Free A Lonely Resurrection by Barry Eisler Page A

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 the appearance was ersatz. The hair was dyed; the tan courtesy of a sun lamp; 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 flimsy 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 simply 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 English was lightly accented with something warm, maybe Spanish or Portuguese.
    “Please,” I said, standing and pulling back a chair for her. “Is English all right?”
    “Of course,” she said, looking at me closely. “You. . . 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,