She spun and faced me, one hand on her wounded posterior. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared with shock and anger. In my peripheral vision, I saw her weight shift to her back leg, and thought she was going to try for a ball shot with her forward foot. Instead, she stepped back. Her arms slipped to her sides and she drew up her shoulders and chin, the picture of suppressed regal rage. She looked at me. "Mo owari, okyakusama?" she asked, as contemptuously as she could. Are we finished, honorable customer? "Was that against the rules?" I asked, smiling into her eyes. She pulled up the dress and slipped her arms through the straps. Her face was still red with anger, and I couldn't help admiring her composure in controlling it. She managed the zipper without assistance, then said, "That was three songs, so thirty thousand yen. And you should tip the doorman ten percent. Ken?" Ken must have been the Nigerian, because a second later the semicircular sofa was pulled aside and there he was. I took out my billfold and paid each of them. "Thank you," I said to Naomi. I beamed like a well-satisfied customer. "That was… special." She smiled back in a way that made me glad she didn't have a weapon. "Kochira koso," she replied. The pleasure was mine. She escorted me back to my seat.
( Barry Eisler )
[ A Lonely Resurrection ]
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