Malcolm had heard of this sort of place before. The Japanese name for it loosely translated to “sexual harassment club.” The women were paid “actresses”; the male customers were usually mid- level managers looking for something a little different from the ubiquitous brothels and hostess bars. The decor of these places was as varied as the perverse imaginations of their clientele: underground spaces made up to look like subway cars, corporate offices, hospital hallways, even high schools. The men paid a fee for entry, then were allowed to do whatever the hell they wanted. Malcolm felt his cheeks redden as he watched one of the men re- moving the skirt of one of the high-school girls. A second man was on his knees in front of her, running his hands up beneath her shirt. Malcolm’s insides were churning, a mixture of disgust and, despite his revulsion, excitement. That was how it was in Japan, a near- constant state of conflict. He knew that for the Japanese men in this place there was no conflict. What went on below the waist had no bearing on morality. To the Japanese, sex was a bodily need, no different from breathing or eating. But Malcolm was a twenty-six-year-old kid from New Jersey. He’d arrived in Japan when he was twenty-two, and he still felt like a stranger in a sexually driven culture he wasn’t equipped to under- stand. “Irashai,” the mama-san said, giving his hand a pull. Come with me. Malcolm let her lead him through the faux subway car and the smell of perfume and sweat and sex, pushing between the swaying women and the groping men. He had made it almost to the other side of the room before he realized that the ?oor was indeed moving. A second stairway led down into a smaller room, this one deco- rated more lavishly if less imaginatively. The walls were covered in red velvet curtains; the doors were hardwood. There was a marble bar on one side, a large TV on the other. Four round bar tables were spread out across the space, all occupied. It was too dark to recognize anyone, so Malcolm let the woman lead him to the table farthest from the stairs. Two men were seated next to each other, one tall and white, the other short and Japanese. “So this is Dean Carney’s wonder boy.” The taller man rose out of his chair, a wide smile on his face. His eyes were bright beneath a mop of curly blond hair. His teeth were even brighter, too big and too white for this dark place beneath Kabuki-cho. He was wearing an expensive tailored shirt, open many buttons down the front, revealing a pasty, rail-thin chest. His words moved fast, his voice high-pitched and tinged with a light English ac- cent. “Tim Halloway,” he said, grabbing Malcolm’s hand. “This is Mr. Hajimoto. He represents one of our biggest clients. He’s the one who told me about this place. Real sick, isn’t it? I just love it.” The Japanese man had a nervous smile on his face. His suit poorly and was a grim shade of blue. His tie was cinched tight enough to cut off the circulation to his face. His cheeks were bright red, not surprising since there were four empty shot glasses on the table in front of him. Malcolm took the empty chair across from them and turned back to Halloway. He had never met the man before, but he had certainly heard the stories. A derivatives trader, Halloway had graduated from Oxford and had a business degree from the London School of Eco-nomics. He had been in Tokyo for twelve years and was probably worth more than ten million dollars. At thirty-six, he had five girl- friends, all of whom were under twenty-three. And he was most likely addicted to methamphetamine. He was also one of the best traders in Asia, and his name elicited a fair level of awe in the expat financial community. “I was just telling Hajimoto-san about a transactional decision I made the other day,” Halloway continued, his spindly fingers caress ing a highball glass full of reddish brown liquid. “Partner of mine, Brandon Lister, good chap, helped me hit a fairly large position hav-ing to do with the yen. Maybe four million profit, in by tea, out by dinner, one of those deals.” Malcolm found Halloway’s conversational style a bit hard to fol- low; the words ran together and there didn’t seem to be obvious breaks for punctuation. “So we decided to celebrate,” Halloway sped on, tapping his other hand against the table. “Rented out a hotel room in Roppongi, the ambassador suite at the Royal. You know, the one with the gold- plated sinks.” Malcolm nodded. Despite his best efforts, his gaze drifted past Halloway to the nearest table. More businessmen like Hajimoto, all at varying levels of inebriation. Halloway continued, his voice rising as his accent seemed to deepen. “I called an agency I’d heard about from one of my colleagues. Best around, he’d told me. I ordered up two girls. Asked that they be tall and thin and friendly, if you know what I mean.”
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