“You don’t like her.”

She glanced at me, then away. “She can be as scary as he is.”

“You said she’s comfortable doing things that you’re not.”

“Yes.”

“Something to do with those listening devices?”

She upended her drink and finished it. Then she said, “I don’t know for certain that there are listening devices, but I think there are. We get a lot of prominent customers-politicians, bureaucrats, businessmen. The people who own the club encourage the girls to talk to them, to elicit information. All the girls think the conversations are taped. And there are rumors that certain customers even get videotaped in the lap dance rooms.”

I was gaining her confidence. And the way she was talking now, I knew I could get more. A gambler will agonize for hours over whether to put his chips on, say, the red or the black, and then, when the croupier spins the wheel, he’ll double or even triple the bet, as a way of bolstering his conviction that he must have been betting right. If he were betting wrong, why would he be putting all that extra money down?

I pointed to her glass. “Another?”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

I finished mine and ordered two more. The walls flickered in the candlelight. The room felt close and warm, like an underground sanctuary.

The waiter brought the drinks. After he had moved silently away, I looked at her and said, “You’re not involved in any of this?”

She looked into her glass. Several seconds went by.

“You want an honest answer, or a really honest answer?” she asked.

“Give me both.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “The honest answer is, no.”

She took a sip of the Highland Park. Closed her eyes.

“The really honest answer is… is…”

“Is, ‘not yet,” ’ I said quietly.

Her eyes opened and she looked at me. “How do you know?”

I watched her for a moment, feeling her distress, seeing an opportunity.

“You’re being suborned,” I said. “It’s a process, a series of techniques. If you even half-realize it, you’re smarter than most. You’ve also got a chance to do something about it, if you want to.”

“What do you mean?”

I sipped from my glass, watching the amber liquid glowing in the candlelight, remembering. “You start slow. You find the subject’s limits and get him to spend some time there. He gets used to it. Before long, the limits have moved. You never take him more than a centimeter beyond. You make it feel like it’s his choice.”

I looked at her. “You told me when you first got to the club you were so shy you could hardly move on the stage.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“At that point you would never have done a lap dance.”

“No.”

“But now you can.”

“Yes.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

“When you did your first lap dance, you probably said you would never let a customer touch you.”

“I did say that,” she said. Her voice had gone lower.

“Of course you did. I could go on. I could tell you where you’ll be three months from now, six months, a year. Twenty years, if you keep going where you’re going. Naomi, you think this is all an accident? It’s a science. There are people out there who are experts at getting others to do tomorrow what was unthinkable today.”

But for her breath, moving rapidly in and out through her nostrils, she was silent, and I wondered if she was fighting tears.

I needed to push it just a little further before backing off. “You want to know what’s next for you?” I asked.

She looked at me but said nothing.

“You know that Damask Rose girls are being used to blackmail politicians, or something like that. The other girls whisper about it, but that’s not all. You’ve been approached, right? It was an oblique approach, but it was there. Something like, ‘There’s a special customer who we think would like you. We’d like you to go out with him and show him a really good time. If he’s satisfied afterward, we’ll pay you X.’ Maybe they had a suite at a hotel where they wanted you to take him. They’d bug him there, videotape him. You refused, I guess. But there was no pressure. Why would there be? They know you’ll get worn down just from the exposure.”

“You’re wrong!” she said suddenly, jabbing a finger in my face.

I looked at her. “If I were wrong, you wouldn’t react that way.”

She watched me, her eyes hurt and angry, her lips twisting together as though trying to find words.

That was enough. Time to see if my words had the desired effect.

“Hey,” I said softly, but she didn’t look up. “Hey.” I put my hand over hers. “I’m sorry.” I squeezed her fingers briefly, then withdrew my hand.

She raised her head and looked at me. “You think I’m a prostitute. Or that I’m going to become one.”

“I don’t think that,” I said, shaking my head.

“How do you know all this?”

Time for an honest, but safely vague, response. “A long time ago, and in a different context, I went through what you’re in the middle of.”

“What do you mean?”

For a moment I pictured Crazy Jake. I shook my head to show her it wasn’t something I was willing to talk about.

We were quiet for a few moments. Then she said, “You were right. I wouldn’t have reacted so sharply if what you were saying were untrue. These are things I’ve been thinking about a lot, and I haven’t been as honest with myself as you just were.” She reached out and took my hand. She squeezed it hard. “Thank you.”

I felt an odd confluence of emotions: satisfaction that my manipulation was working; sympathy because of what she was struggling with; self-reproach for taking advantage of her naïveté.

And beneath it all I was still attracted to her. I was uncomfortably aware of the touch of her hand.

“Don’t thank me,” I said, not looking at her. I didn’t squeeze back. After a moment she withdrew her hand.

“Are you really just trying to help a friend?” I heard her ask.

“Yes.”

“I would help you if I could. But I don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you.”

I nodded, thinking of the Agency and Yamaoto, wondering about the connection. “Let me ask you something,” I said. “How many Caucasians do you see at the club?”

She shrugged. “A fair number. Maybe ten, twenty percent of the customers. Why?”

“Have you ever seen Murakami spending time with them?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“How about Yukiko?”

“Not really. Her English is pretty bad.”

Inconclusive. She didn’t know anything. I was starting to doubt that she’d be of much help after all.

I looked at my watch. It was almost five. The sun would be coming up soon.

“We should get going,” I said.

She nodded. I paid the bill and we left.

Outside it was damp but not raining. The lamplights on Roppongi-dori created glowing cones of slowly swirling mist. It was as late as it could get without getting early, and the street was momentarily silent.

“Walk me home?” she asked, looking at me.

I nodded. “Sure.”

Halfway through the twenty-minute walk it started raining again.

“Droga!” she swore in Portuguese. “I left the umbrella at Tantra.”

“Shoganai,” I said, turning up the collar of my blazer. What can you do.

We walked faster. It started to rain harder. I brushed my fingers through my hair and felt rivulets trickling down the back of my neck.

With about a half-kilometer to go, a huge crack of thunder rang out and it really started pouring.

“Que merda!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “We’re doomed!”

We ran for it, but to no real avail. We got to her apartment and ducked under the overhang in front of the rear entranceway. “Meu deus,” she said, laughing, “I haven’t gotten drenched like that in forever!” She unbuttoned her dripping coat, then looked at me and smiled. “Once you’re already wet, it’s actually kind of nice.”

Wisps of vapor were rising off her damp dress. “You’re steaming,” I observed.