Stinky lived on a street in Altadena called Calaveras, which apparently meant the skulls and skeletons that danced around during a Mexican holiday, according to one of the day laborers whom Mas had once picked up on Pine Street. It was appropriate, because when Stinky and his wife, Bette, had first bought their house, in the sixties, it was a skeleton of a home. The house was obtained during a fire sale; a big chunk had burnt down when a piece of bread got stuck in a defective toaster. But due to Bette’s enterprising spirit, the home began to get more meat on its bones year after year, until by the eighties, it was downright pretty. Bette had also tried to work her magic on Stinky; he had proved to be a harder challenge. Most recently, she had been able to get him elected to the presidency of the Crown City Gardeners’ Association for two terms. (He ran unopposed the first time; his opponent died before the election the following year.) Crown City was the old name for Pasadena; Mas wasn’t quite sure why it had been called that, but being the home of the Rose Parade and its beauty queens, it wasn’t much of a stretch to connect Pasadena with royalty.
Mas parked the truck on Calaveras, right across from the Yoshimoto house. They had redone the sloped driveway, and it looked like the shutters were being repainted. Mas climbed up the driveway, impressed that all the cracks had been covered over. The Yoshimotos had a huge jacaranda tree with invasive roots that seemed to push up the ground within a ten-foot radius.
Bette must have been waiting for a delivery, because she opened the door before Mas had a chance to ring the bell.
“Mas, how are you doing?” she asked. Bette was a small, compact woman shaped like missile ready to be launched. She had no waist to speak of, and no oshiri, or rear either. It was surprising that her pants could stay on her body—perhaps that’s why she always wore a black leather belt that looked like a man’s.
“Orai,” Mas said, adjusting his Dodger cap. “No monku.”
“That’s what I like about you, Mas. You don’t complain. My husband, on the other hand—monku, monku, monku. Do you know now that he refuses to eat leftovers? And no fast food for him. I have to cook up a fresh batch of food every day for two old people. Isn’t that ridiculous? You’d think that now he’s working part-time, he’d lend a hand around the house.”
Mas didn’t know how to answer. If he agreed with Bette, Stinky would be in hot water. Normally, Mas wouldn’t care, but since he needed information from Stinky, he adopted another strategy.
He shifted his weight from one foot to another, cleared his throat, and sniffled hard, as if a huge hanakuso had blocked his ability to smell or hear. “Stinky ova here, by the way? Needsu to talk to him.”
“Well, you’ll have to go to his office to see him.”
Office? When did Stinky have enough money for an office?
Bette smiled. “Eaton’s Nursery. His so-called office is right there—outside on a picnic table. He even keeps his Crown City Gardeners files over there.”
Mas should have known. Ever since Tanaka’s Lawnmower Shop had closed down, Wishbone’s gang had had to find another hangout. Like a flock of cawing crows, they needed to exist in numbers or risk never being heard. And for Wishbone and his like, not being heard would be worse than death. They had finally landed at Eaton’s Nursery on Altadena Drive, right below the county wash, a flood control drainage area.
Thanking Bette, Mas headed down the driveway back to the Ford. Eaton’s was actually owned by a hakujin fellow, an old-timer who spent his nights gambling with the Japanese. His number-two employee was a Nisei, Bill Kamiyama, who everyone called Kammy.
Eaton’s was pretty far north, so the purple-peaked San Gabriel Mountains loomed close. One time, Mas’s second cousin came down to visit him from San Francisco and was shocked to see the mountain range just above Altadena. “Didn’t know L.A. had mountains,” he said. Outsiders rarely knew of L.A.’s true charm. And the ones attracted to the region’s superficial glitz and glamour weren’t the type to ever see it.
Mas parked in the gravel lot and this time didn’t bother to use the screwdriver to lock the car. This crowd wasn’t the thieving kind, at least not beyond a poker table.
Mas walked underneath a lattice roof where potted plants hung, and then past gallon containers of bougainvillea and ficus trees. On the side, in front of the bathrooms and around a plastic table and umbrella, sat the renchu, the gang of five. For the customers, having Japanese gardeners on display might have made Eaton’s Nursery feel more authentic. But if you bothered to spend any time with them, you would learn the truth: that the gardening trade hardly came up in their conversations. Even now, they were busy eating sunflower seeds, taking turns flipping the shells into the center of the table.
“Mas, haven’t seen you around for a long time. How are you doing?” one of the gardeners exclaimed. He had a plastic cooler at his feet, and Mas knew that although the top would be filled with Coke and Hawaiian Punch cans, the bottom would be all Budweisers, reserved for after-hours. Stinky must have been in a good mood, because even he was smiling up at Mas.
“Orai. Getting ole, datsu all.” That was about all the small talk that Mas could manage. He then turned his attention to Stinky, sweat dripping underneath his comb-over. “Stinky,” Mas said, pulling him aside, “I gotsu to talk to you.”
“Sure, sure, around the back.”
They went past the bathrooms down a walkway to another gravel lot, which faced an alley. A rubbish bin was so overwhelmed with chopped-up greens that its lid didn’t properly close.
“Whaddya want, Mas?”
“Go to Keiro today. Youzu went ova to talk to Gushi-mama dis week?”
“The old lady? Yeah. I know that she was tight with Wishbone, so I thought she might know where Wishbone was.”
I thought you were running from Wishbone, Mas thought to himself. And now you’re running toward him.
Mas’s thoughts must have been worn on his face, because Stinky asked him, “Didn’t you hear about Wishbone?”
Mas shook his head.
“Turns out he was in on the deal with that gardener from the very beginning. He knew that it was a scam. That’s why he got so mad at me for investing in his own scam. I guess the guy pulled a fast one on him and disappeared with all the money, his and everyone else’s.”
“How youzu find dis out?”
“Well, I went over to Skid Row, you know. Every low-income hotel down there. Finally, at the Chesterton, these guys say that they’ve seen my man. Saito.”
Mas’s eyes widened. The same Saito who visited Keiro.
“I know, Saito. What a joke, huh? That name is a dime a dozen. Should have known it was fake. Anyhows, I give them the two-one-three phone number, and it’s confirmed. It’s the phone number for their pay phone. So this Saito, or whatever he is, had moved out a couple of days ago. I bribe the receptionist to let me in his room so I can look around. And guess who’s there, doing the same thing?”
Mas knew before Stinky said it.
“Wishbone. He’s walking with crutches. He tells me the truth—that he was working with Saito all along. Only now he’s been double-crossed. Just deserts, I guess. He said that he would have warned me not to get involved, if he knew what I was doing. Everything’s all right with us now.”
No wonder Stinky’s disposition had gotten sweeter. But there was still the monetary loss, which must have smarted bad.
“Where’s Wishbone now?”
“Home, if he’s not following Saito’s trail. I guess this Saito’s still hanging around L.A. Not sure exactly why. You’d think he’d hightail out of here, you know. With everyone talking about him.”
Mas pulled down on the back of his cap. Stinky was right. The longer Saito stayed in L.A., the more likely that he’d be spotted by someone on the lookout for him. Unless he avoided Nihonjins completely and stayed and ate in Japanese-free areas. Mas felt he had exhausted all the information he was going to get from Stinky. “Sank you, ne. I gotta be somewhere.”
The only real place Mas needed to go
was home. And more specifically, right into his bathtub. It had been a killer day, and Mas was rubbing Irish Spring soap onto his arms and shoulders when he heard a knock at his door. A-ra. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Mas waited, afraid to make any splashing noise to confirm that he was in. But the knocks became more insistent. Finally, Mas gave in and got out of the bath, suds and all. Drying himself with a towel, Mas found his pajama bottoms and quickly stepped into them. He looked through a side window and nearly passed out right then and there. Agent Buchanan Lee was the one banging on his door.
“I know you’re in there, Mr. Arai. I just need a few minutes with you.”
Mas first thought about calling the police, and then wondered if that would do any good. Men and women with badges, wouldn’t they stick together? Mas kept the chain on his door as he opened it. He imagined the crime article in The Rafu Shimpo: Altadena gardener killed in his pajama bottoms.
“Listen, I’m not here to hurt you. I’d like to talk. Explain myself.”
“Waitaminute.” Mas went into his bedroom and got a clean T-shirt from a dresser drawer. After pulling it on, he undid the chain lock and slowly opened the door. “Come in,” he said. The house, as usual, was a mess. But Agent Lee wasn’t concerned with good housekeeping anyway.
“Sorry to barge in. Really.”
They spoke standing in the hall. That way Lee wouldn’t overstay his welcome, Mas figured.
“I’ve been trying to talk to your partner, Juanita.”
“Sheezu not my partner.”
“Well, whoever she is to you, she’s extremely stubborn. She won’t hear me out. My agency has been investigating a man named Metcalf. He worked with the INS in the fifties.”
“Why youzu interested now?”
“They found his skeleton buried underneath a city building that is being renovated for residential lofts. It just so happens that one of the future loft owners is an investigative journalist, Manuel Spicer. Now he thinks that he’s on one of those TV crime shows; he’s made it his mission to find out how Metcalf was killed.”
Spicer. That had been the name that Genessee had mentioned back at the library.
“You go to South Central Library.”
“Yep. Been there a couple of times.”
“Ole history.”
“Yes, but my agency is very PR sensitive right now. We don’t need a story about how the INS contributed to the Red scare. So myself and a partner were assigned to dig up the truth and see what we are dealing with. And it’s not pretty. We think that he might have killed somebody on the job. The man you’re looking into. Randy Yamashiro’s father. Isokichi Sanjo.”
Mas nodded. He felt a little proud that he and Juanita had been able to piece together that much on their own.
“But the more we uncovered, the deeper it got. And then my agency told us to stop. Drop the investigation. My partner was more than willing—like you said, this is old history to him. I, on the other hand, can’t let it loose. I mean, what’s everyone so worried about?”
Mas studied the agent’s face. He was young, probably only in his late twenties. His face held hope and innocence. He was a true believer. “So youzu doin’ dis on your own?”
The agent nodded. “I wanted to work for the government to make a difference. And that’s what I’m planning to do.”
Agent Lee was going to learn the hard way that there was a great cost to making a difference. But that was his life, his decision. What use was it to give the boy warnings?
“Can you tell Juanita what my intentions are?”
“You gonna help her daddy?”
A flicker of either pain or sadness passed over Agent Lee’s face. “I’m trying the best I can on that. I’m low level.”
So much for making a difference, Mas thought.
As Mas steered Agent Lee back to the door, he made a request. “Get rid of dat phone bug, orai?”
Lee didn’t openly admit that he had participated in any electronic surveillance, but he did dip his head, ever so slightly.
“And no more bugs in cars.”
“Tracking devices?” Lee seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t place tracking devices in any vehicles.”
Mas didn’t know whether to believe the agent or not. But his gut told him that someone else was on their tail, someone perhaps not as congenial as this Buchanan Lee.
chapter eleven
The next morning, Mas was in the garage, sharpening the blades of his hedge clipper, when someone walked up his long, cracked driveway. Mas tried to focus through the haze on a man with a large frame. It was Tug, carrying a sweet-smelling baked good.
Mas knew what this was before Tug spoke. Lil’s apology, wrapped up in a brown sugar coffee cake. So Mas accepted it, placing the warm pan on his workbench next to a can of WD-40 and jars of nails and screws organized by size.
“Whatever she might have said, she didn’t mean it. She’s been under a lot of stress lately.”
Mas could tell that he and Tug were going to be having one of their talks. So he wiped his hands and pulled out his dust-topped Coleman cooler. A few brushes from a rag, and Tug’s seat was ready. Mas then went into the house and poured what was left in his coffeemaker into a mug for Tug. Mas had been around him enough to know he liked his coffee super sweet, so he also threw in a couple teaspoons of sugar before he brought it outside.
“Thanks, ole man.” Tug gratefully took the half-full mug of coffee and declined an offer of coffee cake.
“Mari’s probably already told you about Joy,” he said.
Actually Mari had said nothing. She was a little like Mas—well, truth be told, she was a lot like Mas, in all respects. She kept dark stories locked inside, even from family members.
“Joy’s living with a girl now. They are coming together here for Thanksgiving.”
Girl roommates? What’s the big deal? Mas almost spouted out, when he fully realized what Tug was getting at. So the whisperings in corners of local nurseries were true.
“I’ve been praying about this, Mas. Two years straight. Hoping to get answers. Were we bad parents? I told Lil that she was too strong, and she tells me that I was too soft. Tell me the truth, ole man. Did we do something wrong?”
In her diplomatic way, Lil did call the shots at home. Tug, meanwhile, had fought various obstacles in the hakujin world as he worked as a county health inspector. When he got home, he deflated, pushing out all the pressures of work to readily receive the pleasures of being a father. They were a typical Nisei couple; as a family, better than most.
“It’s really my fault to have put so much expectation on her. I told her that she could do anything. Be president, even.” Tug pulled at his white beard. “Maybe the pressure was too much for her.”
Mas slowly chewed his coffee cake.
“We’ve kept quiet about her situation, and now, with the whole extended family coming over to our place on Thanksgiving, everyone’s going to know. I was telling Lil that maybe it’s better that way. It’ll all be out in the open. It won’t be like Lil will be carrying this huge secret burden on her back. It’s Joy’s life, after all. It doesn’t have to be a reflection of ours.”
The hakujins preached openness, but Mas didn’t know how well that worked in the Japanese American world.
“So, that’s enough about me. What’s going on with you and your investigation?”
Mas didn’t know if it was a carryover from his health inspector days, but Tug loved studying evidence. Mas could imagine him getting on his hands and knees to check underneath stoves for any signs of rodents and cockroaches. Measuring the temperature of meat in the refrigerator. Especially in light of his friend’s down mood, Mas gave Tug what he wanted. A blow-by-blow description of what they had uncovered about not only Randy’s death, but his father’s.
“Getting mixed up with Homeland Security? This is serious, Mas.” Tug’s eyes were shiny with excitement.
A car then pulled up into the driveway. G. I. stuck his head out of the driver’s-side win
dow. “That asshole just served me with papers saying he’s suing me for the five hundred thousand dollars.”
“Huh?” Mas licked some of the sugar from his fingers.
“Brian Yamashiro. I’m so pissed, I could kill that guy. I’m going over to that Burbank hotel to tell him off. I need someone with me so I don’t do anything crazy.”
Mas stood staring at G. I. His face was bright red, making his pockmarks more noticeable.
“I think he means you, Mas,” Tug said, rising from the Coleman cooler. “I’ll lock up your garage for you.”
Mas thanked Tug and told G. I. to wait. He went into the house to get a khaki work shirt. Securing all his doors, he got into G. I.’s car and waved good-bye to Tug, who looked wistful, as if he wanted to change places.
Brian was sitting by the hotel pool, wearing sunglasses and typing into a rectangular object that looked like a calculator. Next to him on a table was a glass of tomato juice garnished with a leafy stalk of celery. The recent stifling heat had subsided, and now the sky was gray. The only person in the rectangular light-blue pool was a woman in a white bathing cap and goggles.
“What the hell is this?” G. I. threw some papers in Brian’s lap.
“I thought you were a lawyer. I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“Your brother’s body is still warm and you pull something like this? You are something else.” G. I. adjusted his tie. He was wearing a suit for a court appearance later in the day.
Brian set his mini-computer on a table and calmly sipped from his drink. “What I think is even more interesting is that you would have received a half-million-dollar check from my brother and not even mentioned it to the police. But don’t worry—they know now. I’m sure they’ll be giving you a call.”
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