In my peripheral vision I was aware of his right foot taking the ground a little more firmly. His weight began to shift to his forward left. His hips cocked for the kick.

I reined in my urge to act, forcing myself to wait the extra half-second I knew I needed.

The kick started to come off the ground and I shot forward, shortening the distance by half. He saw his error and tried to correct, but I was already too close. I jammed the kick with my left hip and swept my left arm out and around his extended right knee.

The crowd breathed, “Ahhh.”

He improvised quickly, encircling my left triceps with his right hand and thrusting his free hand at my face, the fingers forward, going for my eyes. I tightened the grip on his knee and took a drop-step forward with my left leg, levering him down toward the floor. He hopped backward on his left leg to try to recover his balance and I popped a sharp right uppercut into his exposed balls.

He grunted and tried to pull away. I took a long step forward with my right leg, ducking under his left arm and simultaneously releasing his knee. I swept behind him, clasped my hands around his waist, dropped my hips, and arched sharply backward. Adonis arced over me like the last car on a roller coaster, his arms and legs splayed at demented angles. His neck and shoulders took the impact and his legs rocketed over his head to the floor from the momentum the throw had generated.

Had I elected to release my grip around his waist, he would have done a complete somersault. I maintained the grip instead, and his feet flopped back to the floor, putting him on his back. I grabbed his face with my left hand and used it to simultaneously shove his head back and scramble from behind him. I rose up on my right knee, tensed my hips, and smashed down on his exposed throat with my right forearm, getting my weight behind the blow. I felt the crunch of systemic breakage-the thyroid and cricoid cartilage, probably the spinous process, as well. His hands flew to his throat and his body convulsed.

I stood up and stepped away from him. The crowd was now silent.

I saw his neck beginning to swell from a hematoma induced by the fractures. His legs kicked and scrabbled and he rolled from side to side. His face blued and contorted above his frantic fingers. Nobody made any move to help him. Not that they could have. After a few seconds his body started to shudder in odd spasms, as though he was being shocked. A few seconds after that, the shuddering stopped.

Someone cried out, “Yatta!” I won!, and the room reverberated with a chorus of cheers. The crowd converged on me. People slapped my back and grabbed my hands to shake them. I was uncomfortably aware that one of Adonis’s friends might use the moment to try to put a knife in me, but there was nothing I could do.

I heard Washio’s voice: “Hora, sagatte, sagatte. Ikisasete yare!” C’mon now, c’mon now, let him breathe! He and a few of the bouncers moved close to me and started to push the crowd back.

Someone handed me a towel and I wiped my face. The crowd eased away. I looked around and saw stacks of ten-thousand-yen notes changing hands.

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.

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.