A Lonely Resurrection

English. She said, “Hey.”
    It was Naomi.
    “Hey,” I said. “I almost forgot I’d given you this number.”
    “You don’t mind my using it, I hope.”
    “Not at all. Just a little surprised.” I was surprised. My alertness had bumped up a notch.
    There was a pause. “Well, things were slow tonight at the club and I got off a little early. I wondered if you might want to come by.”
    It was hard to imagine a slow night at Damask Rose, but maybe it was true. Even so, I would have expected her to want to go someplace first—a late dinner, a drink. Not just a tryst at her apartment. My alertness edged up further.
    “Sure,” I said. “If you’re not too tired.”
    “Not at all. Would love to see you.”
    That was odd. She’d pronounced “would” like something halfway to “we’d.” The blurring was contrary to her usual Portuguese accent. A message? A warning?
    I looked at my watch. It was almost one-thirty. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”
    “I can’t wait.”
    She clicked off.
    Something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what.
    There was the oddity of her having contacted me. And the story about having come home early, though I supposed the latter might adequately explain the former. Her tone seemed pretty normal. But there was that peculiarly pronounced word.
    The question was, what would I do if I knew it was setup? Not what I would do if I suspected, but if I
knew.
    I went to another payphone and called Tatsu. I got his voicemail. I tried again. No dice. He must have been on a stakeout or something.
    Well, he does have a day job,
I thought. But shit.
    The safe thing, the smart thing, would have been to stay away until I could go in with backup. But there might be an opportunity here, and I didn’t want to let it slip. And Naomi might be in trouble.
    I took a cab to the edge of Azabu Juban. I knew the security layout outside Naomi’s apartment well, of course, having reconnoitered and exploited it myself the night I had waited for her in the rain. The building on that perpendicular side street, with the awning and the plastic garbage bins, was a perfect spot. If someone were waiting for me, he’d wait there. Just like I had waited for her.
    I was making my way to the end of the street that led to the back of the building when I heard the buzz of a two-cycle motorbike coming toward me. It was a pizza delivery scooter with a portable warmer strapped to the back and a sign advertising the shop that had dispatched it. I watched carefully to confirm it was nothing other than what it seemed. Yeah, just a young guy trying to make a few extra yen with a late-night job. I could smell pizza from inside the warmer.
    I had an idea.
    I flagged him down. He pulled up next to me.
    “Can you do me a favor?” I asked him in Japanese. “For ten-thousand yen.”
    His eyes widened a bit. “Sure,” he said. “What is it?”
    “There’s a building at the end of this street, on the right as you approach it from this direction. It’s got an awning and a bunch of garbage containers stacked up along its side. I think a friend of mine might be waiting for me there, but I want to surprise him. Can you drive past it from the other direction, take a good look as you go by, and tell me if you see anyone there?”
    His eyes widened more. “For ten-thousand yen? Yeah, I can do that.”
    I pulled out my wallet and took out a five-thousand-yen note. “Half now, half when you get back,” I said.
    He took the money and buzzed off. Three minutes later he was back.
    “He’s there,” he said. “Right where you told me.”
    “Thanks,” I said, nodding. “That was a lifesaver.” I gave him the other five thousand yen. He looked at it, his expression momentarily unbelieving. Then he broke into an enormous, sunny grin.
    “Thanks!” he said. “This is great! Anything else you need?”
    I shook my head. “Not tonight.”
    He looked a little wistful, then smiled again as though he knew he’d been hoping for too much. “Okay, thanks again,” he said. He gunned the engine and drove away.
    I untaped the baton and palmed it in my right hand. I took out Yukiko’s pepper spray and held it in my left. I moved with the furtiveness I had learned in long-range recon patrols in Vietnam, hugging the buildings I passed, checking each corner, each hot spot, confirming it was clear before advancing further.
    It took me almost a half hour to cover the hundred meters to the ambush site. When