‘They might as well just let us go home now.’
There hadn’t been a single customer since Greengrass opened two hours ago, and apart from the subdued background music, there were only murmurs about the usual things: food, customers and Israel, because, majority-wise, Greengrass was practically a Jewish sorority. A large percentage of customers even knew how to say cheers in Hebrew, with perfect pronunciation: l’chaim.
‘Why don’t you ring the guy who gave you the ichiman tip, the surgeon?’ Nicole suggested. ‘You have his number, right, so call him. Ask him to come in.’
I scrunched up my face.
‘What? I think he could be a good customer for you. He likes you, I can tell. If he comes, you can make request points, and then maybe you can get a dohan.’
‘It’s eleven o’clock at night! What am I gonna say?’
‘So what? Wake him up. He’ll be happy. He’s probably awake anyway. Every one of these crazies is awake. I am telling you, they never sleep. Just do like this.’ She held up an imaginary phone. ‘Hello, surgeon, this is Chelsea, how are you? Thank you for last night, it was really nice to meet you. I had such a good time. What are you doing tonight? I would love to see you again. Can you come to the club? That’s all. He will come. All you have to do is ask. That’s what they’re waiting for. Now go on! Do it!’
The idea of making up so much bullshit made me feel queasy, but I buckled like an obedient child and reached for my mobile. ‘No, no, no, what are you doing? Put that away, come on! You use Nishi’s phone, don’t waste your own money. Are you crazy?’
‘But I thought we weren’t ...’
‘No! Of course you are allowed. It’s to call a fucking customer, of course. Tell Nishi you want to ring the surgeon and he will throw the phone at you, because look, there is nobody here in this place. Now go call him,’ she cried. ‘Go!’
Nori had shown up an hour after I’d called, and Nicole had congratulated me when she saw him pad through the door. He’d brought his best friend Fumio, who was top brass in the Yokohama police department. That was why Fumio had to come to Tokyo to play, because he was too well known in Yokohama to be seen out with girls two feet taller than him, dancing like a maniac and generally acting the fool. Every time we made eye contact, he’d flutter his sausage fingers high in the air, like a sea anemone. It was hard to imagine him in uniform, imposing fear and commanding respect. An hour later it hadn’t got any easier.
‘Are you hungry?’ Nori asked. Was I hungry? My stomach rumbled at the question. Payday was twenty-one days away. Matt and I were surviving on French toast, free coffee at the internet cafe and ¥100-ice-cream sandwiches bought with tips and the money I’d made bottling after work. This sounded like my first chance for a free after-work meal.
‘Um, yeah,’ I agreed tentatively. ‘I’m a little hungry, yes.’
‘Good! We are going now to have sushi, very near to here. We can walk, don’t worry,’ Nori laughed. ‘Then maybe, if you want, we can go karaoke at Deep Blue. We can walk also. It’s very close. I will check with Nishi if you are free to leave and we can go.’
The pulsation was intangible, but it was there. In the background. You could feel it. The collective vibration of a thousand footsteps had turned the sidewalk into a conduit of five current. Pulsing.
It was a Saturday night and Roppongi was at its hedonistic best. Packs of American marines, walking straight and sober only hours before, stumbled down the pavement, slurring, shouting and leering. Japanese women in heels half their height teetered along, clutching hands and giggling as the shouts of Nigerian street hecklers fell on deaf ears. Israelis shifted intensely from foot to foot as they hawked DVDs from China on plastic tables next to muscle-bound Iranians selling kebabs out of mobile stands pulled up along the sidewalk. More than one salaryman had passed out on his briefcase, sprawled along the step of some day spa or flower shop.
All around us inebriation had reached saturation point. Waiting outside a packed sushi bar for a free table with Nori and Fumio, I looked around for Matt. He was never far from Roppongi Crossing and I wanted him to see what Nori looked like, but his gaze was nowhere to be met. Instead there were five pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed on me in unison.
The men were charming, like robots functioning from a centralised operator interface. I had to smirk. Did marines do anything out of formation? Even in my Pumas and blue jeans, they’d be mistaking me for a prostitute. I couldn’t fault them for the assumption. There were a number of glassy-eyed prostitutes, mostly Russian, accompanying old Japanese men on the streets of Roppongi. How were these corn-fed boys supposed to know that I was simply out for a non-salacious meal? The majority of them probably didn’t even know what a hostess was, because hostesses don’t often have a reason to talk to marines. Prostitutes do.
As a table became free and Nori moved inside, I met their stares and beamed an insouciant message back through my smile. Free sushi. Oooh rah.