A Lonely Resurrection

edges of which were fissures and scars that told me I was looking at one of Murakami’s fighting animals. The beast looked at me as though sighting down the barrel of its own muzzled snout, and I thought I saw the canine equivalent of insanity in its slightly bloodshot eyes. Well, they say dogs come to resemble their masters.
    Murakami motioned for me to get in. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s okay as long as he’s muzzled.”
    “Why don’t you go first, just the same,” I said.
    He laughed and slid in. The dog moved to make way for him. I got in and the guard closed the door. He and the other guy took the front. We rode north on Kaigan-dori, to Sakura-dori, and then to Gaienhigashi-dori in Roppongi. No one spoke. The dog eyeballed me ceaselessly during the ride.
    When we crossed Roppongi-dori I started to wonder. As we neared Aoyama-dori I knew.
    We were going to Damask Rose.

CHAPTER 11
    A ny lingering attempts to rationalize that Harry had just gotten lucky with a hostess disappeared. The air-conditioned interior of the Benz felt suddenly warm.
    But I had a more immediate problem than Harry. The last time I’d been to Damask Rose, I’d been using English, posing as an American citizen who spoke secondhand Japanese. I’d also been using a different name. I needed to decide how to handle this.
    As the Benz pulled up to the club, I said, “Ah, good place.”
    “You’ve been here?” Murakami asked.
    “Just once. The girls are beautiful.”
    His lips parted in a smile and the overly white bridge appeared between them. “They should be. I select them.”
    The driver opened the passenger-side door and we got out. The dog stayed, watching me with its hungry, demon eyes until the driver had closed the door and the dark glass separated us.
    The Nigerians were gauntleting the entranceway. They bowed obsequiously low for Murakami and breathed
“Irasshaimase”
in unison. The one on the right spoke into his lapel mike.
    We walked down the steps. The ruddy-faced man I had seen there last time looked up. He saw Murakami and swallowed.
    “Ah, Murakami-san, good evening,” he said in Japanese with a low bow. “It is always a pleasure to have you here. Is there anyone special you would like to see tonight?”
    A thin band of sweat had broken out on his bow. His full attention was on Murakami and he had taken no notice of me.
    Murakami looked around the room. Several of the girls smiled at him. I gathered they were already acquainted. “Yukiko,” he said.
    Harry,
I thought.
    Mr. Ruddy nodded and turned to me.
“Okyakusama?”
he asked. And you? That he used Japanese indicated he hadn’t remembered me from the last time, when our exchange had been in English.
    “Is Naomi here tonight?” I asked, also in Japanese. If she were here, I wanted to see her right away, when I would have a marginally better chance of taking control of the conversation. If things went badly, at least it wouldn’t look as though I’d been trying to avoid her.
    Mr. Ruddy’s eyes might have narrowed slightly in recollection of someone who had asked for Naomi some weeks earlier. I wasn’t sure.
    He bowed his head. “I will bring her to you.”
    I had already decided on a cover story, should Naomi comment on my name change or other inconsistencies: I was married, and didn’t want to take any chances on this sort of nocturnal foray getting back to my wife. My use of cash rather than credit cards would be consistent with such a story. Not the world’s best explanation, but I had to have something to say if she noticed the disparities.
    Mr. Ruddy took two menus and escorted us into the main room, pausing first to whisper to a girl I recognized as Elsa from the last time I’d been there. Elsa touched another girl, Emi, on the arm.
    He walked us to a corner table. Murakami and I took adjacent seats, both facing the entrance. I watched Emi walk over to another table, where Yukiko was entertaining another customer. Emi sat and spoke into Yukiko’s ear. A moment later Yukiko stood and excused herself. Elsa was repeating the scene at the table Naomi was working. Very smooth.
    Yukiko walked over, her mouth stretching into a feline grin at the sight of Murakami. Naomi followed a moment later. She was wearing another elegant black cocktail dress, this one silk, fitted at the waist but loose above it. The diamond bracelet glittered on her left wrist as before.
    She saw me, and her expression started to break into a smile that aborted