Owl and the Japanese Circus (8 page)

It was a dual thesis project, meaning it had been written by two individual students from different faculties; in this case, physics and archaeology had teamed up. I’d bet the physics PhD had been brought on to do some fancy carbon dating, maybe even some fancy laser imaging of the rooms. Nothing more fun than pissing off old archaeology professors with hard, scientific facts. Used to be one of my favorite stunts. But if that was the case, where the hell was the carbon dating? And pictures of the dig site?

I closed the file. If anyone could tell me, it was Nuroshi. The old man reminded me of a turnip; sickly white, rotund, with puffy eyes that constantly watered. Whereas most men go bald from the center out, Nuroshi was balding from the outside in. All that was left now was a tuft of black hair. Like I said, turnip. He was also a low-level curator for the Japanese Museum of Antiquities, attached to the University of Tokyo. High enough up the ladder to have privileged information and access to the storage rooms, old enough and close enough to retirement not to garner any attention. He also knew his stuff, even though I had a hard time stomaching his particular brand of dirty old man antics. Nadya had dug him up when a few of her high-end clientele had found out she’d been an archaeologist and subtly hinted they were interested in “acquiring” pieces.

The Space Station Deluxe kept filling up as people got off work for the day. A handsome businessman in a really nice suit took the barstool beside me, smiled, and said something in Japanese. It took me a moment to realize he’d mistaken me for one of Nadya’s hostesses. I felt my face flush red. The last thing I needed was someone
asking me to make them drinks in Japanese. I try not to speak foreign languages—ever. I have a knack for saying the wrong thing. It’s somewhat embarrassing. I can read and write ten languages, including Japanese, fluently. Two of them are even dead. I just can’t speak or understand a word of any of them—except English, in which my spoken fluency is debatable.

I shrugged and smiled at the businessman, attempting to convey my obliviousness. I then tried to catch the attention of one of Nadya’s girls as she dipped behind the bar to grab drinks. The desperation on my face must have been bad, because she dropped what she was doing and seamlessly took over. I let out a breath and kept my eyes down and on my champagne, hoping the customer caught on I wasn’t an employee. My presence sucks and I know it. Plus Nadya would kill me if I messed up business.

As far as hostess bars go, the Space Station Deluxe is on the lighter, younger, more fashionable end of the spectrum. For instance, the staff, from the girls Nadya hires all the way up to the house band, knows how to throw one hell of a party. But the seedier, sex work stuff, like creepy old men chasing girls young enough to be their granddaughters? Let’s just say Nadya discourages that. The men coming here are paying to be in Nadya and her girls’ presence. You want something more? Go find the nearest soap club.

“You haven’t been in Tokyo for a while,” Nadya said, coming up beside me.

I sipped the champagne; I could feel the alcohol dulling my brain, and it was an effort to keep my face blank. “Only three months.”

“That’s a long time for you. Someone was asking about you.”

I kept on staring at my champagne. “I’m sure someone was, and I’ll deal with that. Tomorrow night.” I downed the rest of my drink and pointed to her cell. “Call Nuroshi?”

Nadya tsked but dialed the number and stepped into her office.

Hostesses kept moving bottles of champagne across the floor, and the music picked up. Captain yawned and stretched out on the bar.

“Good thing Nadya keeps cat food,” I told him.

Nadya returned a moment later with her coat thrown over her shoulder and Captain’s carrier in the other hand.

“Nuroshi’s going to meet us here tomorrow at noon,” she said.

“See, I told you—”

“And it will cost you double.”

“Shit.” Don’t get me wrong, it could have been much worse. He could have said no. Still . . . “If he was worried about vampires, he should have mentioned something before the last three jobs I gave him.”

Nadya blew kisses at her “special table.” “Come on, I’m off. I feel like partying.” Somehow Nadya drew distinctions between the partying she did at work and off work.

I coaxed Captain back in his case with minimal mewing, grabbed my Chanel bag, and scrambled out the door and down the flight of stairs after her. It had started to drizzle, and I wished I’d have thrown my RL hooded jacket overtop. “Umm, about that, can we leave the partying until tomorrow night? I figured I’d settle in and—”

“No.”

“But Nadya—”

Nadya spun on me and stamped her foot on the damp pavement. “You can’t wait until tomorrow night to visit him. It’s rude, not to mention cruel.”

I took a deep breath. I knew the tone; it was the same one she’d used on me when I’d tried to turn down her help after my program funding had been pulled out from under me. There was no arguing with her. “All right. We’ll go.”

We dropped Captain and my stuff off at Nadya’s apartment, and I let Nadya fix my hair and makeup. In the mirror, I examined the braids and the light, almost orange-red lipstick Nadya had paired with otherwise minimal makeup. Credit where credit is due, Nadya could do wonders with a hairbrush and ten minutes.

We headed back out to club Gaijin Cloud.

Damn it. I was going to have to talk to Rynn tonight.

I followed Nadya into Gaijin Cloud, a bar that took up half the tenth floor of a Shiyuba district business building. It hadn’t changed much since I’d last been in, except they’d also installed a night-light bar, a red one.

“Talk about keeping up with the Joneses,” I said to Nadya.

Nadya frowned and shot me a quizzical look.

“The same night-light bar you have,” I said, and pointed. “Theirs is red.”

She rolled her eyes and headed for the bar.

I hung back while I scanned the floor. The usual mixed international crowd was in attendance, both foreigners and young Japanese, the kind who spend most of their time overseas. It was packed, and the lights were dim enough that I couldn’t make out faces very well. When I realized Rynn wasn’t manning the front bar, I let out the breath I was holding and joined Nadya.

She tsked as I ordered my Corona.

“Hey, let me suspend belief a little longer. Isn’t that the business model these guys work on? Waking up from your dreams is bad? Let me dream Rynn isn’t here a little longer.”

“You’re impossible,” Nadya whispered.

The Gaijin Cloud wasn’t a host or hostess bar, or even a Western bar. It occupied some strange, nebulous place in between the three. The men and the women working there were gorgeous and there to entertain everyone—for a price. And that’s where the nebulousness starts and ends.

The host and hostess bars in Japan get a bad rap, but there’s a practicality and efficiency to them . . . and, when it comes down to it, honesty . . . that Westerners always ignore.

Just think, anytime you head out to a bar in the Western Hemisphere, you expect that maybe you’ll talk to someone, maybe you’ll have a good time, or maybe everyone will just ignore you and you’ll
head home feeling worse than if you’d just sat on your couch playing World Quest. A hundred bucks later.

Well, what if you could take that hundred bucks, double it, and guarantee you’d have a great time talking to someone who was interested in what you had to say for a few hours? It’s an interesting question.

Anyway, Nadya loves Gaijin Cloud and tries to go at least once a week, more often twice. It’s not the most popular, since it caters to a mixed crowd, so it’s not obvious it’s a host bar at first. When I was kicked out of grad school and effectively homeless, Nadya let me crash with her in Japan for a few months. She insisted on it, even sent me the plane ticket. While I was trying to figure out what the hell to do with the rest of my life, Nadya dragged me out almost every night to Gaijin Cloud. That’s how I met Rynn.

I’d just been fired. Well, no, that’s not entirely accurate. In exchange for saying, “No, I was wrong, none of the data in that report was falsified, the postdoc and supervisor still remain god apparent, I’m a bad grad student,” I had been verbally promised funding for the next four years and a coveted transfer to the lost city dig site in Ephesus, Turkey. Right after I’d signed the paperwork that had legally absolved the university and my supervisor of any wrongdoing, all my funding had been terminated and my transfer had disappeared.

University departments have no soul.

Anyway, out of misguided passion for archaeology and love of academia, I’d decided to stick it out, even when I’d known the postdoc had been falsifying data to hide a supernatural mummy from our supervisor. Lesson learned; don’t ever be a whistle-blower. . . . I really need to follow Nadya’s advice more often.

I’d met Rynn right after I’d screwed myself over in Paris with the vampires and had been doing my best to drink away the memories of screaming Frenchmen with fangs and a vampire vaporizing into dust. I’d not been in the mood to party. Rynn had been the new bartender. You see a lot of blonds in Japan, Japanese and Caucasian, but you
don’t often see good-looking blond Caucasian men working behind the bar. It was an anomaly, and I’d been halfway to drunk.

“Wow, you’ve got to have an edge on the competition in here,” I’d finally said as he’d stopped by to refill my glass. I’d lost count by that point.

He’d shrugged. “Some. Though you’d be surprised how fast the novelty wears off. Not a lot of regulars.” He’d nodded towards Nadya, who’d been flirting with a cute Japanese boy who’d managed to get his hair dyed fire-engine red. “Friend of yours?”

I’d nodded.

“Is she one of the regulars?” he’d asked.

“Wow, you really haven’t been working here long,” I’d said, and drained half my glass.

Rynn had given me a once-over. “You’ve gone through half a five-hundred-dollar bottle in less than twenty minutes.”

“Damn, I’ll have to catch up.”

One of his blond eyebrows had shot up. “You’ve either had a bad night or you’re planning on running out on a tab.” He’d leaned over the bar and given me one hell of an evil eye. “Bad things happen to people who run out on my tabs.”

There was a faint accent, noticeable when he spoke full sentences. My money was on Russian. I’d raised the glass, pulled out five hundred dollars plus tip, and counted it out in front of him. “Now please be a dear and bring me my bottle so I can finish getting drunk.”

He’d disappeared and brought back my champagne. I’d been ready for a refill, so he’d obliged.

“I’m Rynn,” he’d said, and offered me his hand.

“Owl.”

Instead of saying something about my unusual name, he’d said, “You know, I’m a good listener.”

I’d laughed and shaken my head. “Look, Rynn, no offense, but no one is that good a listener, and the last thing you want to hear are my problems.”

“Try me.”

I’d looked at him from under my eyebrows and noticed how blue his eyes were, dark blue, almost navy.

He’d shrugged. “It was a good tip, and I’m cheaper than a therapist.”

I’d been drunk enough to consider it. “What the hell, all you can do is tell everyone, and they already think I’m crazy.”

“Won’t happen,” he’d said.

Something about the way he said it, or the look on his face, more likely the booze in my head, I believed him.

“You believe in vampires?” I’d asked.

To his credit, Rynn had just shrugged. “Don’t know. There’s a hell of a lot I can’t explain. I suppose anything is possible.”

“Well, that’s a better start to this conversation than I could have hoped for, because a whack of them over in Paris just took a hit out on me.” I’d held my champagne glass up by the stem. “Hence, I’m getting drunk tonight because chances are good I’ll be dead by the end of the month.”

Rynn had glanced down at the bar, a concentrated look on his face.

Figured. Another drunken lesson: don’t put much faith in an earnest face and a pair of pretty blue eyes. “I think this is where you’re supposed to tell me I need real help—the kind that involves pills and padded rooms, or just think of it as a great story to tell your friends when the bar closes. The crazy chick who believes vampires are out to get her.” I’d started to get up and move over to where Nadya was doing her best to pick up the redhead, when Rynn had stopped me.

“Just hold on,” he’d said, the pensive look still on his face. “How the hell did you manage to piss off a pack of vampires?”

I’d reeled and had to steady myself on the barstool. Drunk, remember? “Whoa, wait a minute . . . you believe in vampires? Seriously?”

Rynn had shrugged. “I work as a bartender in places that are open all night.”

And that was the start of our friendship.

Besides Nadya, Rynn is about the only other person I consider a friend. He’s also the best therapist anyone could ask for, and better looking. Fifty thousand yen, roughly five hundred bucks, gets you a few hours of chitchat and, better yet, comes with a bottle of champagne. I’m not great with people, and I don’t make friends easily. Nadya and Rynn had been my sanity anchors.