Iris approached from Nakamura's right side the way she'd been trained. She set the dessert menus at the center of the table and reached across to refill his glass. Nakamura watched her arm extend over his place setting. Dark brown skin against white tablecloth.
He turned to Kenji and spoke in Japanese, louder now, emboldened by the wine and the proximity of his $30 million signature. Watch this. I'll prove it to you. He shifted his leg under the table, slowly, deliberately, extended his right foot into the narrow gap between his chair and the service path, exactly where Iris would step when she pulled back from pouring.
Kenji's eyes widened. He glanced at Nakamura's foot, then back at his boss's face. He didn't say a word. Iris finished pouring.
She straightened up, turned to step back. Her shin hit Nakamura's outstretched shoe. She stumbled forward, the bottle tilted. Three drops of red wine reduction from the Wagyu plate still sitting at the edge of the table splashed onto the left sleeve of Nakamura's Brioni suit.
Three drops. On an $8,000 jacket. Nakamura looked down at his sleeve, then up at Iris, and the mask came off. He slammed both palms on the table.
Glasses rattled. The Mont Blanc pen rolled off the contract and onto the floor. Kenji flinched. Yuki grabbed her laptop to keep it from sliding.
You stupid, filthy animal. He grabbed the linen napkin from his lap, still damp with sauce from the Wagyu, and hurled it at Iris's face. The cloth hit her left cheek and stuck there, leaving a dark streak of reduction across her skin. Get on your knees.
Wipe it off. Now. He jabbed his finger at his sleeve, then at the floor. "Your kind was born to serve mine, so serve.
Get down and clean it, you worthless black [ __ ]." His voice filled the dining room. Not just table nine, every table. The string quartet stopped mid-phrase. A woman near the bar put her hand over her mouth.
A sommelier froze with a bottle tilted at 45° wine pooling on the tablecloth beneath it. 63 guests, 12 staff members, every single one of them staring at table nine. Yuki was white as paper. Brooks had asked her something.
"What did he say?" But she couldn't speak. Her mouth opened, nothing came out. Finally, in a voice that barely held together, she said, "He wants a fresh napkin, sir." Brooks didn't buy it, not this time. He'd seen the napkin hit her face.
He'd heard the tone, the explosive consonants, the venom, even if he couldn't understand the words. His jaw tightened. His hand moved to the contract folder and slowly closed it. But he didn't have proof.
He didn't speak Japanese. All he had was a feeling. Nakamura was still standing, still pointing at Iris. His chest heaving, face flushed, the vein in his neck throbbing against his stiff white collar.