John Rain 08: Graveyard of Memories by Barry Eisler Page B

back to the same hotel, especially not twice in a row. But I told myself there would be no harm. It wasn’t like the girl knew my name, or even the first thing about me. There was no way anybody could trace me there. One night, two nights, it wasn’t going to make any difference. I needed a place to stay. And someplace familiar wouldn’t be the worst thing.
    It didn’t take long to get back to Uguisudani, park the bike, and run the gauntlet of streetwalkers again. As I walked through the front entrance of the hotel, I was suddenly gripped by doubt. Maybe I was being stupid. Maybe she would think I was a creep for coming back. Maybe she wouldn’t even be there.
    But she was. A different sweatshirt this time—gray, and no lettering. Other than that, she looked just the same. Just as good.
    She glanced up and saw me. There was a pause, then she said, “I didn’t expect to see you back here.” There was a slight emphasis on the “you.” Other than that, her tone was as neutral as her expression.
    She was listening to jazz again. I wondered who, and why she seemed to like it so much.
    “Yeah, well, the Imperial was full.”
    I thought that was reasonably funny, but she acknowledged it with only the barest hint of a smile. “Let me guess. A stay?”
    “How’d you know?”
    “Intuition.”
    Her expression was still so neutral, I had no idea what she was thinking. I said, “What are you…doing here? This job, I mean.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I mean…you’re young. You know, mostly it’s an oba-san .”
    “You stay at love hotels often?”
    I felt myself blush. “No. Everyone knows that.”
    She shrugged. “If you say so.”
    Man, I was really striking out. “So really, why?”
    “The interesting people I meet.”
    The robot-neutral affect was killing me. Laughing to conceal my embarrassment at what I thought was a dismissal, I pulled out a five-thousand-yen note and slid it under the glass. “I guess it would work for that.”
    She slid the bill into a drawer and came out with a thousand-yen note. She held it, not yet pushing it under the glass, and looked at me as though trying to decide something. “A job where I can sit is good. One where I can sit and study is even better.”
    I grabbed onto the reprieve. “What are you studying?”
    “English.”
    “Why?”
    “Why not?” This time her tone wasn’t neutral. It was vaguely irritated.
    Jesus, I couldn’t seem to say anything right. “I mean, what do you want to do with it?”
    I thought I detected something in her eyes—amusement, maybe? As though I was a well-meaning pet that was maybe just cute enough to deserve a little patience. But overall, other than the fact that she was talking, there was no evidence that she was the least bit interested in me. It was disconcerting.
    “You might have noticed, I need a job that requires a lot of sitting. If I speak English, maybe I can get something a little better than this one.”
    “I don’t know. I speak English, and it hasn’t helped me get the job I want.”
    “What job do you want?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
    That glimmer of amusement flashed in her eyes again, then was gone. “Do you really speak English?”
    I nodded. “I’m half American.” I didn’t know why I said it. It wasn’t something I ordinarily shared with Japanese.
    She scrutinized my face, searching, I knew, for the mongrel in it. “Now that you mention it, I think I can see it. Your mother was Japanese?”
    I shook my head. “Father.”
    “Where did you grow up?”
    “Both places.”
    “You’re lucky. America’s where I want to go.”
    “Why?”
    She looked around. “Because I hate it here.”
    Given my own love-hate relationship with the country, I wasn’t sure how to respond. So I just nodded.
    She looked at me. “You don’t?”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “Were they hard on you?” She didn’t need to be more specific than that. She was talking about the