A Lonely Resurrection

told me about her, how shy and sappy and obviously in love.
    I remembered the way the ice-bitch had alternately teased, then soothed, Murakami. How Naomi had said,
She’s comfortable doing things I’m not.
    I imagined her pumping him with drinks, his body unaccustomed to the alcohol. I imagined him doing it to please her. I imagined her suggesting a walk on the roof, Murakami waiting there.
    Or maybe she did it herself. It wouldn’t be hard. She’d spent time in the building, she knew its rhythms, its routines, the layout of its security cameras. And he trusted her. Even with what I’d told him, if he were drunk enough, he wouldn’t have hesitated to walk to the edge. Maybe for a laugh. Maybe on a dare.
    Without thinking, I snatched the receiver from its cradle and raised it overhead to smash down onto the phone. I stood there for a long moment, my arm cocked, my body tensed and trembling, willing myself not to make a scene, not to draw attention.
    Finally, I set the receiver back in its cradle. I closed my eyes and breathed in, then let it all the way out. Once more. And again.
    I went to a different phone and called Tatsu. I told him to check our secure site because I wanted to see him. Then I went to an Internet café to tell him when and where.
    • • •
    We met at Café Peshaworl, a coffeehouse and bar in the Nihonbashi business district, and another place I had liked during the years I was in Tokyo.
    I got there early, as usual, and took the steps down from Sakura-dori to the subdued interior below. Peshaworl is shaped like an I-beam, and I took a seat in the corner of one of the short ends of the I. I was hidden from the entrance, but I could just see the bar, with its red steel scale for measuring precise quantities of beans; its battered pots for steeping coffee, their dents, like those in fine single malt stills, probably credited with producing the unique taste of Peshaworl’s brews; and its curious implements, intimidating in their specificity, no doubt designed exclusively for the concoction of the most exalted blends, their correct use unknown except to craft initiates.
    I ordered the house Roa blend and listened to Monica Borrfors singing “August Wishing” while I waited for Tatsu to show. At just after twelve, I heard the door open and close, followed by Tatsu’s familiar shuffling gait. A moment later he poked his head around the corner and saw me. He came over and sat so that we were at ninety degrees to each other and could converse with maximum privacy. He grunted a greeting, then said, “Based on your recent meeting with Kawamura Midori, I can only assume that you asked me here either to thank me or to kill me.”
    I shook my head slowly. “Neither.”
    He looked at me for a moment, silent, perhaps sensing something in my face, my voice.
    The waitress came over and asked him what he would like. He ordered a milk tea, more, I thought, as a concession to his surroundings than out of any real desire.
    While we waited for his tea, he said, “I hope you understand why I did what I did.”
    “Sure. You’re a manipulative, fanatical bastard who believes the end always justifies the means.”
    “Now you sound like my wife.”
    I didn’t feel like laughing. “You shouldn’t have dragged Midori back into this.”
    “I didn’t. I had hoped she would want to believe you were dead. If she had wanted to believe, she would have. If she did not want to believe, she would investigate. She is quite tenacious.”
    “She told me she threatened you with a scandal.”
    “Probably a bluff.”
    “She doesn’t bluff, Tatsu.”
    “Regardless. I told her where to find you because it was no longer useful to try to deceive her. In fact, she was not deceived. Also, I thought you might benefit from that encounter.”
    I shook my head. “Did you really think she could convince me to help you?”
    “Of course.”
    “Why?”
    “You know why.”
    “Don’t lead me, Tatsu.”
    “All right. Consciously or unconsciously, you want to be worthy of her. I respect you for that sentiment because there is much about Kawamura-san to admire. But you may be going about it in the wrong way, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to see that.”
    “You’re wrong,” I said.
    “Then why are you here?”
    I looked at him. “I’m going to help you on this. It has nothing to do with Midori.” I pictured Harry for a second, then said, “No, you’re going to help me.”
    The waitress set down his tea