“Hey, share with me!”
“I know this man,” I said, examining the florid face I’d seen less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Joseph Roncolotta, marketing guru and director of Far East Ventures? Rei, the bonnie prince was far cuter.”
“This is the man I saw talking to Masuhiro Sendai at Setsuko’s farewell party. Oh, wow. He’s rich and American and old! Do you know what I’m thinking?”
“Well, we both could use a sugar daddy, I suppose.” Richard lounged against the phone booth as I called information to get the number for Far East Ventures. Luckily, it was a small enough company that I was transferred right to the boss’s voice mail. I spoke in English, leaving my number and describing myself as an American wanting to consult with him. Posthaste.
15
It was raining so brutally when I came home from work that my homeless neighbors had moved their gathering into the abandoned sandal factory across the street. I could see a light flickering on the ground floor and hoped they had a heater. At times like these, my cramped apartment felt like a palace. I switched on my own heater and ran to the ringing telephone.
Mrs. Chapman was on the line, wanting company for dinner. The last thing I wanted was to go out again, but there was such pathos in her voice I found myself agreeing.
After hanging up, I noticed the message light blinking. Joe Roncolotta had telephoned and said he’d be working late. I called him back, and was pleased that he answered his phone himself, speaking accented but serviceable Japanese.
“Hi, it’s Rei Shimura.”
“Hell of a day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah, I look like a drowned rat.”
“Hard to believe from the sound of you,” Joe said smoothly. “Tell me you’re one of the Shimura steel heiresses and I’ll believe I died and went to heaven.”
I gulped. “Sorry. I work for Nichiyu.”
“Nichiyu! Excellent rice cookers, and you have a new coffee-maker in development, don’t you?” He didn’t sound displeased, and I envisioned a new set of wheels turning.
“Mr. Roncolotta, I need to talk to you about something sensitive. It would be better face-to-face.”
“Please call me Joe, and I stand ready to serve. How about dinner tonight? I’ll make myself free.”
I stalled, remembering my date with Mrs. Chapman. The chance to talk to him this soon, before he had any time to investigate exactly how powerless I was at Nichiyu, was too good to pass up.
“I’d love it,” I said firmly. “The only problem is, I already made plans with a friend. Could she join us?”
“Sure, do you ladies know Trader Vic’s in the New Otani?”
“Near Akasaka-Mitsuke Station, right?” I cringed at his expensive choice.
“Yep, but you’d be better off to take a taxi on a night like this.”
“Okay,” I agreed, intending nothing of the sort. I’d taken a Tokyo taxi just once in the last two years, and what I paid had made me nearly hysterical.
Mrs. Chapman hadn’t taken the subway yet, and found it entertaining. As we rode into central Tokyo, I filled her in about how we would ask him about Setsuko Nakamura. But Mrs. Chapman seemed more interested in his Weekender photograph and a short item about his business acumen.
We made it to Trader Vic’s at five after nine, perfect timing. Most of the businessmen sitting in the cozy faux Polynesian bar looked up when we came in, reinforcing my feeling I may not have looked like a Nichiyu executive, but had done right to wear high heels and Karen’s suit. Either that or Mrs. Chapman’s rejuvenated hairstyle was the attraction.
Joe wasn’t there yet; perhaps keeping me waiting was a power technique. Mrs. Chapman had an old-fashioned and I ordered whiskey on the rocks. While my friend chatted on about Tokyo Disneyland, I paged idly through a copy of The Arts of Asia I’d brought with me. I was nervous about the whole thing.
“Very industrious,” boomed a foreign voice in my ear when I was midway through an article on little-known landscape prints by the wood-block artist Keisai Yeisen. “Make me a Suffering Bastard, will you, Mori-san? Put it on the dinner check, along with these ladies’ drinks.”
Despite his forty or so spare pounds, Joe Roncolotta had an aura of energy that I found intriguing. His thick silver hair was brushed into a shiny gloss, and his clear blue eyes seemed, implausibly, to be flirting with both Mrs. Chapman and me.
“How nice to meet a gentleman. Marcelle Chapman of Destin, Florida.” Mrs. Chapman sparkled, holding out her hand.
“How did you recognize us? I didn’t tell you my friend would be American,” I asked when we had been seated in the center of the small, darkly romantic dining room that adjoined the bar.