"The long arm of the Tokyo oyabun. Plenty of reach."
"It's not just that." Nogami was inserting a large key into the front door, white with Georgian decorations and a leaded glass transom above. "You understand the kind of obligation we Japanese must bear for past favors. It's onerous, but all the same it's very real. We can't just say thanks for the memories."
"Giri." Vance nodded. "The 'burden.' "
"Ah, you know. Yes, it's called giri and there's nothing we can do about it." He was switching on the hall light. "Giri rules our lives."
Vance noticed the floor had a pristine carpet in conservative gray. A polished mahogany staircase led to the upper floors.
"Nice, Ken, very nice. The quintessential banker's pad."
"I have the entire building, my little indulgence. I keep a few antiques here, some of my art. You know, special things. Unfortunately I don't have a chance to use it much these days. The . . . friend I used to meet here . . . well, her husband was transferred back to Osaka. And I haven't had time to come up with a replacement."
"First things first, Ken. You should always make time for living. One of my few rules in life. You never get another shot."
He laughed and opened the door leading from the hallway into the parlor suite. It smelled slightly musty from disuse. "I'm better at giving advice than taking it too, old man."
"Touche." Vance shrugged, then looked around the spacious drawing room. It was furnished in standard English style, with overstuffed chairs, a Victorian fireplace, an oak tea caddy and bar. But the nineteenth-century appointments weren't what concerned him. Was it safe?