A Lonely Resurrection

to.”
    “What do you mean?”
    I sipped from my glass, watching the amber liquid glowing in the candlelight, remembering. “You start slow. You find the subject’s limits and get him to spend some time there. He gets used to it. Before long, the limits have moved. You never take him more than a centimeter beyond. You make it feel it’s his choice.”
    I looked at her. “You told me when you first got to the club you were so shy you could hardly move on the stage.”
    “Yes, that’s true.”
    “At that point you would never have done a lap dance.”
    “No.”
    “But now you can.”
    “Yes.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
    “When you did your first lap dance, you probably said you would never let a customer touch you.”
    “I did say that,” she said. Her voice had gone lower.
    “Of course you did. I could go on. I could tell you where you’ll be three months from now, six months, a year. Twenty years, if you keep going where you’re going. Naomi, you think this is all an accident? It’s a science. There are people out there who are experts at getting others to do tomorrow what was unthinkable today.”
    But for her breath, moving rapidly in and out through her nostrils, she was silent, and I wondered if she was fighting tears.
    I needed to push it just a little farther before backing off. “You want to know what’s next for you?” I asked.
    She looked at me but said nothing.
    “You know Damask Rose girls are being used to blackmail politicians, or something like that. The other girls whisper about it, but that’s not all. You’ve been approached, right? It was an oblique approach, but it was there. Something like, ‘There’s a special customer we think would like you. We’d like you to go out with him and show him a really good time. If he’s satisfied afterward, we’ll pay you X.’ Maybe they had a suite at a hotel where they wanted you to take him. They’d bug him there, videotape him. You refused, I guess. But there was no pressure. Why would there be? They know you’ll get worn down just from the exposure.”
    “You’re wrong!” she said suddenly, jabbing a finger in my face.
    I looked at her. “If I were wrong, you wouldn’t react that way.”
    She watched me, her eyes hurt and angry, her lips twisting together as though trying to find words.
    That was enough. Time to see if my words had the desired effect.
    “Hey,” I said softly, but she didn’t look up. “Hey.” I put my hand over hers. “I’m sorry.” I squeezed her fingers briefly, then withdrew my hand.
    She raised her head and looked at me. “You think I’m a prostitute. Or that I’m going to become one.”
    “I don’t think that,” I said, shaking my head.
    “How do you know all this?”
    Time for an honest, but safely vague response. “A long time ago, and in a different context, I went through what you’re in the middle of.”
    “What do you mean?”
    For a moment I pictured Crazy Jake. I shook my head to show her it wasn’t something I was willing to talk about.
    We were quiet for a few moments. Then she said, “You were right. I wouldn’t have reacted so sharply if what you were saying were untrue. These are things I’ve been thinking about a lot, and I haven’t been as honest with myself as you just were.” She reached out and took my hand. She squeezed it hard. “Thank you.”
    I felt an odd confluence of emotions: satisfaction that my manipulation was working; sympathy because of what she was struggling with; self-reproach for taking advantage of her naiveté.
    And beneath it all, I was still attracted to her. I was uncomfortably aware of the touch of her hand.
    “Don’t thank me,” I said, not looking at her. I didn’t squeeze back. After a moment she withdrew her hand.
    “Are you really just trying to help a friend?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “I would help you if I could. But I don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you.”
    I nodded, thinking of the Agency and Yamaoto, wondering about the connection. “Let me ask you something,” I said. “How many Caucasians do you see at the club?”
    She shrugged. “A fair number. Maybe ten, twenty percent of the customers. Why?”
    “Have you ever seen Murakami spending time with them?”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    “How about Yukiko?”
    “Not really. Her English is pretty bad.”
    Inconclusive. She didn’t know anything. I was starting to doubt that she’d be of much help after all.
    I looked at my