“Oh, out that way. That’s pretty far.”
“Arai-san is my driver. And translator.”
“You drink ocha?” Sunny asked. “I’m an old bachelor, but I can still make a cup of green tea.”
“Yes, but—” Yuki started to say, but before he could finish his sentence, the old man disappeared through his stacks of boxes.
Mas was not the king of housekeeping himself, but with three additional people in his home, he had become more particular. Sometimes one unwashed spoon or plate in the sink could set him off. In the past, it was fine because it was his own mess, but now he often found someone else’s mess to be completely intolerable.
This mess of a house was Sunny Hirose’s. It had nothing to do with Mas, so he tried to keep it that way in his head. Still, he refused to take a seat, afraid that a pile of magazines would fall on his head.
Yuki used Sunny’s absence to snoop around. He studied a trophy on top of the mantel next to the Christmas elf and some crooked framed photos on the wall behind boxes of soy sauce. Over in the corner was a large piece of equipment, a tabletop with a metal sander attached to it. Mas, who’d done his share of woodworking, had seen something like that before but couldn’t remember where.
Sunny finally returned with two steaming mugs, a tea-bag string hanging from each one. He wore thick gold rings—Mas could make out the words, “Korea” and “Army” on a couple of them.
“You play beisuboru,” Yuki said after accepting one of the mugs.
“What?”
“Baseball,” Mas interpreted.
“You have photos.” Yuki pointed to the framed photos.
“Oh, yeah. Me and my older brother. A lifetime ago. When we were in camp. Does he know what that is?”
Mas turned to Yuki and asked whether he was aware of the camps that imprisoned Japanese Americans during World War II.
Yuki nodded, but Mas had his doubts about whether the Hiroshima-born man really understood.
“I was in Gila River. Had a pretty good team there.” Sunny turned his attention back to Mas. “What camp were you in?”
“I’zu not in camp. In Japan.”
“Oh,” Sunny said. Now that Mas had said Japan, Sunny seemed totally disinterested. Some Nisei had no idea what it was like overseas during World War II: the firebombings over Tokyo, the hunger in their bellies that could barely be sated by sweet potatoes, the black rain over a decimated city. There was no sense in mentioning Hiroshima, because that’s not why they were there in Sawtelle.
“Anyway, what can I help you with?”
“Itai-san,” Yuki said, “did he seem bothered by anything while he was here?”
Mas attempted to translate the best he could.
“Well, you worked with him. You know what he was like. Never slept. Always on his phone or on the computer. It was no wonder that he dropped dead like that. He was married to his work. I told him it would be better if he settled down, got married. Don’t be like me. But he told me that no woman would be able to stand him. I guess he was right.”
Yuki’s back straightened when Sunny spoke of Itai’s phone and computer. Mas could guess what Yuki’s next question would be. Sure enough, he asked, “Are the computer and phone still here?”
“The phone, I don’t know, but the police took away his computer yesterday. You can go into the room he was using and see what’s left.”
This room was as bare as a prison cell compared to the living room: just a small twin mattress topped with a nylon sleeping bag, and a television tray that probably served as a makeshift desk.
Yuki leafed through the papers on the TV tray. They were all computer printouts in Japanese. “This is a list of the players on the Japan team.”
Not surprising, Mas thought. Wasn’t that what the reporter was here for?
“Can you ask whether he has a computer printer? Did Itai-san use it?”
Mas interpreted and Sunny responded, “Yes, in fact, he did. He gave me a file on those what-you-call-it…thumb drives. I think I may still have it.” When he went to retrieve it, Mas wandered into the attached bathroom. It replicated the living room’s discordant look. A shelf that was probably designed for toiletries held about ten boxes of baseball bobble-head dolls. An open hamper revealed not dirty clothes but shoe boxes.
On the tile counter Mas saw shaving cream, a used disposable razor, a toothbrush, and Japanese toothpaste, squeezed from the middle. He didn’t see any prescription medicine, although based on the rings in the medicine chest, there once were some.
Sunny appeared in the bathroom’s doorway and handed over the thumb drive, a simple gray rectangle.
“Itai-san take medicine, desho?” Yuki asked directly.
“High blood pressure. Runs in the Itai family. I have it, too.”
“Youzu see him take it?”
“If you mean his pills, yes. He usually carried them with him, though. Why?”
Yuki nudged Mas. “Ask him if someone has access to his house. Or if anyone has come over.”
Mas frowned. “Like who, a housekeeper?”
“Just ask.”
Mas did.
“No, it’s just me,” Sunny responded. “I mean, I have a poker game here every Friday night with my old buddies from the Korean War. But that’s about it.”
After a few more circles of Itai’s space, Yuki nodded that he was ready to go.
“Sah, thank you, ne.” Mas was genuinely appreciative. Not many men his age would be this accommodating.
“You guys take it easy,” Sunny said, taking hold of the half-empty mugs.
“Again, very sorry about Itai-san.” Yuki bowed before he left. As they made their way back to the Impala, he hissed in Mas’s ear: “I think he knew more Japanese than he let on.”
“Could be,” Mas replied. It was hard to figure out the Nisei and their attitudes about speaking their parents’ language.
Back in the passenger seat, Yuki pulled out a digital tablet from his computer bag. Slipping the thumb drive into one of its ports, he tapped the screen here and there. Mas watched as Japanese text appeared on the screen.
“Itai-san was collecting dirt on practically every player on the team.”
“You don’t seem too bothered that this Itai’s dead,” Mas said to his passenger in Japanese.
“Of course, I’m upset. He was my senpai. Practically my mentor. Taught me everything about research, writing good stories. That’s why I’m here.”
Still, Mas thought Yuki’s emotional responses this whole time seemed muted. It was all about the story. As he started the Impala, he glanced back at the neat ranch-style house, its exterior masking the chaos within.
While Mas was driving east on the 10, the cell phone in his pocket went off.
“What’s that? You mean you have a cell phone, Ojisan?”
Mas didn’t bother to reply. Once he braked to a stop for traffic, Mas pulled it out to see who had called.
“Ge—neh—see.” Yuki looked over Mas’s shoulder. “What kind of name is that?”
Mas returned the phone to his pocket. The last thing he wanted to talk about with the boy was Genessee.
“I’m hungry,” Yuki said when they were passing downtown L.A.’s skyscrapers.
So was Mas.
“Anywhere to eat near Dodger Stadium?”
There was nothing directly around Chavez Ravine. But on the edge of Chinatown was Philippe’s, a Dodger Blue haunt. It was the historic home of the French dip sandwich: slices of beef, pork, lamb, or turkey soaked in meat jus and stuffed in a long bun that had been dipped into the savory jus. Add just a dab of custom-made hot mustard, and you were set.
Yuki brought his tablet into the restaurant—which was smart, since you never knew when robbers would do a smash-and-dash in the parking lot. After they ordered their sandwiches at the counter from a waitress wearing a little blue cap on her head, they carried their trays past long tables of uniformed cops, office workers wearing laminated badges, and men in baseball caps. Th
e heels of their shoes crunching on the sawdust on the floor, they finally found an empty wooden booth in the corner.
Mas chowed down on his lamb dip, but Yuki was more interested in his tablet screen. “Souuuuu,” he finally said. He leaned back in the booth and took his first bite of his sandwich. “The date on this computer file. It’s from three days ago. Right when he arrived.”
What of it? Mas thought.
“There’s dirt on here, but it’s all things we already suspected.”
“Maybe more on his laptop?” Mas asked.
“Probably.” Yuki then cursed. “I hoped this thumb drive would hold all the answers.”
They finished off their lunch with gulps of Coke and left. Only twenty minutes until the press conference—Mas sped up the hilly streets to the stadium. A press representative was waiting for them at the top of the stadium’s stairs and directed them to the elevator. They joined another journalist in the elevator down to the Tommy Lasorda room.
Mas stood in the back of the room, while Yuki sat at the end of the second row. Mas saw the same cast of press characters: the sleepy-looking cameramen, the Japanese reporters in suits, and the Latino photographer who had helped Itai.
“You’re back. Mas Arai, right?” said a familiar gravelly voice next to him.
Mas grunted. It was one of the detectives who had questioned him a couple of days earlier.
“Back to the scene of the crime.”
Just what was this aho saying to him?
“Or, I guess, the scene of what we think was a crime. The coroner is still working on the toxicology report. These things take time, I guess.”
In fact, the hakujin man up front was saying the same thing. “We’re waiting for the results from the coroner’s office. As soon as we hear from them, we’ll hold another press conference for the Japanese media. So please refrain from contacting us in the meantime.” He then stopped talking and let an interpreter translate his message.
Based on his scowl, Yuki was not impressed. He was furiously tapping his pen on his notebook, as if he could barely stay seated.
“Why is the head person not here to speak to us? A member of our press corps was killed in this stadium, and we need to hear directly from him,” he practically shouted in Japanese. “I’m Kimura Yuki with Nippon Series, and it was my colleague who met his sad demise here.”
While the baseball executive listened to the English translation from the interpreter at his side, Yuki turned to his colleagues. “I’m shocked by your response. Or lack of response. Itai-san’s killer is at large. Any of you could be the next victim. Maybe the killer is in this room.”
The reporters let out audible sighs; it was obvious that no one took Yuki seriously. Mas sincerely felt badly for him, but having an outburst like this seemed less than professional.
“Again, we are sorry for your colleague’s passing, and we are certainly working with the authorities to get answers. We’ll inform all of you as soon as we hear anything definitive.”
The reporters got up, making sure not to make eye contact with Yuki. Only the young blonde, April Sue, approached Yuki, taking down his contact information and giving him her business card. Smitty Takaya wasn’t there; this probably had nothing to do with his area of responsibility, but Mas missed that shock of white hair and his easygoing demeanor. The female broadcast reporter, Amika, was also absent. She probably knew that the press conference would be a waste of time.
Mas left the press conference first, figuring that Yuki had enough interpreters, professional ones, to come to his aid. Also, he wanted to stay clear of that detective. What was he doing here, anyway? Was it like Yuki has said—maybe the killer was someone in the press corps?
Because the follow-up game was tomorrow, some Japanese players were out in the wide hallway. A couple were cleaning their teeth with toothpicks; they’d probably just finished their afternoon meal down the hall. Yuki finally emerged, and when he saw Neko Kawasaki walking toward him, his face visibly softened.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Only six months.”
“You’ve been pitching well.”
“So you’ve been following?”
“Watching on the internet when I can.”
“I need to go back to Hawaii soon.”
“I’m in Sho Tokyo. At the Miyako.”
“Oh, I’m at the Bonaventure downtown.”
“Bonaventure—oh, that’s famous.”
“It’s old. I think that it was built in the 1970s.”
This conversation was complete nonsense. Mas finally approached Yuki and murmured in Japanese, “Let’s go.”
But Yuki would not be deterred from his mission. “Dinner. Tonight.”
“Not sure if that’s a good idea. I don’t think the team manager wants us to socialize with reporters. Especially someone from Nippon Series.”
“I won’t ask you anything about Itai.”
Neko rolled her eyes.
“Well, you don’t have to answer them then.”
“If it only would be that easy.”
“You have your same cell phone number, right? I’ll call you later.”
“You can try. I can’t stop you from trying.” Neko walked away, bobbing her head toward Mas before disappearing into the women’s restroom.
Mas shook his head, not believing what he’d just witnessed.
“What? What?”
“Embarrassing,” Mas said in Japanese.
“What do you mean?”
“Sheezu not interested,” he stated plainly in English.
“How do you know?”
Mas heard the tapping of high heels against concrete, and then a swirl of yellow appeared in front of them. “So I see the Nippon Series has sent another one of its loser dogs to America. I guess they’re more desperate than I thought.” It was Amika, wearing a dress the color of the center of a daisy.
Yuki cringed. Mas knew that Yuki had a sharp tongue, and so she was surprised that he didn’t use it against the broadcast reporter. “I’m just here to cover a story. Just like you.”
“No, what we do is report. Not spread unsubstantiated gossip.” She turned and clicked away.
“She just can’t let it go,” Yuki murmured.
“What?” Mas asked, but the boy pretended not to hear him. Their drive back to the Little Tokyo hotel was quiet, which suited Mas just fine. He was beginning to realize that this so-called journalist’s trip to Los Angeles may be about more than just his dead colleague. Perhaps a female knuckleball pitcher.
After Mas dropped Yuki off, he got on his cell phone. Genessee deserved more than he had offered last night.
When she opened her front door, she looked fresh and bright-eyed. And yes, maybe beautiful. Mas felt a tingle in his limbs.
“How was your day?” she asked, offering him a glass of red wine.
“Orai if we don’t talk about it?”
Genessee smiled, revealing the tiny gap in her teeth. “Of course.”
Chapter Five
The next morning, Mas checked his cell phone as best he could. As far as he could tell, only one message. From Mari.
Walking out of Genessee’s bedroom through the sliding glass doors and into her backyard, he carefully pressed the button to call back.
“Hallo.”
“Dad, where are you?”
“Genessee’s house.”
“Oh. You haven’t been staying over there lately, so we didn’t know where you were.”
It wasn’t what Mari thought. Genessee had filled Mas up with lasagna and garlic bread after he’d stopped by last night. It was the wine that had done it. The last thing he remembered was sitting back on her couch while something was on the television. How he’d ended up in Genessee’s bed, he didn’t know. He was stripped down to his T-shirt but was still wearing his jeans.
Mas didn’t say a word. How many times was Mari missing from her room during her summers in betw
een college semesters? By that time, Chizuko was gone; communication had all but broken down between father and daughter.
“You have to call, Dad. Just check in so we know that you’re safe.”
“Yah, yah.” He knew she was right, but again, it hadn’t been his intention to stay the night on the westside. It was already nine in the morning. And no call from Yuki yet. “Anybody callsu me?”
“No. Who were you expecting? That Yuki dude?” She pronounced his name like “yucky”—on purpose, Mas figured.
“I’zu be home tonight. No shinpai.”
“I’m making dinner. You can invite Yuki, if you want.”
Mas grimaced. His little girl wasn’t much of a cook. But he knew she was being gracious, so he accepted the invitation as best he could.
After he got off of the phone, he walked toward Genessee’s rock garden. The one he’d created for her about five years ago. He’d picked up the larger rocks from the Imperial Valley. One was shaped like the giant head of an eagle. All in all, the garden was holding up well, even though the occasional bird chose to splatter its white gifts onto the rocks.
It needed to be raked periodically, and Mas had purchased a special metal one for this purpose. He knew that the hakujin pictured a Zen priest in a robe doing such raking in a meditative state—not a white-T-shirted old man with morning breath. And while a priest might think of the fragility of life while he raked, Mas was pondering murder.
Who hated Itai? The first person that came to his mind was the TV reporter, Amika Hadashi. She definitely seemed to have a bone to pick with Itai. He wasn’t sure what had happened between them, but it seemed very personal. But would she attempt to kill him right in front of the entire Japanese media corps? It seemed unwise, and she struck Mas as being very clever. The catcher, Sawada, wasn’t a fan of Itai’s, either.
Other than those two, Mas couldn’t think of any others. But Itai had said he’d be making an announcement that would rock the baseball world. What in the world could command such interest?
Mas tried Yuki’s cell phone a couple of times, but no dice. He even called the Miyako Hotel, but after a few rings he was sent to the guest voicemail service. Until now, Yuki had been so eager and on the ball to get moving. Perhaps Amika Hadashi’s biting words had dampened his enthusiasm.
Sayonara Slam Page 5
