The Last Assassin

disappeared in back for a moment, then came out in a waist-length black leather jacket. They headed for the door. A few more patrons thanked Midori on the way out. She got hugs from the bassist and the drummer. The bartender waved and the bouncer gave her a European double kiss. She was obviously liked here, and at ease. It was her world.
    They walked over to the bar Midori had in mind. Delilah unobtrusively checked their surroundings as they moved. She noted that Midori did not.
    The bar was nice—a neighborhood place, as Midori had said. It was old and dark, with couches and other upholstered furniture arranged in clusters across an expanse of white tiled floor. The sounds of conversation and music were nicely balanced. You could talk here without shouting.
    They sat at a table in one of the corners. Delilah took one end of a couch, her back to the wall; Midori, an overstuffed adjacent chair, her back to the window. Delilah paused for a moment to listen, then said, “Good song. Oystein Sevag. Learned about him from a friend in Oslo.”
    “So it’s not just jazz, then?”
    Delilah smiled. “Oh, no. I like everything.” She picked up a menu. “Well? What do you feel like?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Probably just a glass of wine.”
    “Should we see if they have a Beaujolais? The Nouveaux just came out, and there are some fun ones this year.”
    “That sounds great.”
    Delilah looked at the menu and was pleased to see that they had the Domaine Dupeuble, which she thought was among the best of the recent harvest. When the waitress came over, Delilah ordered a bottle. That might have been more than Midori had in mind, but she didn’t object.
    “How do you like New York?” Delilah asked. “Your Web site says you’re originally from Tokyo.”
    “I love it. This is the second time I’ve lived here, and it feels like another home.”
    “What brought you back?”
    “Mostly a job opportunity.” The reply had been smooth enough, but Delilah thought Midori’s features had clouded just for an instant as she recalled the circumstances of that move. Interesting.
    The waitress brought the wine and moved off. Delilah picked up her glass. “Cheers,” she said. “It’s very good to meet you.”
    “Likewise,” Midori said. They touched glasses and drank.
    Delilah knew to start slowly. The secret to seduction isn’t really the target’s attraction to the seducer. It’s more how the seducer makes the target feel about himself. Or, in this case, herself. Yes, looks and appearance are important, but only as a foundation. What has to follow is the feeling of pleasure and flattery brought on by the notion that such an alluring creature could be so genuinely fascinated with me. Making someone feel important, worthwhile, the center of a universe to which he would ordinarily fear to aspire…that was a seduction.
    So during their first, and then their second, glass of wine, Delilah asked mostly about Midori’s jazz background. Delilah was a fan, after all, and the questions were natural enough. Where did you learn to play the piano? What’s the connection to New York? What attracted you to jazz? Who are your influences? What does it feel like to compose a song?
    Unlike most men, Midori wasn’t entirely blinded by Delilah’s attention. She asked lots of questions of her own. But Delilah always managed to turn the conversation back to Midori.
    When they had poured out the last of the bottle, Delilah glanced at Midori’s hand, as though noticing for the first time that she didn’t have a ring. “Are you married?” she asked.
    Midori shook her head. “No.”
    “Forgive me. You had mentioned a baby, so…”
    “Nothing to forgive. The father lives in Japan.”
    Delilah thought it had the feeling of a rehearsed response. It was just deliberately vague enough to ward off further inquiries without causing discomfort.
    “That must be hard,” Delilah said.
    “No. It’s actually for the best.”
    Midori offered nothing further, and Delilah understood that, even buzzed from the wine and Delilah’s evident interest, Midori wasn’t inclined to talk about this.
    Change tack. Try a revelation, a shared confidence.
    “My mother raised me alone,” Delilah said, now entirely improvising. “When I was a girl she wouldn’t talk about my father.”
    Midori leaned forward slightly. “Why?”
    “Well, I didn’t find out until much later. My father left her pregnant with me for another woman.”
    “Did you…are