Hard Rain

"Who do you
    like, and who do you not like?"
    "Oh, I get along all right with pretty much everyone." It was a safe
    answer to a slightly different question. I admired her poise.
    The house music faded out and was replaced by another round of J-Pop
    techno. Simultaneously, two Japanese girls, topless and high-heeled,
    appeared on the dance stages.
    "Ah, that's Emi," Naomi said, indicating the pretty, appealingly zaftig
    girl on the far stage. She turned and nodded her head at the stage
    closer to us. "And that's Yukiko."
    Yukiko. At last we meet.
    I watched her, a tall girl with long hair so black that under the stage
    lighting it coruscated like moonlit liquid. It cascaded in waves
    around the smooth contours of her shoulders, past the alluvial shadows
    of her waist, around the upturned curve of her ass. She was tall and
    fine-boned, with delicate white skin, high cheekbones, and small, high
    breasts. Put the hair up, add a little couture, and you'd have the
    world's classiest courtesan.
    This girl with Harry'? I thought. No way.
    "She's beautiful," I said, feeling that her striking looks demanded
    some commentary.
    "A lot of people say so," Naomi replied.
    There was something lurking in her deliberately noncommittal reply.
    "You don't think so?" I asked.
    She shrugged. "Not my type."
    "I get the feeling you don't care for her."
    "Let's just say that she's comfortable doing things that I'm not."
    With Harry? "I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't curious."
    She shook her head, and I knew I'd hit another dead end, even after
    three whiskeys.
    Snow Child, indeed. There was something cold, even calculating, about
    the girl's beauty. Something was wrong here, although how the hell
    could I tell Harry that? I imagined the conversation: Harry, I went to
    Damask Rose to check up on you. Trust me, my friend, this girl is way
    out of your league. Plus, I had a bad feeling about her generally.
    Steer clear.
    I knew where his mind was right now: she would feel like the best thing
    that ever happened to him, and anything or anyone that threatened that
    comfortable sense would be rationalized away or ignored. A heads-up
    from a friend would be useless. Or worse.
    I wasn't going to get any more out of Naomi. I'd do a little more
    digging when I got back to Osaka. Harry was a friend and I owed him
    that much. But finding out what this girl was up to wasn't really the
    problem. Getting Harry to acknowledge it, I knew, would be.
    "Do you want to watch her?" Naomi asked.
    I shook my head. "Sorry. I was thinking of something else."
    We talked more about Brazil. She spoke of the country's ethnic and
    cultural variety, a melange of Europeans, Indians,
    Japanese, and West Africans; its atmosphere of exuberance, music, and
    sport; its extremes of wealth and poverty; most of all, of its beauty,
    with thousands of miles of spectacular coast, the vast pampas of the
    south, the trackless green basin of the Amazon. Much of it I knew
    already, but I enjoyed listening to her, and looking at her while she
    spoke.
    I thought of what she had said about Yukiko: Let's just say that she's
    comfortable doing things that I'm not.
    But that only meant Yukiko had been in the game longer. Innocence is a
    fragile thing.
    I might have asked for her number. I could have told her my visit had
    been extended, something like that. She was too young, but I liked the
    way she made me feel. She provoked a confusing mix of emotions:
    affinity based on the shared experiences of mixed blood and childhood
    bereavement; a paternalistic urge to protect her from the mistakes she
    was going to make; a sad sexual longing that was like an elegy for
    Midori.
    It was getting late. "Will you forgive me if I forgo the lap dance?" I
    asked her.
    She smiled. "That's fine."
    I stood to go. She got up with me.
    "Wait," she said. She took out a pen. "Give me your hand."
    I held out my left hand. She held it and began to write on my palm.
    She wrote slowly. Her fingers were warm.
    "This is my private e-mail address," she said when she was done. "It's
    not something I give customers, so please don't share it. Next time
    you have a trip to Salvador, let me know. I'll tell you the best
    places to go." She smiled. "And I wouldn't mind hearing from you if
    you find yourself back in Tokyo, either."
    I smiled into her green eyes. The smile felt strangely sad to me.
    Maybe she didn't notice.
    "You never know," I said.
    I settled the bill at the door, in cash as always. I took a card,