Hard Rain

these people, they might try to rob you for it."
    "Give it to me now," I said.
    "Later."
    Fuck the money, I thought. I was glad just to be alive.
    I started moving toward where I had left my jacket, shirt, and shoes.
    The crowd parted respectfully before me. A few random hands slapped my
    shoulders.
    Murakami followed. "The money is yours. I want one more thing before
    I give it to you."
    "Fuck you." I pulled on my shirt and started buttoning it.
    He laughed. "Okay, okay." He took out the envelope and tossed it to
    me.
    I caught it two-handed and glanced inside. It looked about right. I
    shoved it in a pants pocket and continued buttoning my shirt.
    "The extra thing I wanted," he said, 'was to tell you how you can make
    ten, twenty times what's in that envelope."
    I looked at him.
    "You interested?"
    "I'm listening."
    He shook his head. "Not here. Let's go somewhere where we can
    celebrate." He smiled. "My treat."
    I stepped into my shoes and knelt to lace them. "What did you have in
    mind?"
    "A little place I own. You'll enjoy it."
    I considered. A 'celebration' with Murakami would afford me the
    opportunity to collect additional intel for Tatsu. I didn't see any
    real downside.
    "All right," I said.
    Murakami smiled.
    I saw two guys zipping Adonis into a body bag. Christ, I thought, they
    really come prepared. They loaded him onto a gurney and wheeled him
    toward the door. On the underside of the gurney was a stack of metal
    plates. One of the guys was carrying a length of chain, and I realized
    they were going to weight the body and dump it in one of the
    surrounding canals.
    The next fight went for a long time. The fighters were conservative
    and seemed to have implicitly agreed not to employ potentially lethal
    or disfiguring techniques. After about ten minutes, Murakami said to
    me, "This isn't worth watching. Let's go."
    He motioned to his bodyguards, and the four of us walked outside.
    Washio saw us leaving and bowed.
    A black Mercedes S600 with darkened windows was parked at the curb. One
    of the guards opened the rear door for us. A dog was curled up on the
    backseat. A white pit bull, its ears clipped short, its body roped
    with thick muscle. It had been fitted with a heavy leather muzzle,
    beyond the edges of which were fissures and scars that told me I was
    looking at one of Murakami's fighting animals. The beast looked at me
    as though sighting down the barrel of its own muzzled snout, and I
    thought I saw the canine equivalent of insanity in its slightly
    bloodshot eyes. Well, they say dogs come to resemble their masters.
    Murakami motioned for me to get in. "Don't worry," he said. "He's
    okay as long as he's muzzled."
    "Why don't you go first, just the same," I said.
    He laughed and slid in. The dog moved to make way for him. I got in
    and the guard closed the door. He and the other guy took the front. We
    rode north on Kaigan-dori, to Sakura-dori, and then to
    Gaienhigashi-dori in Roppongi.
    No one spoke. The dog eyeballed me ceaselessly during the ride.
    When we crossed Roppongi-dori I started to wonder. As we neared
    Aoyama-dori I knew. We were going to Damask Rose.
    Eleven.
    Any lingering attempts to rationalize that Harry had just gotten lucky
    with a hostess disappeared. The air-conditioned interior of the Benz
    felt suddenly warm.
    But I had a more immediate problem than Harry. The last time I'd been
    to Damask Rose, I'd been using English, posing as an American citizen
    who spoke secondhand Japanese. I'd also been using a different name. I
    needed to decide how to handle this.
    As the Benz pulled up to the club, I said, "Ah, good place."
    "You've been here?" Murakami asked.
    "Just once. The girls are beautiful."
    His lips parted in a smile and the overly white bridge appeared between
    them. "They should be. I select them."
    The driver opened the passenger-side door and we got out. The dog
    stayed, watching me with its hungry, demon eyes until the driver had
    closed the door and the dark glass separated us.
    The Nigerians were gauntleting the entranceway. They bowed
    obsequiously low for Murakami and breathed "Irass-haimasi in unison.
    The one on the right spoke into his lapel mike.
    We walked down the steps. The ruddy-faced man I had seen there last
    time looked up. He saw Murakami and swallowed.
    "Ah, Murakami-san, good evening," he said in Japanese with a low bow.
    "It is always a pleasure to have you here. Is there anyone special you
    would like to see tonight?"
    A thin band of sweat had