“Many Japanese shop at Maxim Noir now. It’s like most expensive American stores—it’d go out of business without visitors from Tokyo. It’s dependent on the Japanese.”

As we approached the front door a large man in a sport coat appeared. He had a clipboard with names. “I’m sorry. It’s by invitation only, gentlemen.”

Connor flashed his badge. “We’d like to speak to one of your guests,” he said.

“Which guest is that, sir?”

“Mr. Sakamura.”

He didn’t look happy. “Wait here, please.”

From the entryway, we could see into the living room. It was crowded with party-goers, who at a quick glance seemed to be many of the same people who had been at the Nakamoto reception. As in the restaurant, almost everyone was wearing black. But the room itself caught my attention: it was stark white, entirely unadorned. No pictures on the wall. No furniture. Just bare white walls and a bare carpet. The guests looked uncomfortable. They were holding cocktail napkins and drinks, looking around for someplace to put them.

A couple passed us on their way to the dining room. “Rod always knows what to do,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “So elegantly minimalist. The detail in executing that room. I don’t know how he ever got that paint job. It’s absolutely perfect. Not a brush stroke, not a blemish. A perfect surface.”

“Well, it has to be,” she said. “It’s integral to his whole conception.”

“It’s really quite daring,” the man said.

“Daring?” I said. “What are they talking about? It’s just an empty room.”

Connor smiled. “I call it faux zen. Style without substance.”

I scanned the crowd.

“Senator Morton’s here.” He was standing in the corner, holding forth. Looking very much like a presidential candidate.

“So he is.”

The guard hadn’t returned, so we stepped a few feet into the room. As I approached Senator Morton, I heard him say, “Yes, I can tell you exactly why I’m disturbed about the extent of Japanese ownership of American industry. If we lose the ability to make our own products, we lose control over our destiny. It’s that simple. For example, back in 1987 we learned that Toshiba sold the Russians critical technology that allowed the Soviets to silence their submarine propellers. Russian nuclear subs now sit right off the coast and we can’t track them, because they got technology from Japan. Congress was furious, and the American people were up in arms. And rightly so, it was outrageous. Congress planned economic retaliation against Toshiba. But the lobbyists for American companies pleaded their case for them, because American companies like Hewlett-Packard and Compaq were dependent on Toshiba for computer parts. They couldn’t stand a boycott because they had no other source of supply. The fact was, we couldn’t afford to retaliate. They could sell vital technology to our enemy, and there wasn’t a damned thing we could do about it. That’s the problem. We’re now dependent on Japan—and I believe America shouldn’t be dependent on any nation.”

Somebody asked a question, and Morton nodded. “Yes, it’s true that our industry is not doing well. Real wages in this country are now at 1962 levels. The purchasing power of American workers is back where it was thirty-odd years ago. And that matters, even to the well-to-do folks that I see in this room, because it means American consumers don’t have the money to see movies, or buy cars, or clothing, or whatever you people have to sell. The truth is, our nation is sliding badly.”

A woman asked another question I couldn’t hear, and Morton said, “Yes, I said 1962 levels. I know it’s hard to believe, but think back to the fifties, when American workers could own a house, raise a family, and send the kids to college, all on a single paycheck. Now both parents work and most people still can’t afford a house. The dollar buys less, everything is more expensive. People struggle just to hold on to what they have. They can’t get ahead.”

I found myself nodding as I listened. About a month before, I had gone looking for a house, hoping to get a backyard for Michelle. But housing prices were just impossible in L.A. I was never going to be able to afford one, unless I remarried. Maybe not even then, considering—

I felt a sharp jab in the ribs. I turned around and saw the doorman. He jerked his head toward the front door. “Back, fella.”

I was angry. I glanced at Connor, but he just quietly moved back to the entrance.

In the entryway, the doorman said, “I checked. There’s no Mr. Sakamura here.”

“Mr. Sakamura,” Connor said, “is the Japanese gentleman standing at the back of the room, to your right. Talking to the redhead.”

The doorman shook his head. “I’m sorry, fellas. Unless you have a search warrant, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“There isn’t a problem here,” Connor said. “Mr. Sakamura is a friend of mine. I know he’d like to talk to me.”

“I’m sorry. Do you have a search warrant?”

“No,” Connor said.

“Then you’re trespassing. And I’m asking you to leave.”

Connor just stood there.

The doorman stepped back and planted his feet wide. He said, “I think you should know I’m a black belt.”

“Are you really?” Connor said.

“So is Jeff,” the doorman said, as a second man appeared.

“Jeff;” Connor said. “Are you the one who’ll be driving your friend here to the hospital?”

Jeff laughed meanly. “Hey. You know, I like humor. It’s funny. Okay, Mr. Wise Guy. You’re in the wrong place. You’ve had it explained. Move out. Now.” He poked Connor in the chest with a stubby finger.

Connor said quietly, “That’s assault.”

Jeff said, “Hey. Fuck you, buddy. I told you you’re in the wrong place—“

Connor did something very fast, and Jeff was suddenly down on the floor, moaning in pain. Jeff rolled away, coming to rest against a pair of black trousers. Looking up, I saw that the man wearing the trousers was dressed entirely in black: black shirt, black tie, black satin jacket. He had white hair and a dramatic Hollywood manner. “I’m Rod Dwyer. This is my home. What seems to be the problem?”

Connor introduced us politely and showed his badge. “We’re here on official business. We asked to speak to one of your guests, Mr. Sakamura, who is the man standing over there in the corner.”

“And this man?” Dwyer asked, pointing to Jeff, who was gasping and coughing on the floor.

Connor said calmly, “He assaulted me.”

“I didn’t fucking assault him!” Jeff said, sitting up on his elbow, coughing.

Dwyer said, “Did you touch him?”

Jeff was silent, glowering.

Dwyer turned back to us. “I’m sorry this happened. These men are new. I don’t know what they were thinking of. Can I get you a drink?”

“Thanks, we’re on duty,” Connor said.

“Let me ask Mr. Sakamura to come over and talk to you. Your name again?”

“Connor.”

Dwyer walked away. The first man helped Jeff to his feet. As Jeff limped away, he muttered, “Fucking assholes.”

I said, “Remember when police were respected?”

But Connor was shaking his head, looking down at the floor. “I am very ashamed,” he said.

“Why?”

He wouldn’t explain further.

“Hey, John! John Connor! Hisashiburi dana! Long time no see! How they hanging, guy? Hey!” He punched Connor in the shoulder.

Up close, Eddie Sakamura wasn’t so handsome. His complexion was gray, with pock-marked skin, and he smelled like day-old scotch. His movements were edgy, hyperactive, and he spoke quickly. Fast Eddie was not a man at peace.

Connor said, “I’m pretty good, Eddie. How about you? How you doing?”

“Hey, can’t complain, Captain. One or two things only. Got a five-oh-one, drunk driving, try to beat that, but you know, with my record, it’s getting hard. Hey! Life goes on! What’re you doing here? Pretty wild place, huh? Latest thing: no furniture! Rod sets new style. Great! Nobody can sit down any more!” He laughed. “New style! Great!”