Dessert by Lily Harlem Page A

stomach gave a loud growl and I was reminded of my dinner appointment. I had to admit I was intrigued. Not by the products I was going to be learning about, but by The Geisha Plate. The food must be really special or, another thought came to me, perhaps it was full of celebrities. Either way, I hoped there would be something that took my fancy on the menu.
    * * * * *
    “Mr. Alan.”
    I looked up from my iPhone as Rai, the Koni representative, walked toward me with an outstretched hand.
    “So glad you could come,” he said and gave a wide smile.
    “Thanks for asking me. I’m looking forward to hearing all about the latest technology you guys have come up with.”
    We shared a brisk but firm shake.
    “What do you think?” He gestured around the waiting area of the restaurant. One wall was made entirely of a glass tank. Floor-to-ceiling, fishy eyes stared out, their scaly bodies made up of a rainbow of colors. Some were striped, some polka-dotted, many had elaborate feathery fins and tails. The fish swam lazily in and around a huge slab of bright orange and pink coral, and skittered through a plume of bubbles that rose from a large oyster shell.
    “It’s great,” I said.
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    Dessert
    Rai gave a sharp little bow. He was of Japanese origin, shorter than me, with inky-black hair, brown eyes and skin the color of strong coffee. I was never quite sure what to do when he gave that small gesture so I bobbed my head and slipped my phone away.
    “You have never been here before?” he asked, his arms rod-straight at his sides.
    “No, never. But I am a great fan of Asian food so I am sure it will be lovely.” One side of his mouth tilted, balling his cheek slightly. “Oh yes, it is very lovely, a very satisfying meal.” He indicated for me to step forward, his movements sharp and brisk. He was the epitome of physical control and discipline. He once told me that he was a karate black belt. I wouldn’t have liked to get on the wrong side of him in a dark alley. Thoughts of Japanese mafia, the Yakuza, came to mind.
    I moved toward the large gold-embroidered curtain Rai had indicated. A young Japanese lady in traditional dress reached toward it. She pulled a cord that gathered the curtain out of my way.
    Avoiding eye contact, she cast her dark gaze downward, dipped her narrow shoulders and retreated in little shuffles.
    “Thank you,” I said, stooping so I could duck around the curtain.
    The room I entered was lit by overhead spotlights and nothing like a restaurant at all. In fact it could hardly be described as a room. It was more like a wide hotel corridor and instead of doors there were more heavy gold curtains on either side. But they were close together, no more than four or five feet between them.
    “ Konnichiwa. Mr. Alan. Rai.”
    I turned at the sound of my name. A short waiter in a black tuxedo and with the same inky-black hair as Rai’s smiled at us.
    “ Konnichiwa ,” Rai said, bowing stiffly. “Thank you for accommodating us tonight, Masaru.”
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    Lily Harlem
    The other man bowed too, though lower and for slightly longer than Rai. “Please follow this way,” he said, straightening. For a moment his gaze settled on me, as if he was assessing me, scrutinizing me. But before I could feel uncomfortable, he turned and walked briskly up the corridor.
    I followed, stepping to the side twice to allow waiters to pass. One carried an enormous silver tray crammed with sushi and sashimi. Another rice wine and shot glasses.
    But where are the diners?
    I could hear the low hum of conversation and the mouth-watering scents filling the air told me they couldn’t be far away. Eventually, Masaru stopped at a thick curtain with a scarlet Japanese symbol embroidered on the front. Each curtain had one.
    Numbers perhaps?
    Rai and I stood next to him. My curiosity was growing by the second. Were the other diners all eating behind fabric screens?
    A waiter flicked back a curtain just a few steps away from me. I couldn’t see