Free Rain Fall by Barry Eisler Page B

around the store. I gave the briefcase a last once-over, then set it down on its shelf and looked up. She was still watching me, her head cocked slightly to the right.
    I blinked once, as though in surprise, and approached her. “Kawamura-san,” I said in Japanese. “This is a nice surprise. I just saw you at Club Alfie last Friday. You were tremendous.”
    She evaluated me silently for a long moment before responding, and I was glad my gamble had worked. I sensed that this intelligent woman would be cynical about coincidences, and might have suspected, had I come in after her, that she had been followed.
    “Yes, I remember,” she said finally. “You’re the one who thinks jazz is like sex.” Before I could come upwith a suitable response, she continued: “You didn’t have to say that, you know. You could try to be more forgiving.”
    For the first time, I was in a position to notice her body. She was slender and long limbed, perhaps a legacy from her father, whose height had made him easy to follow down Dogenzaka. Her shoulders were broad, a lovely counterpart to a long and graceful neck. Her breasts were small, and, I couldn’t help but notice, shapely beneath her sweater. The skin on the exposed portion of her chest was beautiful: smooth and white, framed by the contrast of the black V-neck.
    I looked into her dark eyes, and felt my usual urge to spar dissipate. “You’re right,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”
    She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. “You enjoyed the performance?”
    “Immensely. I have your CD, and have been meaning to catch you and your trio for the longest time. I travel a lot, though, and this was my first chance.”
    “Where do you travel?”
    “Mostly America and Europe. I’m a consultant,” I said in a tone indicating that my work would be a boring topic for me. “Nothing as exciting as being a jazz pianist.”
    She smiled. “You think being a jazz pianist is exciting?”
    She had a natural interrogator’s habit of reflecting back the last thing the other party had said, encouraging the speaker to share more. It doesn’t work with me. “Well, let me put it this way,” I said. “I can’t remember someone ever suggesting to me that consulting is like sex.”
    She threw back her head and laughed then, not bothering to cover her open mouth with her hand in the typical Japanese woman’s unnecessarily dainty gesture, and again I was struck by the unusual confidence with which she carried herself.
    “That’s good,” she said after a moment, folding her arms across her chest and conceding a small, lingering smile.
    I smiled back. “What’s today? A bit of shopping?”
    “A bit. And you?”
    “The same. It’s past time for a new briefcase. We consultants have to maintain appearances, you know.” I glanced down at the shopping bag she was carrying. “I see you’re a fan of Paul Stuart. That was going to be my next stop.”
    “It’s a good store. I know it from New York, and was glad when they opened a Tokyo branch.”
    I raised my eyebrows slightly. “Have you spent much time in New York?”
    “Some,” she said with a faint smile, looking into my eyes.
    Damn, she’s tough, I thought. Challenge her. “How’s your English?” I asked, switching from Japanese.
    “I get by,” she said, without missing a beat.
    “You want to get a cup of cawfee?” I asked, staying with English and using my best Brooklyn accent.
    She smiled again. “That’s pretty authentic.”
    “So is the suggestion.”
    “I thought you were going to Paul Stuart.”
    “I was. But now I’m thirsty. Do you know the Tsuta coffeehouse? It’s great. And right around the corner, just off Koto-dori.”
    Her arms were still folded across her chest. “I don’t know it.”
    “Then you’ve got to try it. Koyama-san serves the best coffee in Tokyo, and you can drink it listening to Bach or Chopin, looking out onto a wonderful secret garden.”
    “A secret garden?” she asked, playing