The tension dropped away. I thought that if anyone had a measure of control over the creature sitting next to me, it was probably this woman.
Naomi took the remaining seat. “Hisashiburi desu ne,” I said to her. It’s been a while.
“Un, so desu ne,” she replied, her expression now neutral. Yes, it has. She might have thought it odd that I was now using Japanese when the other night I had insisted on English. But perhaps I was only deferring to our other companions.
“You know each other,” Murakami interjected in Japanese. “Good. Arai-san, this is Yukiko.”
Naomi gave no indication of having noticed that I had a new name.
“Hajimemashite,” Yukiko said. She continued in Japanese, “I remember seeing you here a few weeks ago.”
I bowed my head slightly and returned her salutation. “And I remember you. You’re a wonderful dancer.”
She cocked her head to the side. “You look different, somehow.”
My American and Japanese personalities are distinct, and I carry myself differently depending on which language I’m using and which mode I’m in. Probably it was this, as much as his nervousness in Murakami’s presence, that had caused Mr. Ruddy not to remember me. Yukiko was responding to the difference but unsure of what to make of it.
I ran my fingers through my hair as though to straighten it. “I just came from a workout,” I said.
Murakami chuckled. “You sure did.”
A waitress came over. She set down four oshibori, hot washcloths with which we would wipe our hands and perhaps our faces to refresh ourselves, and a variety of small snacks. The arrangement completed, she looked at Murakami and, apparently knowing his preferences, asked, “Bombay Sapphire?” He nodded curtly and indicated that Yukiko would have the same.
The waitress looked at me. “Okyakusama?” she asked.
I turned to Naomi. “The Springbank?” I asked. She nodded and I ordered two.
The vibrant half-Latina that had emerged the other night had retracted like a turtle into its shell. What would she be thinking? New name, new Japanese persona, new yakuza pal. All fodder for conversation, but she was saying nothing.
Why? If I’d run into her in the street, the first thing she would have said would have been, “What are you doing back in Tokyo?” If I had used a different name, surely she would have commented on that. And if she heard me speaking in unaccented, native Japanese, of course she would have said, “I thought you said you were more comfortable with English?”
So her reticence was situation-specific. I thought of the fear I had detected when her eyes had first alighted on Murakami. It was him. She was afraid of saying or doing something that would draw his attention.
The last time I had seen her, I had the sense that she knew more than she was willing to say. Her reaction to Murakami confirmed that suspicion. And if she were inclined to give me away, she already would have done it. That she had failed to do so made her complicit, created a shared secret. Something I could exploit.
Yukiko picked up an oshibori and used it to wipe Murakami’s hands, cool as an animal handler grooming a lion. Naomi handed me mine.
“Arai-san is a friend of mine,” Murakami said, looking at me and then at the girls and smiling his bridged smile. “Please be good to him.”
Yukiko smiled deeply into my eyes as if to say If we were alone, I would take suuuch good care of you. In my peripheral vision I saw Murakami catch the look and frown.
I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of this bastard’s jealousy, I thought, imagining Harry.
The waitress came and put the drinks on the table. Murakami drained his in a single draught. Yukiko followed suit.
“Ii yo,” Murakami growled. Good. Yukiko set her glass down with practiced delicacy. Murakami looked at her. She returned the look, something almost theatrically nonchalant in her expression. The look went on for a long moment. Then he grinned and grabbed her hand.
“Okawari,” he called to the waitress. Two more drinks. He pulled Yukiko to her feet and away from the table. I watched him lead her to a room to the side of one of the dance stages.
“What was that?” I asked Naomi in Japanese.
She was looking at me. Warily, I thought.
“A lap dance,” she said.
“They seem to know each other well.”
“Yes.”
I looked around. The adjacent tables were filled with parties of Japanese men in standard sarariman attire. Even with the ambient noise, they were too close to permit a private conversation.
I leaned closer to Naomi. “I didn’t expect to be back here,” I said softly.
She winced. “I’m glad you came.”
I didn’t know what to make of the inconsistency between her reaction and her words. “You must have a lot of questions,” I said.
She shook her head. “I just want to make sure you enjoy yourself tonight.”
“I think I know why you’re acting this way,” I started to say.
She cut me off with a suddenly raised hand. “How about that lap dance?” she asked. Her tone was inviting, but her eyes were somewhere between serious and angry.
I looked at her, trying to gauge what she was up to, then said, “Sure.”
We walked to the same room that Murakami and Yukiko had gone to a few minutes earlier. Another Nigerian was waiting just inside the entrance. He bowed and pulled aside a high-backed, semicircular sofa. A matching unit was positioned on the other side of it. We stepped inside and the Nigerian pushed the front half closed behind us. We were now enclosed in a circular, upholstered compartment.
Naomi gestured to the cushioned sofa seat. I lowered myself onto it, watching her face.
She stepped back, her eyes on mine. Her hands went to her back and I heard the sound of a zipper. Then her right hand moved to the left strap of her dress and began to ease it over the smooth skin of her shoulder.
There was a sudden buzz in my pocket.
Son of a bitch. Harry’s bug detector.
Continuous, intermittent, continuous. Meaning both audio and video.
I was careful not to look around or do anything else that might have seemed suspicious. I opened my mouth to say something to her, something any other excited beneficiary of an incipient lap dance might utter. But she made a face-half scowl, half exasperation-that stopped me. She raised a subtle index finger from the strap of her dress to the ceiling. Then she cocked her head slightly and shifted her finger to her ear.
I got the message. People were listening, and watching.
Not just here. At the table, too. That’s why her responses had been so odd. She couldn’t warn me there.
And why she had looked angry tonight, I realized. Was I just the American accountant I had claimed to be, or at least a neutral party? If so, silence would be her safest course. Was I involved with Murakami, who frightened her? If so, silence, and certainly a warning like the one she had just given me, would be dangerous. I had inadvertently forced her to choose.
But the detector hadn’t buzzed at the table. Then I realized: Murakami. If the tables were monitored, they knew to turn off the equipment when the boss was around. Those would be the rules, and I imagined that no one would want a guy like Murakami finding out that they weren’t being adhered to. And the last time I’d been here, the device hadn’t been charged yet. That’s why it hadn’t warned me then.
I reached into my pocket to switch off the unit, nodding to indicate I understood.