Mr. Ruddy held out a chair for me at an empty table in the center of the room. After a routine glance to ensure that the seat afforded a proper view of the entrance, I sat. I wasn’t displeased to see that I also had a good view of the stage where the dark-haired girl was dancing.

“Wow,” I said in English, looking at her.

“Yes, she is beautiful,” he replied, also in English. “Would you like to meet her?”

I watched her for another moment before answering. I didn’t want to wind up with one of the Japanese girls here. I would have a better chance of creating rapport, and therefore of eliciting information, by chatting with a foreigner while playing the role of foreigner.

I nodded.

“I will let her know.” He handed me a drinks menu, bowed, and slipped away from the table.

The menu was written on a single page of thick, cream-colored parchment in double columns of elegant Japanese, the club’s signature red rose placed discreetly at the bottom. I was surprised to see that it included an imaginative selection of single malts. A twenty-five-year-old Springbank, which I’d been looking for. And a Talisker of the same age. I might have to stay for a while.

A waitress came by and I ordered the Springbank. Ten thousand yen the measure. But life is short.

There were a dozen girls working the floor. About half were Japanese; the others looked indeterminately European. All were attractive and tastefully dressed. Most were engaging customers, but a few were free. None approached my table. Mr. Ruddy must have passed the word that I’d requested someone. Efficient operation.

At the table next to me was a Japanese man surrounded by three fawning hostesses. He looked superficially youthful, with radiant white teeth and black hair swept back from a tanned face free of fissures. But I looked more closely and saw that the appearance was ersatz. The hair was dyed, the tan courtesy of a sunlamp, the unseamed face likely the product of Botox and surgery, the teeth porcelain caps. The chemicals and the knife, even the retinue of attractive young women with paid-for adoring smiles, all simply tools to prop up a shaky wall of denial about the inevitable indignities of aging and death.

The techno beat faded out and the dark-haired girl gyrated slowly to the floor, her legs scissoring the pole, her back arched, her head tilted back toward the room. The blonde was also finishing, albeit in less spectacular fashion. The audience applauded.

The waitress brought my Springbank, shimmering amber in a crystal tumbler. I raised the glass to my nose, closed my eyes for a moment, and inhaled a breath of clean, sherried sea air. I took a sip. Salt and brine, yes, but somewhere a hint of fruit, as well. The finish was long and dry. I smiled. Not bad for a twenty-five-year-old.

I took another sip and looked around. I didn’t pick up any danger vibes. The place could be legit, I thought. Doubtless it would be hooked up with organized crime, but that was par for the course in the mizu shobai, not just for Japan but for the world. Maybe Harry had just gotten lucky.

Maybe.

A few minutes later, the dark-haired girl appeared from behind the stage. She moved down a short riser of steps and walked over to my table.

She had changed into a strapless black cocktail dress. A thin diamond bracelet encircled her left wrist. A gift from an admirer, I thought. I expected she would have many.

“May I join you?” she asked. Her Japanese was lightly accented with something warm, maybe Spanish or Portuguese.

“Please,” I responded in English, standing and pulling back a chair for her. “Is English all right?”

“Of course,” she said, switching over. “I just thought… you’re American?”

I nodded. “My parents are Japanese, but I grew up in America. I’m more comfortable in English.”

I eased the chair in behind her. The cocktail dress laced up the back. Smooth skin glowed in the interstices.

I sat down next to her. “I enjoyed watching you dance,” I said.

I knew she would have heard that a thousand times before, and her smile confirmed it. The smile said Of course you did.

That was fine. I wanted her to feel in control, to let her guard down. We’d have a few drinks, relax, get to know each other before I began to probe for what really interested me.

“What brings you to Tokyo?” she asked.

“Business. I’m an accountant. Once a year I have to come to Japan for some of the firm’s local clients.” It was a good cover story. No one ever asks follow-up questions when you tell them you’re an accountant. They’re afraid you might answer.

“I’m John, by the way,” I added.

She held out her hand. “Naomi.”

Her fingers were small in my hand but her grip was firm. I tried to place her age. Late twenties, maybe thirty. She looked young, but her dress and mannerisms were sophisticated.

“Can I get you something to drink, Naomi?”

“What’s that you’re having?”

“Something special, if you like single malts.”

“I love single malts. Especially the old Islay whiskeys. They say age removes the fire but leaves the warmth. I like that.”

You’re good, I thought, looking at her. Her mouth was beautiful: full lips; pink gums that almost glowed; even, white teeth. Her eyes were green. A small network of freckles fanned out on and around her nose, barely perceptible amidst the background of caramel skin.

“What I’m drinking isn’t from Islay,” I said, “but it’s got some island character. Smoke and peat. A Springbank.”

She raised her eyebrows. “The twenty-five?”

“You know the menu,” I said, nodding. “Would you like one?”

“After a night of watered-down Suntory? I’d love one.”

Of course she’d love one. Her pay would include a cut of her customers’ tabs. A few ten-thousand-yen shots and she could call it an evening.

I ordered another Springbank. She asked me questions: how I knew so much about single malt whiskey, where I lived in the States, how many times I’d been to Tokyo. She was comfortable in her role and I let her play it.

When our glasses were empty I asked her if she’d like another drink.

She smiled. “You’re thinking about the Talisker.”

“You’re a mind reader.”

“I just know the menu. And good taste. I’d love another.”

I ordered two Taliskers. They were excellent: huge and peppery, with a finish that lasted forever. We drank and chatted some more.

When the second round was nearly done, I began to change tack.

“Where are you from?” I asked her. “You’re not Japanese.” This last I said with some hesitation, as though inexperienced in such matters and therefore unsure.

“My mother was Japanese. I’m from Brazil.”

I’ll be damned, I thought. I was planning a trip to Brazil. A long trip.

“Brazil, where?”

“Bahia.”

Bahia is one of the country’s coastal states. “Salvador?” I asked, to determine the city.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, with the first genuine smile of the evening. “How do you know Brazil so well?”

“I’ve been there a few times. My firm has clients all over the world. Um pae brasileiro e uma mae Japonêsa-é uma combinação bonita,” I said in the Portuguese I had been studying with cassettes. A Brazilian father and a Japanese mother-it’s a beautiful combination.

Her eyes lit up and her mouth parted in a perfect O. “Obrigado!” she exclaimed. Thank you! Then: “Você fala português?” You speak Portuguese?

It was as though the real person had suddenly decided to reinhabit the hostess’s body. Her eyes, her expression, her posture had all come alive, and again I felt that vital energy that had animated her dancing.

“Only a little,” I said, switching back to English. “I’m good with languages and I try to pick up a bit from wherever I travel.”

She was shaking her head slowly and looking at me as though it was the first time she had seen me. She took a swallow of her drink, finishing it.