Hard Rain

you like
    to meet her?"
    I watched her for another moment before answering. I didn't want to
    wind up with one of the Japanese girls here. I would have a better
    chance of creating rapport, and therefore of eliciting information, by
    chatting with a foreigner while playing the role of foreigner.
    I nodded.
    "I will let her know." He handed me a drinks menu, bowed, and slipped
    away from the table.
    The menu was written on a single page of thick, cream-colored parchment
    in double columns of elegant Japanese, the club's signature red rose
    placed discreetly at the bottom. I was surprised to see that it
    included an imaginative selection of single malts. A
    twenty-five-year-old Springbank, which I'd been looking for. And a
    Talisker of the same age. I might have to stay for a while.
    A waitress came by and I ordered the Springbank. Ten thousand yen the
    measure. But life is short.
    There were a dozen girls working the floor. About half were Japanese;
    the others looked indeterminately European. All were attractive and
    tastefully dressed. Most were engaging customers, but a few were free.
    None approached my table. Mr. Ruddy must have passed the word that
    I'd requested someone. Efficient operation.
    At the table next to me was a Japanese man surrounded by three fawning
    hostesses. He looked superficially youthful, with radiant white teeth
    and black hair swept back from a tanned face free of fissures. But I
    looked more closely and saw that the appearance was ersatz. The hair
    was dyed, the tan courtesy of a sunlamp, the un seamed face likely the
    product of Botox and surgery, the teeth porcelain caps. The chemicals
    and the knife, even the retinue of attractive young women with paid-for
    adoring smiles, all simply tools to prop up a shaky wall of denial
    about the inevitable indignities of aging and death.
    The techno beat faded out and the dark-haired girl gyrated slowly to
    the floor, her legs scissoring the pole, her back arched, her head
    tilted back toward the room. The blonde was also finishing, albeit in
    less spectacular fashion. The audience applauded.
    The waitress brought my Springbank, shimmering amber in a crystal
    tumbler. I raised the glass to my nose, closed my eyes for a moment,
    and inhaled a breath of clean, sherried sea air. I took a sip. Salt
    and brine, yes, but somewhere a hint of fruit, as well. The finish was
    long and dry. I smiled. Not bad for a twenty-five-year-old.
    I took another sip and looked around. I didn't pick up any danger
    vibes. The place could be legit, I thought. Doubtless it would be
    hooked up with organized crime, but that was par for the course in the
    mizu shobai, not just for Japan but for the world. Maybe Harry had
    just gotten lucky.
    Maybe.
    A few minutes later, the dark-haired girl appeared from behind the
    stage. She moved down a short riser of steps and walked over to my
    table.
    She had changed into a strapless black cocktail dress. A thin diamond
    bracelet encircled her left wrist. A. gift from an admirer, I thought.
    I expected she would have many.
    "May I join you?" she asked. Her Japanese was lightly accented with
    something warm, maybe Spanish or Portuguese.
    "Please," I responded in English, standing and pulling back a chair for
    her. "Is English all right?"
    "Of course," she said, switching over. "I just thought ... you're
    American?"
    I nodded. "My parents are Japanese, but I grew up in America. I'm
    more comfortable in English."
    I eased the chair in behind her. The cocktail dress laced up the back.
    Smooth skin glowed in the interstices.
    I sat down next to her. "I enjoyed watching you dance," I said.
    I knew she would have heard that a thousand times before, and her smile
    confirmed it. The smile said Of course you did.
    That was fine. I wanted her to feel in control, to let her guard down.
    We'd have a few drinks, relax, get to know each other before I began to
    probe for what really interested me.
    "What brings you to Tokyo?" she asked.
    "Business. I'm an accountant. Once a year I have to come to Japan for
    some of the firm's local clients." It was a good cover story. No one
    ever asks follow-up questions when you tell them you're an accountant.
    They're afraid you might answer.
    "I'm John, by the way," I added.
    She held out her hand. "Naomi."
    Her fingers were small in my hand but her grip was firm. I tried to
    place her age. Late twenties, maybe thirty. She looked young, but her
    dress and mannerisms were sophisticated.
    "Can I get you something to