Murakami stepped inside the circle. He was smiling.
“Yokuyatta zo,” he said. Good job.
I dropped the towel. “Where’s my money?”
He reached into his breast pocket and took out a thick envelope. He opened it so I could see that it was stuffed with ten-thousand-yen notes, then closed it and returned it to his pocket.
“It’s yours,” he said. “I’ll give it to you later.” He looked around. “Some of these people, they might try to rob you for it.”
“Give it to me now,” I said.
“Later.”
Fuck the money, I thought. I was glad just to be alive.
I started moving toward where I had left my jacket, shirt, and shoes. The crowd parted respectfully before me. A few random hands slapped my shoulders.
Murakami followed. “The money is yours. I want one more thing before I give it to you.”
“Fuck you.” I pulled on my shirt and started buttoning it.
He laughed. “Okay, okay.” He took out the envelope and tossed it to me.
I caught it two-handed and glanced inside. It looked about right. I shoved it in a pants pocket and continued buttoning my shirt.
“The extra thing I wanted,” he said, “was to tell you how you can make ten, twenty times what’s in that envelope.”
I looked at him.
“You interested?”
“I’m listening.”
He shook his head. “Not here. Let’s go somewhere where we can celebrate.” He smiled. “My treat.”
I stepped into my shoes and knelt to lace them. “What did you have in mind?”
“A little place I own. You’ll enjoy it.”
I considered. A “celebration” with Murakami would afford me the opportunity to collect additional intel for Tatsu. I didn’t see any real downside.
“All right,” I said.
Murakami smiled.
I saw two guys zipping Adonis into a body bag. Christ, I thought, they really come prepared. They loaded him onto a gurney and wheeled him toward the door. On the underside of the gurney was a stack of metal plates. One of the guys was carrying a length of chain, and I realized they were going to weight the body and dump it in one of the surrounding canals.
The next fight went for a long time. The fighters were conservative and seemed to have implicitly agreed not to employ potentially lethal or disfiguring techniques. After about ten minutes, Murakami said to me, “This isn’t worth watching. Let’s go.”
He motioned to his bodyguards, and the four of us walked outside. Washio saw us leaving and bowed.
A black Mercedes S600 with darkened windows was parked at the curb. One of the guards opened the rear door for us. A dog was curled up on the backseat. A white pit bull, its ears clipped short, its body roped with thick muscle. It had been fitted with a heavy leather muzzle, beyond the edges of which were fissures and scars that told me I was looking at one of Murakami’s fighting animals. The beast looked at me as though sighting down the barrel of its own muzzled snout, and I thought I saw the canine equivalent of insanity in its slightly bloodshot eyes. Well, they say dogs come to resemble their masters.
Murakami motioned for me to get in. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s okay as long as he’s muzzled.”
“Why don’t you go first, just the same,” I said.
He laughed and slid in. The dog moved to make way for him. I got in and the guard closed the door. He and the other guy took the front. We rode north on Kaigan-dori, to Sakura-dori, and then to Gaienhigashi-dori in Roppongi. No one spoke. The dog eyeballed me ceaselessly during the ride.
When we crossed Roppongi-dori I started to wonder. As we neared Aoyama-dori I knew.
We were going to Damask Rose.
11
ANY LINGERING ATTEMPTS to rationalize that Harry had just gotten lucky with a hostess disappeared. The air-conditioned interior of the Benz felt suddenly warm.
But I had a more immediate problem than Harry. The last time I’d been to Damask Rose, I’d been using English, posing as an American citizen who spoke secondhand Japanese. I’d also been using a different name. I needed to decide how to handle this.
As the Benz pulled up to the club, I said, “Ah, good place.”
“You’ve been here?” Murakami asked.
“Just once. The girls are beautiful.”
His lips parted in a smile and the overly white bridge appeared between them. “They should be. I select them.”
The driver opened the passenger-side door and we got out. The dog stayed, watching me with its hungry, demon eyes until the driver had closed the door and the dark glass separated us.
The Nigerians were gauntleting the entranceway. They bowed obsequiously low for Murakami and breathed “Irasshaimase” in unison. The one on the right spoke into his lapel mike.
We walked down the steps. The ruddy-faced man I had seen there last time looked up. He saw Murakami and swallowed.
“Ah, Murakami-san, good evening,” he said in Japanese with a low bow. “It is always a pleasure to have you here. Is there anyone special you would like to see tonight?”
A thin band of sweat had broken out on his brow. His full attention was on Murakami and he had taken no notice of me.
Murakami looked around the room. Several of the girls smiled at him. I gathered that they were already acquainted. “Yukiko,” he said.
Harry, I thought.
Mr. Ruddy nodded and turned to me. “Okyakusama?” he asked. And you? That he used Japanese indicated that he hadn’t remembered me from the last time, when our exchange had been in English.
“Is Naomi here tonight?” I asked, also in Japanese. If she were here, I wanted to see her right away, when I would have a marginally better chance of taking control of the conversation. If things went badly, at least it wouldn’t look as though I’d been trying to avoid her.
Mr. Ruddy’s eyes might have narrowed slightly in recollection of someone who had asked for Naomi some weeks earlier. I wasn’t sure.
He bowed his head. “I will bring her to you.”
I had already decided on a cover story, should Naomi comment on my name change or other inconsistencies: I was married, and didn’t want to take any chances on this sort of nocturnal foray getting back to my wife. My use of cash rather than credit cards would be consistent with such a story. Not the world’s best explanation, but I had to have something to say if she noticed the disparities.
Mr. Ruddy took two menus and escorted us into the main room, pausing first to whisper to a girl I recognized as Elsa from the last time I’d been there. I saw Elsa touch another girl, Emi, on the arm.
He walked us over to a corner table. Murakami and I took adjacent seats, both facing the entrance. I watched Emi walk over to another table, where Yukiko was entertaining another customer. Emi sat and spoke into Yukiko’s ear. A moment later Yukiko stood and excused herself. Elsa was repeating the scene at the table Naomi was working. Very smooth.
Yukiko walked over, and I saw her mouth stretch into a feline grin at the sight of Murakami. Naomi followed a moment later. She was wearing another elegant black cocktail dress, this one of silk, fitted at the waist but loose above it. The diamond bracelet glittered on her left wrist as before.
She saw me, and her expression started to break into a smile that aborted itself when her eyes shifted from my face to Murakami’s. She must have known him, and, based on the story I had told her, obviously didn’t expect to see us together. She was trying to process the incongruity, certainly. But the suddenness of her change of expression told me there was more. She was scared.
Yukiko sat next to Murakami and across from me. She looked at me for a long moment, then briefly at Murakami, then back at me. Her lips moved in the barest hint of a cool smile. Murakami stared at her as though waiting for more, but she ignored him. I felt a tension building and thought, Don’t play with this guy. He could go off. Then she turned her eyes to him again and permitted him a smile that said, I was only teasing you, darling. Don’t be such a child.