Rainfall

knew well, steps that had never led to the bass player’s satisfaction.

    But fuck him anyway. “But jazz is like sex, isn’t it?” I said to him. “It takes two to really enjoy it.”

    I saw his eyes flare open as Midori pursed her lips in what might have been a tightly suppressed smile.

    “We’re happy to go on rescuing you, if that’s what we’ve been doing,” she said in a tone as even as a flat-lined EKG. “Thank you.”

    I held her gaze for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to read it, then excused myself. I ducked into Alfie’s washroom, which has about the same square footage as a telephone pole, where I reflected on the notion that I had survived some of the most brutal fighting in Southeast Asia, some of the world’s worst mercenary conflicts, but still couldn’t beat one of Mama’s ambushes.

    I emerged from the washroom, acknowledging Mama’s satisfied grin as I did so, then returned to my seat. A moment later I heard the club’s door open behind me and casually glanced back to see who would be walking through it. My head automatically returned to the front less than a second later, guided by years of training — the same training that prevented the attendant surprise from revealing itself in my expression.

    It was the stranger from the train. The one I had seen searching Kawamura.

4

    I KEEP A number of unusual items on my key chain, including several rudimentary lock picks that the uninitiated would mistake for toothpicks and a sawed-off dental mirror. The mirror can be held up to the eye unobtrusively, particularly if the user is leaning forward on an elbow and supporting his head with his hand.

    From this posture I was able to watch the stranger arguing with a scowling Mama as the second set began. No doubt she was telling him he wouldn’t be able to stay, that there weren’t any more seats and the room was already overcrowded. I saw him reach into his jacket pocket and produce a wallet, which he then opened, revealing some aspect of its contents for Mama’s inspection. She looked closely, then smiled and gestured magnanimously to the far wall. The stranger walked in the proffered direction and found a place to stand.

    What could he have used to trump Mama? ID from Tokyo’s liquor-licensing authority? A police badge? I watched him throughout the second set, but he gave no indication, leaning expressionless against the wall.

    When the set ended, I had a decision to make. On the one hand, I assumed he was here for Midori, and wanted to watch him to confirm and to see what else I could learn. On the other hand, if he was connected with Kawamura, he might know that the heart attack had been induced, and he might recognize me from the train, where we had spoken briefly over Kawamura’s prone form. The risk was small, but, as Crazy Jake once liked to put it, the penalty for missing was high. Someone could learn of my current appearance, and the cocoon of anonymity I had been so careful to build would be ruptured.

    Also, if I did stay to watch his interaction with Midori, I wouldn’t be able to follow him when he left. I’d have to share Alfie’s five-person elevator with him for that, or hope but probably fail to beat him by using the stairs, and he’d make me. And if he got to the street first, by the time I caught up he would already have been carried away by the tides of pedestrians sweeping across Roppongi-dori.

    Although it was frustrating, I had to leave first. When the applause for the second set had ended, I watched the stranger shove off in the direction of the stage. Several patrons stood and began milling about, and I placed them between us as I headed for the exit.

    Keeping my back to the stage, I stopped to return the remnants of my Cao Lila. I thanked Mama again for letting me in without a reservation.

    “I saw you talk to Kawamura-san,” she said. “Was that so hard?”

    I smiled. “No, Mama, it was fine.”

    “Why are you leaving so early? You don’t come by nearly enough.”

    “I’ll have to remedy that. But tonight I have other plans.”

    She shrugged, perhaps disappointed that her machinations had come to so little.

    “By the way,” I said to her, “who was that
gaijin
who came in during the second set? I saw you arguing with him.”

    “He’s a reporter,” she said, wiping a glass. “He’s writing an article on Midori, so I let him stay.”

    “A reporter? That’s great. With what publication?”

    “Some Western magazine. I