“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m just asking, that’s all.”

She looked around again. She had good danger instincts. Most people, perceiving a threat, give it their full focus. That makes them easy prey if the “threat” was just a feint and the real ambush comes from the flank.

“How do you know where I live?” she asked.

“I looked it up on the Internet.”

“Really? You think with this kind of job I’d just list my address?”

I shrugged. “You gave me your e-mail address. With a little information to start with, you’d be surprised what you can find out.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a stalker?”

I shook my head. “No.”

It was starting to rain harder. I realized that, some physical discomfort aside, the weather hadn’t been such bad luck. She was dry and poised under her umbrella; I was wet and almost shivering. The contrast would help her feel more in control.

“Am I in trouble?” she asked.

That surprised me. “What kind of trouble?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not involved with anything, I’m just a dancer, okay?”

I didn’t know where she was going, but I didn’t want to stop her. “You’re not involved?” I parroted.

“I’m not involved! And I don’t want to be. I mind my own business.”

“You’re not in trouble, at least not with me. I really just want to talk with you.”

“Give me one good reason why.”

“Because you trust me.”

Her expression was caught between amused and incredulous. “I trust you?”

I nodded. “You warned me about the listening devices in the club.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Jesus Christ, I knew I was going to regret that.”

“But you knew you would regret it more if you had said nothing.”

She was shaking her head slowly, deliberately. I knew what she was thinking: I do this guy a favor, now I can’t get rid of him. And he’s trouble, trouble I don’t want.

I pushed dripping hair back from my forehead. “Can we go someplace?”

She looked left, then right. The street was empty.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s get a taxi. I know a place that’s open late. We can talk there.”

We found a cab. I got in first and she slid in behind me. She told the driver to take us to 3-3-5 Shibuya-ku, south side of Roppongi-dori. I smiled.

“Tantra?” I asked.

She looked at me, perhaps a little nonplussed. “You know it?”

“It’s been around for a long time. Good place.”

“I didn’t think you’d know it. You’re a little… older.”

I laughed. If she’d been trying to get a rise out of me, she had missed the mark. I’m never going to be sensitive about my age. Most of the people I knew when I was younger are already dead. That I’m still breathing is actually a point of pride.

“Tantra is like sex,” I told her, smiling a little indulgently. “Every generation thinks it’s the one that discovered it.”

She looked away and we drove in silence. I would have preferred to have the cab take us someplace within walking distance rather than to the actual address, per my usual practice. Given the overall circumstances of the evening, though, I judged the likelihood of a problem stemming from Naomi’s lack of security consciousness to be manageably low.

A few minutes later we pulled up in front of a nondescript office building. I paid the driver and we got out. The rain had stopped but the street was empty, almost forlorn. If I hadn’t known where we were, I would have thought it an odd place to get out of a cab in the middle of the night.

Behind us, a dimly lit “T” glowed softly above a basement stairwell, the only external sign of Tantra’s existence. We moved down the steps, through a pair of imposing metal doors, and into a candlelit foyer that led like a short tunnel to the seating area beyond.

A waiter appeared and asked us in a hushed tone whether it would be just the two of us. Naomi told him it would, and he escorted us inside.

The walls were brown cement, the ceiling black. There were a few spotlights, but most of the illumination came from candles on tables and in the corners of the lacquered cement floor. In alcoves here and there were statues depicting scenes from the Kama Sutra. Around us were a half-dozen small groups of people, all sitting on floor cushions or low chairs. The room hummed with murmured conversation and quiet laughter. Some sort of light, Arabic-sounding techno music issued softly from invisible speakers.

There were two additional rooms at the back, I knew, both partially concealed by heavy purple curtains. I asked the waiter whether either was available and he gestured to the one on the right. I looked at Naomi and she nodded.

We moved past the curtains into a room that was more like a small cave or opium den. The ceiling was low and candles played flickering shadows on the walls. We sat on the floor cushions in the corner, at ninety degrees to each other. The waiter handed us a menu and departed without a word.

“You hungry?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Me, too.” I rubbed my wet shoulders. “And cold.”

The waiter returned. We ordered hot tea, their signature Ayu chips, and spring rolls. Naomi chose a twelve-year-old Highland Park and I followed suit.

“How do you know about this place really?” Naomi asked when the waiter had departed.

“I told you, it’s been around forever. Ten years, maybe more.”

“So you live in Tokyo.”

I paused. Then: “I did. Until recently.”

“What brings you back?”

“I have a friend. He’s in some kind of trouble with people from your club and doesn’t even know it.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Why did you tell me that bullshit about being an accountant?”

I shrugged. “I was looking for information. I didn’t see the need to tell you very much.”

We were quiet for a few minutes. The waiter came by with the food and drinks. I went for the tea first. It warmed me considerably. The Highland Park was even better.

“I needed that,” I said, leaning back against the wall, heat radiating from my gut.

She picked up a spring roll. “Have you really been to Brazil?” she asked.

“Yes.” It was a lie, but perhaps the moral equivalent of the truth. I couldn’t very well tell her that I was learning all I could about the country in preparation for a first and permanent trip there.

She took a bite of the spring roll and chewed it, her head cocked slightly to the side as though in consideration of something. “Tonight, when I saw who you were with, I was thinking that maybe you learned a few lines of Portuguese just to get me to open up. That I was in some kind of trouble.”

“No.”

“So you weren’t trying to meet me in particular.”

“You were dancing when I came in that night, so I asked about you. It was just a coincidence.”

“If you’re not an American accountant, who are you?”

“I’m someone who… performs services for people from time to time. Those services put me in touch with a lot of different players in the society. Cops and yakuza. Politicians. Sometimes people on the fringe.”

“You have that on your business card?”

I smiled. “I tried it. The print was too small to read.”

“You’re what, a private detective?”

“In a way.”

She looked at me. “Who are you working for now?”

“I told you, right now I’m just trying to help a friend.”

“Forgive me, but that sounds like bullshit.”

I nodded. “I can see where it would.”

“You looked pretty comfortable with Murakami tonight.”

“Did that bother you?”

“He scares me.”

“He should.”

She picked up her Highland Park and leaned back against the wall. “I’ve heard some bad stories about him.”

“They’re probably true.”

“Everyone’s afraid of him. Except for Yukiko.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know. She has some kind of power over him. No one else does.”