A Clean Kill in Tokyo

later she reappeared and squeezed in next to me. Her face was still flushed from the performance. “I thought I saw you here,” she said, giving me a mild check with her shoulder.
    “They were expecting me at the ticket window. Thank you.”
    She smiled. “If I hadn’t told them, you wouldn’t have gotten in, and you can’t hear the music very well from the street, can you?”
    “No, the reception is certainly better from where I’m sitting,” I said, looking around as though taking in the grandeur of the Blue Note, but in fact scoping for Mr. Bland.
    “Do you want to get something to eat?” she asked. “I’m going to grab something with the band.”
    I hesitated. I wasn’t going to have a chance to probe for information with other people around, and I wasn’t eager to broaden my intentionally small circle of acquaintances.
    “Hey, this is your big night, your first gig at the Blue Note,” I said. “You probably want to enjoy it yourselves.”
    “No, no,” she said, giving me another shoulder check. “I’d like you to come. And don’t you want to meet the rest of the band? They were great tonight, weren’t they?”
    On the other hand, depending on how the evening progressed, you might have a chance to talk to her alone a bit later.
“They really were. The audience loved you.”
    “We were thinking The Living Bar. Do you know it?”
    Good choice,
I thought. The Living Bar is an atmospheric place in Omotesando, absurdly named as only the Japanese can name them. It was close by, but we’d have to turn at least five corners to walk there, which would allow me to check behind to see if Mr. Bland was following.
    “Sure. It’s a chain, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, but the one in Omotesando is nicer than the others. They serve lots of interesting little dishes, and the bar is good, too. Good selection of single malts. Mama says you’re a connoisseur.”
    “Mama flatters me,” I said, thinking that if I wasn’t careful, Mama would put together a damn dossier and start handing it out. “Let me just pay for the drinks.”
    She smiled. “They’re already paid for. Let’s go.”
    “You paid for me?”
    “I told the manager that the person sitting front center was my special guest.” She switched to English: “So everything is on the house,
ne
?” She smiled, pleased at the chance to use the idiom.
    “Okay, then,” I said. “Thank you.”
    “Can you wait just a few minutes? I’ve got a few things to take care of backstage first.”
    Getting to her backstage would be too difficult to bother trying. If they were going to make a move, they’d make it outside. “Sure,” I said, getting up and shifting so my back was to the stage and I could see the room. Too many people were up and milling about, though, and I couldn’t spot Mr. Bland. “Where do you want to meet?”
    “Right here—five minutes.” She turned and walked backstage.
    Fifteen minutes later she reappeared through a curtain at the back of the stage. She had changed into a black turtleneck and black slacks. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, her face perfectly framed.
    “Sorry to make you wait. I wanted to change—a performance is hard work.”
    “No problem,” I said, taking her in. “You look great.”
    She smiled. “Let’s go! The band is out front. I’m starving.”
    We headed out the front entrance, passing a number of lingering fans who thanked her on the way.
If you wanted to get to her and could time it right,
I thought,
you’d wait at the bottom of the stairs of the Caffe Idee, where you’d have a view of both the front and side entrances.
    Sure enough, Mr. Bland was there, strolling away from us with studied nonchalance.
    So much for Benny’s forty-eight hours,
I thought. It was probably just his version of “Act now—offer expires at midnight.” Something he picked up in a sales course somewhere.
    The bassist and drummer were waiting for us, and we strolled over. “Tomo-chan, Ko-chan, this is Fujiwara Junichi, the gentleman I mentioned,” Midori said, gesturing to me.
    “Hajimemashite,”
I said, bowing.
“Konya no ensou wa, saikou ni subarashikatta.”
It’s good to meet you. Tonight’s performance was great.
    “Hey, let’s use English tonight,” Midori said, switching over as she did so. “Fujiwara-san, these guys both spent years in New York. They can order a cab in Brooklyn as well as you can.”
    “In that case, please call me John,” I said. I extended my hand to the