Down the street, trading one hostess club for the next, Munroe studied yet another menu of names, this one handwritten, beautifully scrolled in colorful chalkboard paint, and nestled in folds of lavender satin.

She checked over her shoulder for the second-floor restaurant window in the near distance, at the face so clearly seen beyond the pane standing in for Bradford and providing a perfect line of sight. The menu had no address to compare against the slip of paper, no prices, but the location put the place in the higher-end, about a hundred dollars an hour, and that was before drinks or any talk of sex.

Hostess clubs weren’t brothels, not in any technical sense. They were closer to a diluted offshoot of the geisha tradition in which young girls trained for years to become the perfect evening companion. But here, instead of the classically trained, were attractive women who flattered men who paid in minute-based increments for the privilege of being fawned over and lied to.

Hostess clubs were drinking establishments where businessmen came to relax and feel good after work, little niches carved out for the sole purpose of sexual titillation, fully integrated into a culture in which work continued long after business hours ended. The more attractive and more educated the woman, the higher the price paid to acquire her time, and whether the women slept with their clients was a separate issue. Some did. Some didn’t. The pressure was always there.

Prostitution in Japan was only illegal as intercourse in exchange for payment. Oral sex, anal sex, any other kind of sex was wide open, as was made clear by the many “soap houses” and “fashion health” spas that operated in high numbers, turning Japan into one of the top destinations for sex-trafficking victims.

Munroe left the window display for the restaurant.

The same foreignness that marked her as a perpetual outsider also turned her seemingly odd behavior into an amusing quirk, and when the table at which she and Bradford had sat was finally free, the proprietress, with demure smiles and a welcoming bow, offered Munroe what she had insisted upon waiting for.

Munroe ordered, and ate, and waited, and ordered again, and waited some more, while the evening deepened and the street began to empty somewhat, and because keeping the table prevented the restaurant from serving other clients, she continued with high-priced flavor-infused drinks that kept the money flowing.

Men came and went into the club and Munroe evaluated them by their ages, their modes of arrival, the length of time they stayed, and the numbers in their groups. The night drew down to closing time and Munroe, having seen as much as she had, paid the bill and left.

She didn’t bother with further surveillance.

She’d gotten what she’d come for; she’d found her mark.