Hard Rain

broken out on his brow. His full attention
    was on Murakami and he had taken no notice of me.
    Murakami looked around the room. Several of the girls smiled at him. I
    gathered that they were already acquainted. "Yukiko," he said.
    Harry, I thought.
    Mr. Ruddy nodded and turned to me. "Okyakusama? he asked. And you?
    That he used Japanese indicated that he hadn't remembered me from the
    last time, when our exchange had been in English.
    "Is Naomi here tonight?" I asked, also in Japanese. If she were here,
    I wanted to see her right away, when I would have a marginally better
    chance of taking control of the conversation. If things went badly, at
    least it wouldn't look as though I'd been trying to avoid her.
    Mr. Ruddy's eyes might have narrowed slightly in recollection of
    someone who had asked for Naomi some weeks earlier. I wasn't sure.
    He bowed his head. "I will bring her to you."
    I had already decided on a cover story, should Naomi comment on my name
    change or other inconsistencies: I was married, and didn't want to take
    any chances on this sort of nocturnal foray getting back to my wife. My
    use of cash rather than credit cards would be consistent with such a
    story. Not the world's best explanation, but I had to have something
    to say if she noticed the disparities.
    Mr. Ruddy took two menus and escorted us into the main room, pausing
    first to whisper to a girl I recognized as Elsa from the last time I'd
    been there. I saw Elsa touch another girl, Emi, on the arm.
    He walked us over to a corner table. Murakami and I took adjacent
    seats, both facing the entrance. I watched Emi walk over to another
    table, where Yukiko was entertaining another customer. Emi sat and
    spoke into Yukiko's ear. A moment later Yukiko stood and excused
    herself. Elsa was repeating the scene at the table Naomi was working.
    Very smooth.
    Yukiko walked over, and I saw her mouth stretch into a feline grin at
    the sight of Murakami. Naomi followed a moment later. She was wearing
    another elegant black cocktail dress, this one of silk, fitted at the
    waist but loose above it. The diamond bracelet glittered on her left
    wrist as before.
    She saw me, and her expression started to break into a smile that
    aborted itself when her eyes shifted from my face to Murakami's. She
    must have known him, and, based on the story I had told her, obviously
    didn't expect to see us together. She was trying to process the
    incongruity, certainly. But the suddenness of her change of expression
    told me there was more. She was scared.
    Yukiko sat next to Murakami and across from me. She looked at me for a
    long moment, then briefly at Murakami, then back at me. Her lips moved
    in the barest hint of a cool smile. Murakami stared at her as though
    waiting for more, but she ignored him. I felt a tension building and
    thought, Don't play with this guy. He could go off. Then she turned
    her eyes to him again and permitted him a smile that said, I was only
    teasing you, darling. Don't be such a child.
    The tension dropped away. I thought that if anyone had a measure of
    control over the creature sitting next to me, it was probably this
    woman.
    Naomi took the remaining seat. "Hisashiburi desu ne," I said to her.
    It's been a while.
    "Un, so desu ne'J she replied, her expression now neutral. Yes, it
    has. She might have thought it odd that I was now using Japanese when
    the other night I had insisted on
    English. But perhaps I was only deferring to our other companions.
    "You know each other," Murakami interjected in Japanese. "Good.
    Arai-san, this is Yukiko."
    Naomi gave no indication of having noticed that I had a new name.
    "HajimemashiteJ Yukiko said. She continued in Japanese, "I remember
    seeing you here a few weeks ago."
    I bowed my head slightly and returned her salutation. "And I remember
    you. You're a wonderful dancer."
    She cocked her head to the side. "You look different, somehow."
    My American and Japanese personalities are distinct, and I carry myself
    differently depending on which language I'm using and which mode I'm
    in. Probably it was this, as much as his nervousness in Murakami's
    presence, that had caused Mr. Ruddy not to remember me. Yukiko was
    responding to the difference but unsure of what to make of it.
    I ran my fingers through my hair as though to straighten it. "I just
    came from a workout," I said.
    Murakami chuckled. "You sure did."
    A waitress came over. She set down four oshibori, hot washcloths with
    which we would wipe our