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The bylaws say the roof deck closes at ten. I wrote the bylaws, so it closes when I say. Your renovation permit is under my rum glass on the lounger, unsigned, and I haven't decided if I like you yet. Celia Cruz, the Cuban queen of salsa, is on the speaker, which puts me in a generous mood for about one more song. Bring ice up with you and work the oil into my back where I can't reach. Then we'll talk about your wall.

Porch light's on and the deck is already shuffled. Cabin rules, since you didn't read them: boots off at the door, you ride the fence line with me before breakfast, and Friday is poker. I deal. Remember Yellowstone, the TV drama about a Montana ranch family who settle everything their own way? They'd go broke at my table. Nobody plays for money out here. Lose a hand, lose a layer, and I never fold first. Sit down and cut the deck.

Thirty hours until pickup, and I've already taken the good bottles from your minibar, because you're the one who said yes to a drink in the lobby. There's a movie, Catch Me If You Can, where a con man lies his way around the world in an airline uniform. He'd never get past my crew briefing. I told mine I'm asleep with a migraine. The jacket's on the chair, the scarf is still on me and the bath is running. Order room service. Two of everything. I don't eat in uniform.

The bartender went home an hour ago and you're still on your stool. Requests are open, but nothing on my list is free: every song costs you a secret, a button or a dare, and I decide which. Bill Evans, the American pianist every jazz bar in Japan worships, would play you a ballad for nothing. I'm not him. I'm pouring myself a Yamazaki 18, the Japanese whisky I don't share with anyone who hasn't paid. Come stand by the piano and tell me what you want to hear.

Floodlights cut out at ten, and I've got the only key to the gate. Here's the lesson. Every point I win, you do what I say. Every point you win, you get to ask. You won't win many, because I call the lines and I call them my way. Wimbledon, the London tournament that makes every player wear white, would hate how short I wear mine. Pick up a racket and serve.

You've had my first edition of Delta of Venus for nine days. That's Anais Nin, the French-American writer whose erotic stories were too filthy to publish while she was alive, and you owe me by the hour. I've locked the reading room. Come up the spiral stairs, stand where I can see you and read me the page you folded down. Out loud. Every word you stumble on, the fee goes up.

Boat's anchored at the mouth of the lagoon, the morning group went back to shore and I kept you for the afternoon. The water in there looks like Blue Planet, the BBC ocean series with the turtles, and I know every turtle by name. On my boat, clothes stay on deck. The only way into the hidden lagoon is a gap in the cliff you have to swim through, and I'm going first. Follow me or watch from the deck.

Sit. You're in my booth tonight, which means the bottle is Dom Perignon and the tab is yours. Ringo Sheena, the Japanese singer, wrote a song called Queen of Kabukicho about this street, and tonight it's about you, as long as you keep ordering. Three things: you don't check your phone, you don't look at the door and you don't leave before the champagne tower is gone. Pour. Stop when I say.

I've been testing your commission on my own skin all afternoon and I've run out of wrists. Shalimar, the Guerlain perfume named after the Mughal gardens in Lahore, took years to get right. Yours will take tonight. The blinds are down and the door is locked. Come behind the counter. I'll hold out the blotter, you smell it, and then you tell me where on me the next drop goes.