviewing" them, but those musings never got past the brainstorming phase.
         It was a slow crowd tonight, even compared to the generally low patronage of the casino.  There was one person I recognized, a middle-aged man who, like me, came every thursday for the Bottomless Bowl.  He and I never spoke, but from his bearing and manner I got the impression he was some sort of executive type.  Finding an empty table was easy, and I led Mikala to a booth in the back corner that faced the cafe's only projector.  It was an older model, but it did it's job admirably.  I chose the currently running baseball game from the pad inset in the table, and she, after jabbing the advance button several times in increasing disappointment, shook her head, shrugged, and sat back.  It seemed a strange irony that in the age of entertainment on demand, there was still nothing good on.
         The waiter was a new guy, one I hadn't met.  He looked like a college kid, young-faced and full of energy.  "Why thank you, young man" I could almost hear the old ladies saying.  "Here's a nice tip."  I wondered idly what had happened to Chloe, who usually worked Thursdays, but that musing was cut short as the guy pulled an order pad from his apron like it was a Peacemaker.  "So what'll it be?"  He asked in a college-kid voice.
         Mikala was still pouring over the menu.  I hadn't even touched mine.  I already knew what I wanted.  It was the same order every Thursday and I knew it like the Pledge of Allegiance.
         "Bottomless Bowl, ranch dressing for the salad, and a diet cola," I said as if reciting a mantra.  The young guy, "Marcus" apparently by the tag on his shirt, scribbled furiously before turning his attention on her.  "Got it, and for you, ma'am?"
         Mikala's face was twisted into a look of confusion and trepidation, as if she were absolutly terrified she might order something terrible at this unfamiliar restaurant.  Finally she gave up, shrugging and folding the menu.  "I'll have the same with a lemon-lime.  Low-fat ranch."  Coming from her lips it almost sounded like a royal decree and I couldn't help but grin as Marcus finished jotting down the orders and collected the menus before retreating to the kitchen.
         "What?"  Mikala asked curiously, noticing my smile.  I shook my head. 
         "Nothing," I said, looking away at the game, trying to marshal my face back into order while i watched the pitcher strike out the current batter, ending the current inning.  When I finally managed it, I turned back to her. 
         "It'll take a bit for them to get the salads ready, so in the meantime I want to lay down some ground rules, get a few things ironed out.  First and foremost, this is not an interrogation.  This isn't even an interview.  I just want to learn about her as a person.  I want to know what she did in her spare time, her hobbies, the circles she walked in, stuff like that.  Even the most mundane detail will be helpful."
    I paused as our drinks were delivered