The Last Assassin

well-heeled clientele.
    “If a customer sees a girl he likes,” Tatsu went on, “he can ask what it would cost to leave the club with her. If he is willing to pay her price, she’s his for the evening. If not, he can ask about someone else.”
    “How much do the girls get to keep?”
    “Whatever they charge.”
    “If they keep what they charge, where’s Kuro’s profit?”
    “There’s a fifty-million-yen joining fee and five million yen a year for membership fees after that.”
    “Fifty million ?” I asked. That was well over four hundred thousand dollars.
    “Yes.”
    “Well, that ought to keep out the hoi polloi.”
    He shrugged. “Luxury has gone mass market. The superrich have to find ways to distinguish themselves. I read about a new sports car that just came out, the Bugatti Veyron. It costs over a million dollars.”
    “Yeah, I just put in my order for two.”
    He laughed, but the laugh became a cough. He fitted the oxygen tube under his nose and breathed for a moment, then said, “There are already several owners in Tokyo, you know, and many more on the waiting list. Men who can afford a car like that aren’t put off by outrageous club fees. They welcome them, as a sign of status.”
    He took a sip of water. “But there’s an important collateral benefit beyond the direct profit: the deals brokered with the politicians, businessmen, and crime bosses who are entertained there as guests. United Bamboo, for example. Yamaoto and Big Liu closed their methamphetamine arrangement at the club.”
    “That’s why they’re meeting there again? Auspicious location?”
    “Apparently Big Liu enjoyed himself greatly. He seems to have a predilection for blondes.”
    Blondes. My notion of whom we might turn to as a “man” inside sharpened. But there was no way Delilah was going to agree to this. And I didn’t see how I could ask her.
    “If the girl’s price doesn’t match the customer’s,” I said, “she doesn’t have to leave with him. But what about when they’re entertaining a guy like Big Liu? They’re going to just turn him down?”
    “For a big shot like Liu, the girls are expected to provide complimentary services. It doesn’t matter how old he is or what he looks like. You’re his for the night and he had better wake up with a smile the next morning. Otherwise, the girl is fired.”
    “And suddenly cut off from the incredible cash flow she’s gotten used to.”
    “Precisely.”
    Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. Maybe I could gloss over the “If you help me, you might have to sleep with a repulsive, degenerate gangster” part of the sales pitch.
    “Well?” he said, after a moment. “Is any of this useful?”
    “Maybe,” I told him. “There might be someone I can get inside. I’ll let you know. You have any pictures of Big Liu? I want to know what he looks like.”
    Tatsu pressed the call button by the bed. The bodyguard came in.
    “I’ll take that file now, please,” Tatsu told him.
    The man wordlessly handed Tatsu a large envelope and returned to his post.
    “So this is how you’re getting all this work done while you’re laid up,” I observed.
    He smiled and handed me the envelope. I unsealed it and took out a folder. Inside were several police and surveillance photos of a fat but still dangerous-looking Chinese man with graying hair and pockmarked skin.
    “Big for a Chinese,” I commented.
    “Hence the name,” Tatsu said, with his trademark “infinite patience” tone.
    “I see you’ve got Yamaoto in here, too. And who’s this guy?”
    “That’s Kuro. I thought a dossier on the principals might be helpful.”
    “Thanks. It is.”
    He nodded. “You don’t have much time.”
    I looked at him, frail and diminished on the hospital bed, tubes in his arms and up his nose, and realized he wasn’t talking about Yamaoto’s meeting.
    “Are you…can I get you anything?” I asked.
    He looked at me, his eyes fierce and alive inside his pallid skin.
    “Yamaoto,” he said.

27
    D ELILAH WAS ON her way back from a morning workout in her neighborhood in the Marais when her cell phone rang. She stopped walking and looked for it in her bag.
    Pedestrians carrying fresh bread and cut flowers and bags of fruit from the open-air market on Rue de Bretagne maneuvered around her on the narrow sidewalk. She ignored them and looked at the phone. The caller ID said private.
    She’d been feeling delightfully relaxed from two hours of yoga and Pilates, but now