Hard Rain

and obviously in love.
    I remembered the way the ice bitch had alternately teased, then
    soothed, Murakami. How Naomi had said, She's comfortable doing things
    I'm not.
    I imagined her pumping him with drinks, his body unaccustomed to the
    alcohol. I imagined him doing it to please her. I imagined her
    suggesting a walk on the roof, Murakami waiting there.
    Or maybe she did it herself. It wouldn't be hard. She'd spent time in
    the building, she knew its rhythms, its routines, the layout of its
    security cameras. And he trusted her. Even with what I'd told him, if
    he were drunk enough, he wouldn't have hesitated to walk to the edge.
    Maybe for a laugh. Maybe on a dare.
    Without thinking, I snatched the receiver from its cradle and raised it
    overhead to smash down onto the phone. I stood there for a long
    moment, my arm cocked, my body trembling, willing myself not to make a
    scene, not to draw attention.
    Finally, I set the receiver back in its cradle. I closed my eyes and
    breathed in, then let it all the way out. Once more. And again.
    I went to a different phone and called Tatsu. I told him to check our
    bulletin board because I wanted to see him. Then I went to an Internet
    cafe to tell him when and where.
    We met at Cafe Peshaworl, a coffeehouse and bar in the Nihonbashi
    business district, and another place I had liked during the years I was
    in Tokyo.
    I got there early, as usual, and took the steps down from Sakura-dori
    to the subdued interior below. Peshaworl is shaped like an I-beam, and
    I took a seat in the corner of one of the short ends of the I. I was
    hidden from the entrance, but I could just see the bar, with its red
    steel scale for measuring precise quantities of beans; its battered
    pots for steeping coffee, their dents, like those in fine single malt
    stills, probably credited with producing the unique taste of
    Peshaworl's brews; and its curious implements, intimidating in their
    specificity, no doubt designed exclusively for the concoction of the
    most exalted blends, their correct use unknown except to craft
    initiates.
    I ordered the house Roa blend and listened to Monica Borrfors singing
    "August Wishing' while I waited for Tatsu to show. At just after
    twelve, I heard the door open and close, followed by Tatsu's familiar
    shuffling gait. A moment later he poked his head around the corner and
    saw me. He came over and sat so that we were at ninety degrees to each
    other and could converse with maximum privacy. He grunted a greeting,
    then said, "Based on your recent meeting with Kawamura-san, I can only
    assume that you brought me here either to thank me or to kill me."
    "I'm not here about that," I replied.
    He looked at me for a moment, silent.
    The waitress came over and asked him what he would like. He ordered a
    milk tea, more, I thought, as a concession to his surroundings than out
    of any real desire.
    While we waited for his tea, he said, "I hope you understand why I did
    what I did."
    "Sure. You're a manipulative, fanatical bastard who believes the end
    always justifies the means."
    "Now you sound like my wife."
    I didn't laugh. "You shouldn't have dragged Midori back into this."
    "I didn't. I had hoped that she would want to believe you were dead.
    If she had wanted to believe, she would have. If she did not want to
    believe, she would investigate. She is quite tenacious."
    "She told me she threatened you with a scandal."
    "Probably a bluff."
    "She doesn't bluff, Tatsu."
    "Regardless. I told her where to find you because it was no longer
    useful to try to deceive her. In fact, she was not deceived. Also, I
    thought you might benefit from that encounter."
    I shook my head. "Did you really think she could convince me to help
    you?"
    "Of course."
    "Why?"
    "You know why."
    "Don't lead me, Tatsu."
    "All right. Consciously or unconsciously, you want to be worthy of
    her. I respect you for that sentiment because there is much about
    Kawamura-san to admire. But you may be going about it in the wrong
    way, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to see that."
    "You're wrong," I said.
    "Then why are you here?"
    I looked at him. "I'm going to help you on this. It has nothing to do
    with Midori." I pictured Harry for a second, then said, "No, you're
    going to help me."
    The waitress set down his tea and moved on.
    "What happened?" he asked.
    My reflex was to not tell him, to protect Harry, like I'd always tried
    to do before. But it didn't matter anymore.
    "Murakami killed a friend of