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narrowed his eyes at me in a way that he must have thought mysterious but that made me laugh out loud.
    â€œSometime I’ll show you pictures.” Michael laughed, too. “Anyway, I’d like to take an earlier lunch, so I can get out while you’re still here. Okay?”
    â€œSure. I’ve got some e-mail to answer.” Another part of our work routine was that we both exercised at lunch, taking turns, because we were the only regulars in the place, full time, and the office phone needed to be answered at all times, just in case Michael’s boss called in. Typically, Michael would change into his old Naval Academy sweats in the office’s small, full bathroom and run over to Virginia Highlands Park, returning sweaty but holding a bag of Vietnamese summer rolls, or pad thai , or something else delicious from the numerous Asian restaurants that dotted the neighborhood. I was happy to chip in for an Asian take-out lunch every day, but the only thing I remained militantly against was his favorite Korean cuisine. I’d found, after two experiences, that I could not concentrate on much during the afternoon if the taste of kimchi lingered in my mouth.
    Despite what Michael had said about my being a runner, I’d decided that I preferred to spin the wheels of a stationary bicycle and lift weights at Bally rather than test my luck on the icy sidewalks of Pentagon City. Today, as I worked my triceps to the point of exhaustion, my thoughts turned to the Japanese makeover Michael wanted me to undergo. If Michael didn’t want people to know that I ran, weight lifting might be a problem as well. Japanese girls were slim, but very few had muscular arms.
    I thought about asking Michael whether my strength training was a risk, then shook myself. No way would it matter, when Mitsutan’s uniform was a slim, long-sleeved black jacket and matching straight-leg pants. Nothing of my body would show; I could even have carried a weapon, except for the fact nobody in OCI was allowed to carry weapons, concealed or otherwise. I was in favor of gun control, so this fact should have relieved me; but every time I thought of Tyler Farraday, I felt sick. How I wished I’d studied a martial art for years instead of dabbling at the gym. The best I could do was learn to kick-box, but that class was already filled.
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    Mrs. Taki honked the horn of her black BMW outside the office at eleven-thirty, and I hurried down, slipping into my coat as I went.
    â€œRei-chan, ikaga desu ka?” She asked me how I was doing in Japanese, as she always did. During our private meetings, Mrs. Taki spoke to me only in Japanese; and because she’d left Japan thirty years ago, she seemed to be missing a lot of the lingo.
    â€œI’m fine, Taki-san,” I answered in Japanese. “You’re very kind to try to help me out with my appearance. I worry that I won’t live up to your expectations.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Rei-chan. It’s actually a Korean place on Wilson Boulevard. Very pleasant, good prices. I have my hair done there.” Mrs. Taki proudly touched her Doris Day–style bubble, dyed the typical purplish-black of older Japanese women.
    â€œBut—I’m supposed to look Japanese.”
    â€œThis isn’t California, Rei-chan. Unfortunately, there’s no Japanese-owned beauty salon in this area. But her place is quite good. They have all the Japanese things: hair straightening, special skin creams and waxes. Her sister has a salon in Tokyo. They used to do makeup for Takarazuka Revue, the girl actresses who perform as boys. They are good at changing identity, I think.”
    Despite her fancy car and impeccable, tailored work suits, Mrs. Taki apparently didn’t run in the mannered, pretentious crowd; the salon was nothing like what I was used to, but more of what I’d expect in the back streets of Tokyo’s Kabuki-cho, where gangsters and hookers roamed. At the