A Clean Kill in Tokyo

back, and snapped his neck.
    His body convulsed, then went slack. I dragged him into one of the empty stalls, sat him on the toilet, and adjusted his position so the body would stay put. With the door closed, anyone coming in to use the bathroom would see his legs and just think the stall was occupied. With luck, the body wouldn’t be discovered until closing time, long after we were gone.
    I eased the door shut with my right hip and used my knee to close the latch. Then, gripping the upper edge of the stall divider, I pulled myself up and slid over to the stall on the other side. I pulled a length of toilet paper from the dispenser and used it to wipe the two spots I had touched. I jammed the toilet paper in a pants pocket, took a deep breath, and walked back out into the bar.
    “All set?” I asked, walking up to the table, controlling my breathing.
    “Let’s go,” Midori said. The three of them stood and we headed toward the cashier and the exit.
    Tom was holding the bill, but I took it from him gently and insisted they all let me pay, that it was my privilege after the pleasure of their performance. I didn’t want to take a chance on anyone trying to use a credit card and leaving a record of our presence here tonight.
    As I was paying, Tom said, “I’ll be right back,” and headed toward the restroom.
    “Me too,” Ken added, and followed him.
    I imagined vaguely that the body could slide off the toilet while they were in there. Or that Murphy’s Law would make an appearance in some other way. The thoughts weren’t unduly troubling. There was nothing to do but relax and wait until they had returned.
    “You want a walk home?” I asked Midori. She had mentioned during the evening that she lived in Harajuku, though of course I already knew that.
    She smiled. “That would be nice.”
    Three minutes later, Tom and Ken returned. I saw them laughing as they approached, and knew Mr. Bland had gone undiscovered.
    We stepped outside and walked up the steps into the cool Omotesando evening.
    “My car’s at the Blue Note,” Ken said when we were outside. He looked at Midori. “Anyone need a ride?”
    Midori shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
    “I’ll take the subway,” I told him. “But thanks.”
    “I’ll go with you,” Tom said, diffusing the slight tension I could feel brewing as Ken did the math. “John, it was nice meeting you tonight. Thank you again for coming, and for the dinner and drinks.”
    I bowed. “My pleasure, really. I hope I’ll have another opportunity.”
    Ken nodded. “Sure,” he said, with demonstrable lack of enthusiasm. Tom took a step back, his cue to Ken, I knew, and we said good night.
    Midori and I strolled slowly in the direction of Omotesando-dori. “Was that okay?” she asked when Tom and Ken were out of earshot.
    “I had a good time,” I told her. “They’re interesting people.”
    “Ken can be difficult.”
    I shrugged. “He was a little jealous you had invited someone else to tag along, that’s all.”
    “He’s just young. Thanks for handling him gently tonight.”
    “No problem.”
    “You know, I don’t usually invite people I’ve only just met to come to a performance, or to go out afterward.”
    “Well, we’d met once before, so your guideline should be intact.”
    She laughed. “You feel like another single malt?”
    I looked at her, trying to read her. “Always,” I said. “And I’ve got a place I think you’ll like.”
    I took her to Bar Satoh, a tiny second-story establishment nestled in a series of alleys that extend like a spider’s web within the right angle formed by Omotesando-dori and Meiji-dori. The route we took gave me several opportunities to check behind us, and I saw we were clean. Mr. Bland had been alone.
    We took the elevator to the second floor of the building, then stepped through a door surrounded by a riot of gardenias and other flowers that Satoh-san’s wife tends with reverence. A right turn, a step up, and there was Satoh-san, presiding over the solid cherry bar in the low light, dressed immaculately as always in a bow tie and vest.
    “Ah, Fujiwara-san,”
he said in his soft baritone, smiling a broad smile and bowing.
“Irrashaimase.”
Welcome.
    “Satoh-san, it’s good to see you,” I said in Japanese. I looked around, noting his small establishment was almost full. “Is there a possibility we could be seated?”
    “Ei, mochiron,”
he replied. Yes, of course. Apologizing in formal