Hard Rain

were already closed and he
    caught a cab. He told me he was going home to wait for Yukiko.
    I tried to picture a beautiful young hostess, pulling down the yen
    equivalent of a thousand dollars a night in tips in one of Tokyo's
    exclusive establishments, with her pick of wealthy businessmen and
    politicians for paramours, hurrying home to Harry's apartment after
    work. I just couldn't see it.
    Don't be so cynical, I thought.
    But my gut wasn't buying it, and I've learned to trust my gut.
    It's still early. Just take a look. It's practically on the way to
    the hotel.
    If Harry had changed his mind about going home and had gone to Damask
    Rose instead, though, he'd know I was checking up on him. He might not
    be surprised, but he wouldn't like it, either.
    But the chances that Harry would stop by there on his own dime, when
    Yukiko was due to come to his place in just a few hours anyway, were
    slim. The risk was worth taking.
    And Nogizaka was only a few kilometers away. What the hell.
    I tried directory assistance from a public phone, but there was no
    listing for a Damask Rose. Well, Harry had said they didn't
    advertise.
    Still, I could just go and have a look.
    I walked the short distance to Nogizaka, then strolled up and down
    Gaienhigashi-dori until I found the club. It took a while, but I
    finally spotted it. There was no sign, only a small red rose on a
    black awning.
    The entrance was flanked by two black men, each of sufficient bulk to
    have, been at home in the sumo pit. Their suits were well tailored
    and, given the size of the men wearing them, must have been
    custom-made. Nigerians, I assumed, whose size, managerial acumen, and
    relative facility with the language had made them a rare foreign
    success story, in this case as both middle management and muscle for
    many of the area's entertainment establishments. The mi%u shobai, or
    'water trade' of entertainment and pleasure, is one of the few areas in
    which Japan can legitimately claim a degree of internationalization.
    They bowed and opened the club's double glass doors for me, each
    issuing a baritone irasshaimase as they did so. Welcome. One of them
    murmured something into a microphone set discreetly into his lapel.
    I walked down a short flight of stairs. A ruddy-faced,
    prosperous-looking Japanese man whom I put at about forty greeted me in
    a small foyer. Interchangeable J-Pop techno music was playing from the
    room beyond.
    "Nanmeisama des ho ka?" Mr. Ruddy asked. How many?
    "Just one," I said in English, holding up a finger.
    "Kashikomarimashita." Of course. He motioned that I should follow
    him.
    The room was rectangular, flanked by dance stages on either end. The
    stages were simple, distinguished only by mirrored walls behind them
    and identical brass fire poles at their centers. One stage was
    occupied by a tall, long-haired blonde wearing high heels and a green
    G-string and nothing more. She was dancing somewhat desultorily, I
    thought, but seemed to have the attention of the majority of the club's
    clientele regardless. Russian, I guessed. Large-boned and
    large-breasted. A delicacy in Japan.
    Harry hadn't mentioned floor shows. Probably he was embarrassed. My
    sense that something was amiss deepened.
    On the other stage I saw a girl who looked like a mix of Japanese and
    something Mediterranean or Latin. A good mix. She had that silky,
    almost shimmering black hair that so many modern Japanese women like to
    ruin with chapatsu dye, worn short and swept over from the side. The
    shape of the eyes was also Japanese, and she was on the petite side.
    But her skin, a smooth gold like melted caramel, seemed like something
    else, maybe African or mulatto. Her breasts and hips, too, appealingly
    full and slightly incongruous on her Japanese-sized frame, seemed to
    suggest some foreign origin. She was using the pole skillfully,
    grabbing it high, posing with her body held rigid and parallel to the
    floor, then spiraling down in time to the music. There was real
    vitality in her moves and she didn't seem to mind that most of the
    patrons were focused on the blonde.
    Mr. Ruddy held out a chair for me at an empty table in the center of
    the room. After a routine glance to ensure that the seat afforded a
    proper view of the entrance, I sat. I wasn't displeased to see that I
    also had a good view of the stage where the dark-haired girl was
    dancing.
    "Wow," I said in English, looking at her.
    "Yes, she is beautiful," he replied, also in English. "Would