“Uh-huh.”

“What was the funny look on Michael’s face?”

“Oh, so peculiar.”

“Chock full of nuts,” the boy said. “That’s what I am. Loaded with wheaties.”

“I said: Is something wrong, Michael? Don’t you feel well?”

“Was I supposed to be feeling well?”

“I should think so. You should have felt all relaxed. It’s supposed to relax you, isn’t it, Asher?”

“What?”

“It.”

“Naturally.”

“And there Michael was, positively unrelaxed. There’s just so much a girl can do, isn’t that right, Asher?”

“Jesus!”

“You are a fink.”

“What did Michael say?” I asked patiently.

“He said he felt murderous.”

“Murderous?”

“She’s an idiot. The law books are just a front.”

“One of these days, dear heart, I’m going to get awful mad at you.”

“And when you do?”

“Watch out. I’ve got a real dago temper.”

The boy looked at her, lazily, smiling. I wasn’t going to stop them. Besides, they were doing it only because I was there, and being there was an audience. To be shocked, if they intended to shock me. To be intrigued, if they intended to intrigue me. It wasn’t altogether clear what they did intend.

“What did Michael mean,” I said to the girl, “by murderous?”

“Ask him. The rat’s sitting right there.”

“What did you mean, Michael?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you mean there’s something you want to kill?”

“Or someone.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter? Any creep will do.”

He had lidded his eyes again, and that crooked smile sat on the corner of his mouth. There was a small silence and I thought: Oh, Christ, melodrama. First, the blunt sex, now the sinister melodrama.

“Would you like to have dinner?”

“I’d love to.”

“Any place you kids like? A steak-house?”

“I hate steak-houses.”

“Well: Japanese?”

“Can we sit on the floor?” the girl said enthusiastically. “You can wear your kimono, Asher.”

“Who told you about the kimono?”

“Michael.”

She’d lied. He did tell her things.

11

We had dinner at the Kobe. It hadn’t changed much. The dark bar was still downstairs, and the waitresses still wore their obis and the wooden clogs and they still gave you a torn piece of paper on which the mamasan scribbled a number for your coat and hat. The lighting, too, I was glad to see, had not been improved on. We had rice wine. I ordered sukiyaki. Aurora had the tempura, and she poured the wine.

“The girl does it in Japan, doesn’t she?”

“What?”

“Practically feeds you.”

“Yes.”

“Did you like Japan?”