windar
Teller of Tales
Chapter 8. Tuesday, June 26. 19:40. Room 4214 of the Park Hyatt Hotel, Shinjuku District, Tokyo
Stan stared out the window at Tokyo spread out below him. Although, all things considered, he enjoyed living in the woods, there were times when he missed the city. Not that he’d ever had a view like this in any of the apartments he’d lived in in New York. Not on a cop’s salary, that’s for sure.
Check in had gone very smoothly. It damned well should have, seeing as how it was costing north of $ 1,000/night. The irony of people attending a conference focused on sex slaves toiling in a brothel in some shithole country staying in such luxury didn’t escape him.
The desk clerk, a very attractive woman, a year or two either side of thirty had greeted him with a warm smile. The brass plate with the Hyatt logo on her left breast said her name was Tamiko. She had taken his passport, typed something on the keyboard in front of her and glanced quickly at the screen. “Welcome to Tokyo and to the Park Hyatt, Mr. Goldman. I hope you had a pleasant flight,” she had purred.
“I did,” he replied. “And may I complement you on your excellent English,” he had added, smiling back at her. It was flawless and unaccented.
“It should be good,” she had replied. “I grew up in Canada, outside Toronto.”
“Oh,” Stan had said. “How did you end up there, if I may ask?”
“My father works for Honda and was sent to Canada to help run one of their factories there. I stayed on after my parents came back to Japan and went to the University of Toronto.”
“That’s great!” Stan had replied. “I went to Niagara Falls once.” He had taken the family there on vacation many years ago.
“The falls are very impressive,” Tamiko had replied. “So much water,” she had said, giggling very fetchingly. “You really must check out our swimming pool. Not as much water as Niagara, but some beautiful views of the city. I’m not sure it’s clear enough today to see Mount Fuji, but who knows? It’s on the 47th floor.”
“Thank you,” Stan had replied, “I will do that.”
“No hurry,” she had said. “I have you staying with us for five nights, until July 1, is that correct, Mr. Goldman?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he had replied. “I’m very much looking forward to it,” he had added. And he had thought that he wouldn’t mind spending a night or two of those with Tamiko, not that there was much chance of that happening.
She had handed him an envelope with two plastic key cards. “We have you in room 4214. I hope that will be acceptable.”
‘The Japanese were so polite,’ he had thought. “That will be fine,” he had replied, taking the envelope from her. “It was very nice to talk with you,” he had added, quite truthfully.
“Enjoy your stay with us,” Tamiko had replied.
In the room, Stan had taken a nice long shower in the very elegantly appointed bathroom, the hot water washing away the flight fatigue. Dressed in a polo shirt and a pair of khakis, his plan was to sit in the ground floor lobby of the tower and hope that the women he was being paid to keep an eye on were going out that evening, in which case he would follow them, hopefully discretely enough not to be noticed.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after 7 PM local time, too early for them to be departing for a night on the town. ‘Why not take Tamiko’s suggestion and check out the pool?’ he thought, leaving his room and heading for the elevator.
When the doors opened on the 47th, the sight was just as dramatic as Tamiko had promised. The space was large and high-ceilinged, as it occupied both the 47th and 48th floor. The sides were glassed in to afford a superb view of the Tokyo skyline, with the port of Yokohama and Tokyo Bay on one side and the rest of the urban area spread out on all sides.
Stan walked over to the side facing away from the ocean. Tamiko had been right that it was a bit too hazy to make out Mt. Fuji, though if one squinted hard in the direction where it was supposed to be, one might imagine that one could make out the outlines of the dormant volcano.
Much of the rest of the space was occupied by the pool. It was almost Olympic length, 20 m, but narrow, with a few lanes demarcated by black floor tiles. It was clearly designed for serious swimmers, bent on doing laps to stay fit in between business meetings, not for partiers to splash around in aimlessly.
At the moment, there were two people swimming laps. One was a man with black hair, probably Japanese, or possibly Chinese or Korean. The other was a woman whose blond hair trailed behind her as she cut through the water. Stan assumed she was a Westerner, although he knew that some Japanese died their hair blond.
He admired her form, both her body in the backless, off the shoulder white swimsuit that she wore and her swimming prowess. As she approached the end of the pool, she executed a somersault that left her perfectly positioned to push off for the return lap.
With her head in the water, Stan couldn’t make out the woman’s face. Soon, though, she clutched the far end of the pool, obviously having completed her target number of laps, and hoisted her body out of the water. She picked up a towel from a poolside table and vigorously toweled off her hair and upper body, then slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops.
Then, she began walking towards Stan, heading for the elevator behind him. As she approached, he looked her up and down. She was well-built, athletic, with nice legs and well-formed breasts.
Tearing his eyes away from her body, Stan saw her face. His years on the force had trained him to recognize a face from a wanted poster or missing persons notice. Despite her disheveled blond hair, he could see that it was her-the twenty something Swedish intern, Annika Sjöberg.
He quickly looked away, not wanting to arouse suspicion. She passed him and he followed her sweet little ass until she disappeared into the elevator. ‘Easy, big boy,’ he told himself. ‘You’re here to do a job, not fool around with the intern’. Still it had been almost a week since Barb had left him and a man could dream, couldn’t he?
Shaking his head, Stan headed for the elevator and descended to the hotel lobby. He figured the women would take a half hour or more to make themselves beautiful for a night out, assuming they were planning one. In the meantime, he had nothing but time right now.
He saw that Tamiko was still at her post behind the desk. No one was checking in or out and she looked a bit bored, staring at her computer screen. She looked up as Stan approached.
“Good evening, Mr. Goldman,” she said, smiling warmly.
“Please call me Stan,” he replied. “And thanks for the tip about the pool. It’s really beautiful, just as you said. Too bad I didn’t think to bring a swimsuit. I don’t suppose anyone wants an ugly old dude like me skinny dipping.”
Tamiko laughed and blushed a bit. “I’m sure you’re not so bad looking, but the rules don’t allow that. The gift shop will have some swim suits, I think, and there are some stores nearby that will be open in the morning.”
“I will have a look,” he replied. “Listen, I wonder if you could help me out with a little problem.”
Tamiko looked serious now. “Of course, anything I can do.”
“I’m meeting some people and I don’t want to make them come all the way up here, so I told them to meet me in the main atrium lobby of the building on the ground floor.” Stan suspected that Annika, Gun and Barb would ride the elevator straight down to the street level if they were going out.
“There should be some tables to sit at there.”
“Yes, I saw them when I came in. The problem is that I’m a bit hungry. Not starving-they fed us well on the plane-but I wouldn’t mind something light and maybe a drink.”
“Well, there are a number of restaurants in the hotel-French, Japanese, even ‘The New York Grill’”.
“Imagine travelling all the way from New York to eat at ‘The New York Grill’ in Tokyo,” he said.
Tamiko giggled very fetchingly. “Yes, what a strange world we live in, Mr. Goldman, I mean, Stan. It’s quite famous-it was in the movie ‘Lost in Translation’ with Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. I don’t know if you saw it.”
“That’s very interesting!” Stan replied. “I didn’t see it, but I remember reading about it.”
Tamiko smiled, “I think I can help you. If you tell me what you want, I can have a waiter bring it to you down there in the lobby.”
“Really? You’re sure that won’t be too much trouble?” Stan said. He knew that one couldn’t go wrong being over-polite in Japan.
“Not at all. It’s no different than room service,” Tamiko replied. She reached under her counter and handed him some photocopied menus.
“I suppose that’s so,” Stan replied. He looked over the menu for ‘The New York Grill’. ¥ 11,800 for a New York Strip steak. That was $ 120! And the chef was an Aussie who’d worked in Europe; no mention of his ever having worked in New York.
Anyway, he wasn’t that hungry. He selected the crab cake appetizer for the bargain price of ¥ 4,290.
“And what would you like to drink?” Tamiko asked.
Stan had read that Japanese whisky was excellent, even preferred by some connoisseurs to Scotch, though he’d never tried it. ‘What better place than right here?’ he thought to himself.
“A Japanese whisky with two cubes of ice,” he said. He could only imagine how much they would charge for that, but the Swedes were paying, so why not indulge? “Is there any particular one that you’d recommend?”
Tamiko shook her head. “I’m not really a whisky drinker,” she replied. “I prefer wine, like a nice Riesling.”
Stan blanched at that.
“Is everything OK?” Tamiko asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. There is someone whom I have been very close to, a woman, and that is her favorite, too.”
“I see, memories,” Tamiko said. “Like that song from Barbra Streisand.” Stan nodded. “I will ask the bartender to choose a good whisky for poor, sad Stan,” she replied, smiling her warmest smile yet. “Now you go down to the lobby and the waiter will be down soon.”
Stan descended to the ground floor and installed himself at a table facing the elevators, but hidden by a large potted palm.
Just as promised, about 15 minutes later, a waiter, dressed in a white dinner jacket and black pants, came out of one of the elevators carrying a tray. Stan waved him over.
The waiter set down a small plate with two crab cakes and a highball glass filled about one third of the way up, with an amber liquid and two cubes of ice, exactly as ordered. Stan signed the slip without even glancing at the total.
He took a sip. He didn’t have the finely developed taste buds to say whether it was better than the various scotches he had drunk, but he had to admit it was very smooth. The crab cakes were good as well.
Then he sat back and waited. He had done his share of stakeouts during his career, but this was definitely the most luxurious one.
Keeping one eye on the elevators, he took out his phone and began scanning his emails and texts, hoping for word from Barb, but, of course, there was none. Mostly spam, except for an invitation from a neighbor to their July 4 barbeque. He figured he would be back home by then, with a fatter bank account and hopefully with everyone safe and sound, so he accepted for himself, letting them know that Barb wouldn’t be able to make it. No need to go into details here and now.
Every so often, an elevator would open. There were Japanese sararimen descending from one or another office on the lower floors of the tower. From the hotel floors, he saw a few couples, both Japanese and Western and some academics who were attending the sex trafficking conference or, perhaps, some other conference taking place in this vast city heading out for the evening. There was a group of Middle Eastern men, most in sport coats, but two in long robes and headdresses. But no sign of the women he had been hired to protect.
The waiter came by, collected Stan’s empty glass and plate and asked if he wanted anything else. Stan was about to order another whisky when one of the elevators opened and there they were! Annika looked even more fetching in a dark miniskirt, white heels and gauzy semi-sheet white blouse than she had in her bathing suit. Beside her was Gun, Stan’s fellow police officer, in a gray skirt, black heels and off-the-shoulders peasant top. And beside her, causing Stan’s heart to jump in his chest was Professor Barbara Moore, wearing a little black dress and silver heels.
He waved the waiter off and hid his face in his phone, pretending to be busily texting as they passed, chattering away in a language that Stan couldn’t make out a word of, obviously Swedish. The bio Björklund had sent him had said that the Moore woman spoke Swedish almost like a native. Stan couldn’t vouch for that, but it certainly seemed that way.
They turned right as they exited the building. He waited a few moments, stood, and followed them out into the street, keeping a discrete distance. It was a pleasant early summer evening and they were happily strolling along, absorbed in each other, not glancing behind them.
Stan, following the habits acquired over his long career, varied his pace, deliberately looking up at the impressive buildings like an eager tourist. Every so often, he ducked into one of them for a moment, then walked quickly to make sure he didn’t lose them.
They continued on for thirty minutes or so, a distance of perhaps a bit over a mile. The office towers and elegant designer shops and restaurants gave way to a seedier mix of strip clubs and similar establishments. Stan surmised that they had entered the infamous Kabukichō red light district. It reminded him of the area around Times Square back when he was just coming of age, before it became the mix of theme park and upscale suburban mall that it was today.
‘What are an academic, a cop and an aspiring cop doing here?’ he wondered, watching the three women make their way through the crowded streets and alleyways, fending off the advances of loitering men. Barbara seemed to be leading them; ‘Was she planning to write some dry academic paper on the sex dens of Tokyo?’ he wondered.
He himself was struggling to keep close enough not to lose them in the crowd, as women, many wearing hot pants and halter tops called to him, even reaching out to take his arm. “You want good time, mister? Come with me!” one woman-at least Stan hoped she was a woman-called, trying to steer him towards the door of one of the clubs that lined that street.
Shaking his head he pushed her away, keeping his eyes fixed on his quarry. The three women appeared to stop now, beset upon by several rather rough looking men in front of a large building whose garish neon sign proclaimed it to be, in English, “The Red Dragon Torture Dungeon Place”.
To Stan’s great surprise, the women followed the men inside. As he stood there, muttering to himself, ‘What the…?’ he found himself surrounded by four very attractive women, two of whom were Western, one of whom appeared to be Indian or perhaps Thai and one who seemed to be Japanese, or possibly Korean.
One of the Western women, a blond with rather large breasts that she rubbed insistently against his arm cooed at him in an accent that sounded Russian or some other Eastern European origin, “You come inside, handsome man. You will enjoy very much. We take good care of you.”
“This is the best club in all of Kabukichō,” the Indian one said, taking his arm.
“What exactly is this place?” he asked.
“Come and find out. You will never forget this night.”
He smiled at her.
“I’m Anjali,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Stan,” he replied.
“This is Tatiana,” she said, indicating the large-breasted blond, “And this is Alice,” she continued, indicating the other European girl, a more slightly built brunette.
“I’m Yuki,” the fourth girl said. “Now you come.”
Stan would have had a hard time resisting four such attractive women promising him a garden of earthly delight at the best of times. In this case, he was on a mission, being paid handsomely to keep watch over his three charges, who had disappeared inside. ‘This is what they call a no brainer,’ he thought as he let them lead him to the door, which was guarded by an imposing, shaven-headed bouncer.
“¥ 10,000,” the bouncer demanded.
Stan did a quick calculation; that was around $ 100. He took out his wallet and found the appropriate bill. He handed it the bouncer and followed the women inside.
Stan stared out the window at Tokyo spread out below him. Although, all things considered, he enjoyed living in the woods, there were times when he missed the city. Not that he’d ever had a view like this in any of the apartments he’d lived in in New York. Not on a cop’s salary, that’s for sure.
Check in had gone very smoothly. It damned well should have, seeing as how it was costing north of $ 1,000/night. The irony of people attending a conference focused on sex slaves toiling in a brothel in some shithole country staying in such luxury didn’t escape him.
The desk clerk, a very attractive woman, a year or two either side of thirty had greeted him with a warm smile. The brass plate with the Hyatt logo on her left breast said her name was Tamiko. She had taken his passport, typed something on the keyboard in front of her and glanced quickly at the screen. “Welcome to Tokyo and to the Park Hyatt, Mr. Goldman. I hope you had a pleasant flight,” she had purred.
“I did,” he replied. “And may I complement you on your excellent English,” he had added, smiling back at her. It was flawless and unaccented.
“It should be good,” she had replied. “I grew up in Canada, outside Toronto.”
“Oh,” Stan had said. “How did you end up there, if I may ask?”
“My father works for Honda and was sent to Canada to help run one of their factories there. I stayed on after my parents came back to Japan and went to the University of Toronto.”
“That’s great!” Stan had replied. “I went to Niagara Falls once.” He had taken the family there on vacation many years ago.
“The falls are very impressive,” Tamiko had replied. “So much water,” she had said, giggling very fetchingly. “You really must check out our swimming pool. Not as much water as Niagara, but some beautiful views of the city. I’m not sure it’s clear enough today to see Mount Fuji, but who knows? It’s on the 47th floor.”
“Thank you,” Stan had replied, “I will do that.”
“No hurry,” she had said. “I have you staying with us for five nights, until July 1, is that correct, Mr. Goldman?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he had replied. “I’m very much looking forward to it,” he had added. And he had thought that he wouldn’t mind spending a night or two of those with Tamiko, not that there was much chance of that happening.
She had handed him an envelope with two plastic key cards. “We have you in room 4214. I hope that will be acceptable.”
‘The Japanese were so polite,’ he had thought. “That will be fine,” he had replied, taking the envelope from her. “It was very nice to talk with you,” he had added, quite truthfully.
“Enjoy your stay with us,” Tamiko had replied.
In the room, Stan had taken a nice long shower in the very elegantly appointed bathroom, the hot water washing away the flight fatigue. Dressed in a polo shirt and a pair of khakis, his plan was to sit in the ground floor lobby of the tower and hope that the women he was being paid to keep an eye on were going out that evening, in which case he would follow them, hopefully discretely enough not to be noticed.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after 7 PM local time, too early for them to be departing for a night on the town. ‘Why not take Tamiko’s suggestion and check out the pool?’ he thought, leaving his room and heading for the elevator.
When the doors opened on the 47th, the sight was just as dramatic as Tamiko had promised. The space was large and high-ceilinged, as it occupied both the 47th and 48th floor. The sides were glassed in to afford a superb view of the Tokyo skyline, with the port of Yokohama and Tokyo Bay on one side and the rest of the urban area spread out on all sides.
Stan walked over to the side facing away from the ocean. Tamiko had been right that it was a bit too hazy to make out Mt. Fuji, though if one squinted hard in the direction where it was supposed to be, one might imagine that one could make out the outlines of the dormant volcano.
Much of the rest of the space was occupied by the pool. It was almost Olympic length, 20 m, but narrow, with a few lanes demarcated by black floor tiles. It was clearly designed for serious swimmers, bent on doing laps to stay fit in between business meetings, not for partiers to splash around in aimlessly.
At the moment, there were two people swimming laps. One was a man with black hair, probably Japanese, or possibly Chinese or Korean. The other was a woman whose blond hair trailed behind her as she cut through the water. Stan assumed she was a Westerner, although he knew that some Japanese died their hair blond.
He admired her form, both her body in the backless, off the shoulder white swimsuit that she wore and her swimming prowess. As she approached the end of the pool, she executed a somersault that left her perfectly positioned to push off for the return lap.
With her head in the water, Stan couldn’t make out the woman’s face. Soon, though, she clutched the far end of the pool, obviously having completed her target number of laps, and hoisted her body out of the water. She picked up a towel from a poolside table and vigorously toweled off her hair and upper body, then slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops.
Then, she began walking towards Stan, heading for the elevator behind him. As she approached, he looked her up and down. She was well-built, athletic, with nice legs and well-formed breasts.
Tearing his eyes away from her body, Stan saw her face. His years on the force had trained him to recognize a face from a wanted poster or missing persons notice. Despite her disheveled blond hair, he could see that it was her-the twenty something Swedish intern, Annika Sjöberg.
He quickly looked away, not wanting to arouse suspicion. She passed him and he followed her sweet little ass until she disappeared into the elevator. ‘Easy, big boy,’ he told himself. ‘You’re here to do a job, not fool around with the intern’. Still it had been almost a week since Barb had left him and a man could dream, couldn’t he?
Shaking his head, Stan headed for the elevator and descended to the hotel lobby. He figured the women would take a half hour or more to make themselves beautiful for a night out, assuming they were planning one. In the meantime, he had nothing but time right now.
He saw that Tamiko was still at her post behind the desk. No one was checking in or out and she looked a bit bored, staring at her computer screen. She looked up as Stan approached.
“Good evening, Mr. Goldman,” she said, smiling warmly.
“Please call me Stan,” he replied. “And thanks for the tip about the pool. It’s really beautiful, just as you said. Too bad I didn’t think to bring a swimsuit. I don’t suppose anyone wants an ugly old dude like me skinny dipping.”
Tamiko laughed and blushed a bit. “I’m sure you’re not so bad looking, but the rules don’t allow that. The gift shop will have some swim suits, I think, and there are some stores nearby that will be open in the morning.”
“I will have a look,” he replied. “Listen, I wonder if you could help me out with a little problem.”
Tamiko looked serious now. “Of course, anything I can do.”
“I’m meeting some people and I don’t want to make them come all the way up here, so I told them to meet me in the main atrium lobby of the building on the ground floor.” Stan suspected that Annika, Gun and Barb would ride the elevator straight down to the street level if they were going out.
“There should be some tables to sit at there.”
“Yes, I saw them when I came in. The problem is that I’m a bit hungry. Not starving-they fed us well on the plane-but I wouldn’t mind something light and maybe a drink.”
“Well, there are a number of restaurants in the hotel-French, Japanese, even ‘The New York Grill’”.
“Imagine travelling all the way from New York to eat at ‘The New York Grill’ in Tokyo,” he said.
Tamiko giggled very fetchingly. “Yes, what a strange world we live in, Mr. Goldman, I mean, Stan. It’s quite famous-it was in the movie ‘Lost in Translation’ with Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. I don’t know if you saw it.”
“That’s very interesting!” Stan replied. “I didn’t see it, but I remember reading about it.”
Tamiko smiled, “I think I can help you. If you tell me what you want, I can have a waiter bring it to you down there in the lobby.”
“Really? You’re sure that won’t be too much trouble?” Stan said. He knew that one couldn’t go wrong being over-polite in Japan.
“Not at all. It’s no different than room service,” Tamiko replied. She reached under her counter and handed him some photocopied menus.
“I suppose that’s so,” Stan replied. He looked over the menu for ‘The New York Grill’. ¥ 11,800 for a New York Strip steak. That was $ 120! And the chef was an Aussie who’d worked in Europe; no mention of his ever having worked in New York.
Anyway, he wasn’t that hungry. He selected the crab cake appetizer for the bargain price of ¥ 4,290.
“And what would you like to drink?” Tamiko asked.
Stan had read that Japanese whisky was excellent, even preferred by some connoisseurs to Scotch, though he’d never tried it. ‘What better place than right here?’ he thought to himself.
“A Japanese whisky with two cubes of ice,” he said. He could only imagine how much they would charge for that, but the Swedes were paying, so why not indulge? “Is there any particular one that you’d recommend?”
Tamiko shook her head. “I’m not really a whisky drinker,” she replied. “I prefer wine, like a nice Riesling.”
Stan blanched at that.
“Is everything OK?” Tamiko asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. There is someone whom I have been very close to, a woman, and that is her favorite, too.”
“I see, memories,” Tamiko said. “Like that song from Barbra Streisand.” Stan nodded. “I will ask the bartender to choose a good whisky for poor, sad Stan,” she replied, smiling her warmest smile yet. “Now you go down to the lobby and the waiter will be down soon.”
Stan descended to the ground floor and installed himself at a table facing the elevators, but hidden by a large potted palm.
Just as promised, about 15 minutes later, a waiter, dressed in a white dinner jacket and black pants, came out of one of the elevators carrying a tray. Stan waved him over.
The waiter set down a small plate with two crab cakes and a highball glass filled about one third of the way up, with an amber liquid and two cubes of ice, exactly as ordered. Stan signed the slip without even glancing at the total.
He took a sip. He didn’t have the finely developed taste buds to say whether it was better than the various scotches he had drunk, but he had to admit it was very smooth. The crab cakes were good as well.
Then he sat back and waited. He had done his share of stakeouts during his career, but this was definitely the most luxurious one.
Keeping one eye on the elevators, he took out his phone and began scanning his emails and texts, hoping for word from Barb, but, of course, there was none. Mostly spam, except for an invitation from a neighbor to their July 4 barbeque. He figured he would be back home by then, with a fatter bank account and hopefully with everyone safe and sound, so he accepted for himself, letting them know that Barb wouldn’t be able to make it. No need to go into details here and now.
Every so often, an elevator would open. There were Japanese sararimen descending from one or another office on the lower floors of the tower. From the hotel floors, he saw a few couples, both Japanese and Western and some academics who were attending the sex trafficking conference or, perhaps, some other conference taking place in this vast city heading out for the evening. There was a group of Middle Eastern men, most in sport coats, but two in long robes and headdresses. But no sign of the women he had been hired to protect.
The waiter came by, collected Stan’s empty glass and plate and asked if he wanted anything else. Stan was about to order another whisky when one of the elevators opened and there they were! Annika looked even more fetching in a dark miniskirt, white heels and gauzy semi-sheet white blouse than she had in her bathing suit. Beside her was Gun, Stan’s fellow police officer, in a gray skirt, black heels and off-the-shoulders peasant top. And beside her, causing Stan’s heart to jump in his chest was Professor Barbara Moore, wearing a little black dress and silver heels.
He waved the waiter off and hid his face in his phone, pretending to be busily texting as they passed, chattering away in a language that Stan couldn’t make out a word of, obviously Swedish. The bio Björklund had sent him had said that the Moore woman spoke Swedish almost like a native. Stan couldn’t vouch for that, but it certainly seemed that way.
They turned right as they exited the building. He waited a few moments, stood, and followed them out into the street, keeping a discrete distance. It was a pleasant early summer evening and they were happily strolling along, absorbed in each other, not glancing behind them.
Stan, following the habits acquired over his long career, varied his pace, deliberately looking up at the impressive buildings like an eager tourist. Every so often, he ducked into one of them for a moment, then walked quickly to make sure he didn’t lose them.
They continued on for thirty minutes or so, a distance of perhaps a bit over a mile. The office towers and elegant designer shops and restaurants gave way to a seedier mix of strip clubs and similar establishments. Stan surmised that they had entered the infamous Kabukichō red light district. It reminded him of the area around Times Square back when he was just coming of age, before it became the mix of theme park and upscale suburban mall that it was today.
‘What are an academic, a cop and an aspiring cop doing here?’ he wondered, watching the three women make their way through the crowded streets and alleyways, fending off the advances of loitering men. Barbara seemed to be leading them; ‘Was she planning to write some dry academic paper on the sex dens of Tokyo?’ he wondered.
He himself was struggling to keep close enough not to lose them in the crowd, as women, many wearing hot pants and halter tops called to him, even reaching out to take his arm. “You want good time, mister? Come with me!” one woman-at least Stan hoped she was a woman-called, trying to steer him towards the door of one of the clubs that lined that street.
Shaking his head he pushed her away, keeping his eyes fixed on his quarry. The three women appeared to stop now, beset upon by several rather rough looking men in front of a large building whose garish neon sign proclaimed it to be, in English, “The Red Dragon Torture Dungeon Place”.
To Stan’s great surprise, the women followed the men inside. As he stood there, muttering to himself, ‘What the…?’ he found himself surrounded by four very attractive women, two of whom were Western, one of whom appeared to be Indian or perhaps Thai and one who seemed to be Japanese, or possibly Korean.
One of the Western women, a blond with rather large breasts that she rubbed insistently against his arm cooed at him in an accent that sounded Russian or some other Eastern European origin, “You come inside, handsome man. You will enjoy very much. We take good care of you.”
“This is the best club in all of Kabukichō,” the Indian one said, taking his arm.
“What exactly is this place?” he asked.
“Come and find out. You will never forget this night.”
He smiled at her.
“I’m Anjali,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Stan,” he replied.
“This is Tatiana,” she said, indicating the large-breasted blond, “And this is Alice,” she continued, indicating the other European girl, a more slightly built brunette.
“I’m Yuki,” the fourth girl said. “Now you come.”
Stan would have had a hard time resisting four such attractive women promising him a garden of earthly delight at the best of times. In this case, he was on a mission, being paid handsomely to keep watch over his three charges, who had disappeared inside. ‘This is what they call a no brainer,’ he thought as he let them lead him to the door, which was guarded by an imposing, shaven-headed bouncer.
“¥ 10,000,” the bouncer demanded.
Stan did a quick calculation; that was around $ 100. He took out his wallet and found the appropriate bill. He handed it the bouncer and followed the women inside.
