“You know, Beth,” I said in my best avuncular tone, “it’s hard enough to determine innocence or guilt right after a crime has been committed, but this guy has been in jail-”

“I don’t need a lecture,” she snapped.

“Maybe you do. It is not our job-”

“Don’t, Victor. Please. I know our job. He hasn’t hugged his daughter in three years.”

“It shouldn’t matter.”

“But it does.” She slapped her notebook closed, stood up. “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going home.”

I glanced at my watch, bolted to my feet. “Damn it, I’m late.”

“Hot date with Carol?”

“Hardly,” I said. “It’s with Carol, all right, but tonight is all business.”

37

Carol Kingsly was looking at the ground beneath my feet. I looked down, too. The interest with which she was staring down indicated that something quite special must lay there, the meaning of the universe, maybe, or at least a quarter. But there was nothing I could see, nothing at all, just the cement walkway outside the very fashionable, very trendy restaurant where she had set up a meeting with that rich guy who was thinking of hiring me as his lawyer.

“Are those your shoes?” she said finally.

“I think so,” I said. “They’re on my feet.”

“They have a rather thick sole.”

“Is that good?”

“On a dinner plate, maybe. Hopefully, no one will notice.” She reached to my neck, fixed the knot of my yellow tie. “Just smile, try to be personable, and don’t say anything intolerably rude.”

“I’d rather change my shoes.”

“Come on, you,” she said, yanking me forward. “We’re late.” Carol didn’t like to joke about business, which I found a little bit awkward, since the business portion of my professional life was pretty much a joke.

Inside, we were greeted as if we were actually important and led to a prime table right beneath the giant golden Buddha that gave the joint its name. Buddakan was bright and crowded, with varnished floors, high ceilings, onyx tables. The waitstaff wore pajamas, a too-hip crowd waited by the indoor waterfall for seating, and you had the sense, just by being there, that you were actually someone, actually somewhere, which was why, I suppose, so many people wanted in. Presiding over everything, on its bright red stage, was the aforementioned Buddha. He looked supremely happy, did the Buddha, content and satisfied, seemingly unworried about the soles of his footwear.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” said Carol when we reached the table. “Victor is preparing for a very high-profile trial, and it’s keeping him crazy busy.” She gave my arm a squeeze, looked adoringly into my eyes. “But that’s the price of being so in demand.”

A very lovely, very young Japanese woman said something in Japanese, and the middle-aged Japanese man beside her nodded.

Carol proceeded to introduce me around. There was Nick, her lovesick business associate, who gave me a sullen acknowledgment. Then the young Japanese woman, named Kyoko, who was apparently here as a translator. Next to Kyoko was the Japanese man himself, the apparent star of the evening, as round and as seemingly at ease as the Buddha over his shoulder. As Carol gave me his name, he stood and bowed and handed me his card, all of which was superfluous. I had never seen him before, but I knew who he was, right off. I could tell by the other woman at the table, the man’s wife, Velma Takahashi.

Velma puffed out her puffy lips as we were introduced. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carl.”

So that was how she was going to play it. Fine, I figured, I’d play along. I nodded at her and said something inconclusive, something like, “Nice to see you,” and then glanced at Mr. Takahashi, who was watching me quite carefully as the lovely Kyoko whispered in his ear. Without taking his eyes off me, he spoke in quick Japanese.

“What kind of trial is it that keeps you so busy, Mr. Carl?” said Kyoko in a musical, heavily accented voice.

“A murder trial,” I said. “A man is accused of killing his wife.”

Kyoko translated. Mr. Takahashi nodded and spoke.

“What will be your role at the trial?” said Kyoko.

“I’m defending the husband.”

“Then Mr. Takahashi is very glad to meet you,” said Kyoko, without bothering to translate.

Everyone laughed heartily, Takahashi included, everyone but Velma.

They served some sort of pan-Asian cuisine at Buddakan, things like diced eel and miso tuna tartare and their famous angry lobster, all washed down with porcelain cups of heated sake. The food was actually pretty good, which was the saving grace of the evening, since it was one of the most awkward dinners I ever had the misfortune to sit through. Carol did her level best to keep the conversation flowing – I actually felt a great deal of affection for her as she struggled mightily against the forces of darkness – and I did what I could to help, but the thing just wasn’t working. Desolation sat at the table as if it, too, had been invited.

First, Nick was moping. Gelheads should be full of silly banter and broad smiles, don’t you think? Otherwise what good are they? But Nick just moped. He was in love, poor guy, and I just happened to be the one dating the object of his desire. By my book, that at least was something to drink to. Cheers. Across from Nick, Velma Takahashi sat at the table like a sullen fifteen-year-old, slurping ginger martinis instead of sake, barely touching her black cod with miso glaze. She wasn’t enjoying herself at the fancy restaurant, seemingly jaded by all the fancy restaurants she had dined in since marrying Takahashi. So what was the deal with her deal? I wondered. This was exactly what she had sold herself for, dinners like this, so you would think she would at least try to enjoy herself.

But the truth was, I couldn’t blame her for sulking, because right there at our table, Mr. Takahashi and his beautiful translator, Kyoko, were having what appeared to be, even in the midst of our little party, a private tête-àtête. Kyoko, who was far younger than Velma, spoke softly into his ear, he responded lowly, they giggled like the teenagers one of them might actually still have been. She rubbed his neck; his right hand never appeared above the table. They were even sharing their food like lovers. I expected them to link arms as they slurped their sake.

While Takahashi and Kyoko were in the midst of their private conversation and Carol was trying to cheer up the morose Nick, I leaned over to Velma and said softly, “You seem full of good cheer tonight.”

“I have so much to be happy about,” she said.

“Your husband, at least, looks like he’s having a fine time.”

“He sees life as an oyster to be savored, then swallowed.”

“And Kyoko?”

“Already shucked. I appreciate you not mentioning our other business with my husband.”

“I thought it best to be discreet, considering this is something akin to a job interview.”

“Let me warn you, he can be a tyrant.”

“But you look so happy. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Please don’t.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?”

“Marrying Faustus over there.”

“I think you have the roles confused, but yes.”

“Really?”

“He has made my life a dream.”

“From the looks of it, though, it’s wake-up time.”

“He’s entitled to his diversions.”

“And you to yours?”

“No, that’s not part of the deal.”

“Too bad.”

“You were hoping, maybe, for something more than a check?”

“One always hopes,” I said while glancing across the table. Mr. Takahashi was staring at me. He smiled at me strangely and nodded. I nodded back. He said something in Japanese.

“Do you do bankruptcy law, Mr. Carl?” said Kyoko.

“Not really,” I said. “I thought you needed a real estate lawyer.”

A lengthy conversation in Japanese between Kyoko and Takahashi.