Hard Rain

hands and perhaps our faces to refresh
    ourselves, and a variety of small snacks. The arrangement completed,
    she looked at Murakami and, apparently knowing his preferences, asked,
    "Bombay Sapphire?" He nodded curtly and indicated that Yukiko would
    have the same.
    The waitress looked at me. "Okyakusama?" she asked.
    I turned to Naomi. "The Springbank?" I asked. She nodded and I
    ordered two.
    The vibrant half-Latina that had emerged the other night had retracted
    like a turtle into its shell. What would she be thinking? New name,
    new Japanese persona, new jakuza pal. All fodder for conversation, but
    she was saying nothing.
    Why? If I'd run into her in the street, the first thing she would have
    said would have been, "What are you doing back in Tokyo?" If I had
    used a different name, surely she would have commented on that. And if
    she heard me speaking in unaccented, native Japanese, of course she
    would have said, "I thought you said you were more comfortable with
    English?"
    So her reticence was situation-specific. I thought of the fear I had
    detected when her eyes had first alighted on Murakami. It was him. She
    was afraid of saying or doing something that would draw his
    attention.
    The last time I had seen her, I had the sense that she knew more than
    she was willing to say. Her reaction to Murakami confirmed that
    suspicion. And if she were inclined to give me away, she already would
    have done it. That she had failed to do so made her comp licit created
    a shared secret. Something I could exploit.
    Yukiko picked up an oshibori and used it to wipe Murakami's hands, cool
    as an animal handler grooming a lion. Naomi handed me mine.
    "Arai-san is a friend of mine," Murakami said, looking at me and then
    at the girls and smiling his bridged smile. "Please be good to him."
    Yukiko smiled deeply into my eyes as if to say If we were alone, I
    would take suuuch good care of you. In my peripheral vision I saw
    Murakami catch the look and frown.
    I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of this bastard's jealousy, I
    thought, imagining Harry.
    The waitress came and put the drinks on the table. Murakami drained
    his in a single draught. Yukiko followed suit.
    "Iz jo," Murakami growled. Good. Yukiko set her glass down with
    practiced delicacy. Murakami looked at her. She returned the look,
    something almost theatrically nonchalant in her expression. The look
    went on for a long moment. Then he grinned and grabbed her hand.
    "Okawari," he called to the waitress. Two more drinks. He pulled
    Yukiko to her feet and away from the table. I watched him lead her to
    a room to the side of one of the dance stages.
    "What was that?" I asked Naomi in Japanese.
    She was looking at me. Warily, I thought.
    "A lap dance," she said.
    "They seem to know each other well."
    "Yes."
    I looked around. The adjacent tables were filled with parties of
    Japanese men in standard sarariman attire. Even with the ambient
    noise, they were too close to permit a private conversation.
    I leaned closer to Naomi. "I didn't expect to be back here," I said
    softly.
    She winced. "I'm glad you came."
    I didn't know what to make of the inconsistency between her reaction
    and her words. "You must have a lot of questions," I said.
    She shook her head. "I just want to make sure you enjoy yourself
    tonight."
    "I think I know why you're acting this way," I started to say.
    She cut me off with a suddenly raised hand. "How about that lap
    dance?" she asked. Her tone was inviting, but her eyes were somewhere
    between serious and angry.
    I looked at her, trying to gauge what she was up to, then said,
    "Sure."
    We walked to the same room that Murakami and Yukiko had gone to a few
    minutes earlier. Another Nigerian was waiting just inside the
    entrance. He bowed and pulled aside a high-backed, semicircular sofa.
    A matching unit was positioned on the other side of it. We stepped
    inside and the Nigerian pushed the front half closed behind us. We
    were now enclosed in a circular, upholstered compartment.
    Naomi gestured to the cushioned sofa seat. I lowered myself onto it,
    watching her face.
    She stepped back, her eyes on mine. Her hands went to her back and I
    heard the sound of a zipper. Then her right hand moved to the left
    strap of her dress and began to ease it over the smooth skin of her
    shoulder.
    There was a sudden buzz in my pocket.
    Son of a bitch. Harry's bug detector.
    Continuous, intermittent, continuous. Meaning both audio and video.
    I was careful not