Despite our desperate circumstances, I can't ignore my fascination with two nearby sumo wrestlers in natty golf clothes talking into cellular phones. PCS is biological in Tokyo, every man, woman and club kid owns one. But in the stubby hands of these brutesthey look as anachronistic as Bon Jovi in a Versace ad. Kito, noticing my curiosity, translates their conversation: "The essence of what they say is, 'I too have a phone.'"

      I nod like I know what he's talking about. That's how you handle Kito.

      The crossing light's electronic, sincere rendition of "Comin' through the Rye" heralds safety, but we have much further to travel than this stretch of pavement to reach that destination. The Yakuza is after us. Tacky, I know, but it's not my fault. It's nobody's, really. At different low points of this night I've blamed a lot of people for what happened, everybody from Kito to Todd (Oldham, of course), who sent us here to scout out promising sites for a new boutique. I guess the true culprit is karaoke.

      Much earlier in the day, Kito and I took a much-deserved break from two grueling days of lunches and parties to dine at a hovel of a restaurant in the less-than-reputable Kabukicho neighborhood of Shinjuku. Kito insisted we go. "You Westerners must understand that with Yin always comes Yang," he babbled. "Tonight you will see Tokyo's other side."

      At first it was a polite decadence. The music blaring from the "no pants" coffee shops was the most inane J-Pop. The disembodied female voices screaming at passersby from loudspeakers outside phone sex clubs sounded more like over-protective mothers than cryers on the hard sell. Even the drunken businessmen on whoring sprees followed the rules of pedestrian traffic, as best they could. I felt a peace in this endless electric night, a tranquility no temple or shopping spree had yet given me. Too bad it wasn't going to last.

      A hand grabs my shoulder.       2 >>>

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