Genessee appeared, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. She knew the right way to start the day. Mas could imagine that this would be something he could easily get used to. He literally shook his head to erase such thinking before accepting the cup.
After coffee with Genessee, Mas was on the move. He parked the car in the Miyako’s three-story structure and walked into the lobby. There was no sense in calling Yuki again, so he took the elevator to the third floor.
“Yuki,” he called out, knocking his knuckle against the door. “Yuki, youzu in there? Mas here.”
He heard the pitter-patter of feet and then somebody knocking into furniture.
Whatthehell was going on?
He stayed quiet for a few seconds and then tried the door. It swung open and Amika Hadashi stood on the other side. Instead of being flawlessly coiffed, her hair was mussed up, frizzy all over. Wearing the same yellow dress—only it seemed to have wilted a bit—she held a pair of high-heeled shoes.
“Ah, ohayo,” she mouthed her good morning and then ran down the hall in her bare feet.
For a moment, Mas didn’t know what to do. He, of all people, should not judge, but he did. What had the boy gotten himself into?
Yuki appeared, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He wore no shirt, revealing a carriage that was muscular, despite his thin frame. On his arm was the tattoo Mas had forgotten about—a wart hog, because he’d been born in the year of the Inoshishi. “Come in, Ojisan.”
Mas did.
“You have a light?” Mas shook his head.
“I quit,” Mas admitted. It was after Takeo had been born.
“Too bad,” Yuki said. “I think I liked you better when you smoked.”
Mas let that one pass, because it was obvious that Yuki was recovering from a hangover. His room was a complete mess. The ice tub was on the floor next to an empty bottle of whiskey and, of course, two glasses. One of them was marked by red lipstick.
Yuki pulled the crumpled sheets off the bed, revealing a shiny metal lighter. “Got it,” he said, finally smiling before lighting his cigarette.
Mas was pretty sure that the hotel didn’t allow smoking. But what did he care? Yuki’s name was on the registry, not his. He did, however, notice the smoke alarm on the wall and pointed to it for Yuki’s edification. The boy bent down to retrieve one of his shoes and aimed it toward the disk. Bam! Got it on the first try. Maybe Yuki had a future as a baseball pitcher.
Mas sat on the padded chair on wheels by the desk. Yuki, meanwhile, reclined on his unmade bed, the cigarette ash falling onto the pristine white sheets.
“Sou,” Yuki said.
“So,” Mas replied.
“Looks like Japan may be facing Korea again on Sunday.”
As interesting as that statement was, Mas wasn’t waiting to hear that. He wanted to know why a half-dressed Amika Hadashi had come out of Yuki’s hotel room.
“Ah, shit,” Yuki said. “I know you probably think I’m lying, but I really didn’t expect that to happen. I actually went to the Bonaventure. To talk to Neko. I didn’t have her room number, and the employees wouldn’t give it to me. I called her room, and she said she couldn’t talk. That she had an appointment.” He tossed the cigarette stub into a glass with a line of brown liquid. “She wouldn’t tell me with who. I just waited there by the elevators. Waiting for her to appear so I could just talk to her.”
The boy was obviously lovesick, so sick that he looked like a pitiful fool.
“I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly she was there, shaking my shoulder. I thought I saw an angel. I really did. But the angel was with someone. Was with that Korean pitcher, Jin-Won Kim.”
“Both knuckleball pitcha. Maybe talkin’ about dat.”
“No, this wasn’t anything about knuckleballs, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Youzu don’t know.”
“No, Ojisan, I know. I could tell how he held her elbow. And how she leaned into him. And he’s married. A kid, just a baby.”
“Whatchu do?”
“I went back to Little Tokyo, to the bar across from the hotel. And then she shows up. Amika. She sits right next to me. I tried to ignore her, but how could I? The bar is filled with mostly Americans. College students. Strangers. I have no one to talk to, so I talk to her.”
Mas knew what was going to happen next.
“We came back to my room.”
“It looks like it,” Mas said in Japanese.
“Don’t judge me, okay? You’re old, so you don’t know how it is. She’s the one who brought the whiskey.”
This Amika was something else, Mas thought. For a woman to be carrying around a bottle of whiskey like that?
“She’s seeing someone, you know. The catcher, Sawada.”
Mas lifted his eyebrows in surprise.
“They have an open relationship,” said Yuki.
“What dat mean?”
“That he gets to sleep around.”
“And she?”
“Not so much,” said Yuki. “He adores her. I don’t know why. She’s awful.”
Mas frowned, confused.
“I was drunk, okay? I actually don’t remember much of anything. But obviously something happened here.”
Naturally.
“I don’t like Amika. Not one bit.” Yuki’s glasses were back on his face. “She was engaged to a sumo wrestler before, you know. It was supposed to be true love. Once his star began to fall, she dropped him. Just like that.”
The thin reporter with a beefy giant? Unfathomable.
“She’s too old for me, anyway. And she’s always digging around for stories. She’s working on a big one on Neko, actually. Not sure when it’s going to air, but she even interviewed Neko’s parents back in Yokohama. It didn’t go well; at least that’s what Neko said. Her father won’t even talk about it.”
“So Neko-san your girlfriendo or sumptin?”
“Well, we did spend some time together. Nippon Series sent me to Hawaii to cover her a few months ago. I thought maybe, well, that we could continue where we left off. But it certainly seems like she’s moved on with Jin-Won.”
Yuki sat up, the ash falling onto his T-shirt. “She needs to be careful,” he said, talking to himself more than to Mas. “There’s a lot of Korean media here, too. It would be terrible if they cast her as Jin-Won’s mistress. It could even have international repercussions.”
Mas’s interest was peaked. Isn’t that what Itai said? That he knew of something that would have a global impact?
Yuki stepped over his mess to make his way to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Mas rolled open the curtains to take a look down at First Street. A van was parked at the curb, and Mas recognized some of the photographers he’d seen at the first game between Japan and Korea.
The toilet flushed, and Yuki joined Mas by the window. Peering down on the street, he said, “Something is going on. Let’s get down there.” He rummaged for his pants and then a shirt. He couldn’t seem to find anything that wasn’t wrinkled into a ball. “Ojisan, let me wear your Nippon Series polo shirt? You’re wearing a T-shirt underneath that, right?”
I thought I didn’t look professional, Mas thought, but he took off the shirt anyway and handed it over. Looking at himself in the full-length mirror, Mas scowled. Now I look a gardener-san more than ever. He put on his jacket so he’d at least have a more professional appearance.
The two of them rushed downstairs. As they headed out through the hotel’s glass door, they saw that the van was still in front. The driver was programming his GPS, while another Asian man rushed into the open vehicle, shouting instructions in a foreign language, most likely Korean.
In the jumble of foreign words, Mas and Yuki were both able to make out the destination. The Bonaventure Hotel.
Yuki pulled out his cell phone. “I need to warn her,” he said, pressing down on the screen.
The lovesick boy was again overreacting. Who knew why they were headed to the Bonaventure?
“
Neko-san. It’s me. Yuki. Call me as soon as you get this,” he said, his words rapid-fire. Then to Mas: “Get the car.”
“Where weezu goin’?”
“Bonaventure.”
“Who knowsu why they goin’ ova there.”
“We do this all the time, Arai-san,” Yuki. “If our competitors are rushing off to cover a story, we follow them.”
“But no idea—”
“Yes, even if we have no clue about what’s happening.”
Mas grit down on his dentures. No wonder the news business was in big trouble these days.
Once they parked in the expansive lot across the street from the Bonaventure and entered the hotel, Mas and Yuki faced a maze of escalators and elevators. A collection of reflective cylinders near the 110 Freeway, the Bonaventure reminded Mas of high-tech urban silos, but instead of grain, they held human strangers to Los Angeles. The silos were old, built in the mid-seventies, but they’d aged surprisingly well. Or maybe they were like palm trees—originally from an alien place, but now solidly part of the L.A. landscape.
They found a video screen with a list of that day’s hotel events: a meeting of community college administrators, a gathering of doctors, and then, yes, a press conference in a banquet room on the second floor. Some familiar-looking Asian journalists were heading up the carpeted stairs, so Mas and Yuki followed all the way to one of the banquet rooms.
Jin-Won Kim was seated behind a covered table in front of a few rows of padded chairs. TV cameras were set up and ready to roll.
Yuki didn’t seem to recognize anyone—that is, until a woman in a flowing peach blouse stepped in front of him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Amika.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Yuki didn’t answer and found an empty seat on the end of the front row. Mas opted to stand in the back. Amika, unfortunately, took her place right next to Mas. He chose not to acknowledge her existence.
A woman with a camera came by. While everyone else’s cameras were large and had large lenses, hers was palm-size and conventional. And what was even more interesting was that she wasn’t aiming her camera at Jin-Won. No, she was taking pictures of Mas and Amika. Mas recognized her—he’d seen her on the field at Dodger Stadium before Itai had died.
“Whozu dat?” Mas grudgingly asked his neighbor against the wall.
“Sally Lee. She’s not with the media. She’s part of a Korean women’s advocacy group.”
Before Amika could elaborate, the press conference began. Sure enough, it was in Korean.
Amika seemed to understand the speaker, a middle-aged Korean man in a suit sitting next to Jin-Won.
“You knowsu Korean?” Mas asked.
“Some. I can get by.”
“Whatsu goin’ on?”
“Jin-Won wants to join the major leagues.”
“Can he do dat?”
“He just told the Korean press that he wants to. He can be officially posted after this season. If his current team, the Unicorns, agrees.”
This was certainly news to the journalists, who looked electrified. Questions shot out from various corners of the room. Yuki, who was observing carefully, nudged the man next to him, who seemed to give him an update.
During this flurry, Mas noticed two new figures standing in the doorway of the meeting room. Two women. Neko and an older woman whom Mas had seen at Dodger Stadium.
“Whozu dat ole woman?” Mas asked Amika.
“What’s it to you?”
“I’zu see her before. At Dodger Stadium.”
“You are very observant for a gardener.”
Mas’s eyes widened. Why should Amika know that he was a gardener?
“Yuki and I talked a lot last night.”
That’s not all you did, Mas thought.
Mas wasn’t the only one to notice Neko. Yuki was out of his seat and making a beeline for her.
Not good, Mas thought. He tried unsuccessfully to divert the boy’s attention.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Yuki said to Neko in Japanese.
“I’m just here to support Jin-Won.”
“So is this part of your plan? He comes to America to be close to you.”
Neko frowned. “I’m in Hawaii. Hawaii is closer to Korea than most of the major league teams in America. He wants competition. He wants to play in the majors.”
“And I suppose his wife and baby will be back in Korea—quite convenient for the two of you.”
Neko, whose pale face was as smooth as that of a white peach, scrunched it into an awful grimace, as ugly as the oni devil mask that once adorned the Arai hallway. She pulled one of her arms back and unleashed a slap as loud as a thunderclap across Yuki’s right cheek.
“Neko!” the old woman cried out, running to the pitcher’s side. She cradled Neko’s hands as if they were made of fragile glass.
“No worries,” the pitcher said in Japanese to the older woman. “I used my left hand.”
“You gotsu to stop.” Mas had pulled the boy into the hallway. He was making a complete aho out of himself.
“I’m in love with her,” Yuki said in Japanese.
That was obvious.
“She decide to go wiz Jin-Won, datsu her decision,” said Mas.
“She has a chance to become the first female major leaguer.”
“Whatsu dat to you?”
“I want her to succeed. I want her to achieve her dreams.”
Mas examined the boy’s face. Chikusho. He was telling the truth. He was punch-drunk in love with that woman. “Youzu gotta get your head on straight. Find out what happen to Itai.”
Yuki took a deep breath, in and out. He paced the hallways and returned to Mas. “You’re right, Ojisan. I need you to call.”
“Call who?”
“The coroner. Find out the status of the autopsy report.”
“Me?” Mas said in Japanese. Was Yuki kuru-kuru-pa?
“You’ll be better at communicating than me. You’re the one who’s telling me to concentrate on work.”
Mas cursed. The boy was right. He couldn’t get out of this one. After Yuki pressed in the number, Mas took the phone. “Hallo. I want to talk to coroner.”
“What is this regarding?”
Whatthehell was Itai’s first name?
“I’zu reporter. From Japan.”
“You can leave a voice message with our press department.”
After some clicks, Mas explained that he was leaving a message. “Dis from Yuki Kimura, Nippon Series. Callin’ about Mista Itai. Whatsu goin’ on wiz him?”
Yuki took the phone from Mas and left his cell number.
Who knew if the coroner would respond back?
Yuki agreed that it would best to leave the Bonaventure and stay clear of both Neko and Amika. They returned to the Little Tokyo hotel, where Yuki took a proper shower and then went shopping for fresh changes of clothes. He wasn’t much of a shopper, to Mas’s relief, and they ended up in a tiny gift store bordering the driveway at one of Little Tokyo’s Buddhist temples.
Yuki’s purchases in hand, Mas gestured toward the semi-hidden temple down the skinny driveway. “They have the Hiroshima Peace Flame in there,” he said in Japanese.
Yuki came to a dead stop on the sidewalk. “What do you mean, ‘flame’?”
“Someone carried it from Hiroshima,” Mas said, remembering an article in The Rafu Shimpo. “Still burning.”
“Can we see it?”
Mas shrugged. He wasn’t much of a Buddhist, but he knew most of the priests around town were on the mellow side. Since Buddhists were the minority in the US, their doors were always open to newcomers.
The main sanctuary was locked, so they went to a side door to find the office. The priest, wearing a white shirt and tie underneath a solid brown kimono, looked familiar to Mas. He had a long face and eyes that looked both welcoming and sad. He must have officiated at one of the many funerals that Mas seemed to attend every other weekend.
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“I understand you have the Hiroshima Peace Flame here,” Yuki said. “I am from Hiroshima.”
“Oh, really?” the priest said, almost as if he was expecting Yuki. He led them out of the office and into the darkened sanctuary. At the side of the main altar was an ornate gold lantern shaped like a beer stein. A faint flame illuminated its center. “In the 1980s, the mayor of Los Angeles brought the flame over in ember form from the Hiroshima Peace Park,” the priest said. He’d obviously told this story before.
How could he bring fire on an airplane? Mas wondered. He must have had to go through a lot of clearance for that.
Yuki put his hands together and bowed toward the light. This moment of reverence both touched and surprised Mas. The boy then stepped back and waited, as if he expected Mas to do the same. But Mas had experienced the flames of the Bomb firsthand. He felt no need to bow to it now.
As they walked back to the hotel, Mas remembered Mari’s earlier offer. “Youzu can wash some of your dirty stuff at my house. My daughta invite you ova for dinner, anyways.”
Yuki seemed relieved for the chance to eat a home-cooked meal. He didn’t know what he was in for, thought Mas. Mari was still in her healthy, no-rice, no-bread mode. In other words, a big pile of various raw greens with squares of fresh tofu.
Yuki’s eyes widened as he stared at the white cubes on his plate on the dining room table.
“What, is something wrong?” Mari asked as she passed around some miso dressing.
The boy was smart enough to stay silent and shake his head no. Takeo, who was raised on raw, unsalted almonds and dried cranberries, happily began to eat, and so did Lloyd.
Mas felt the last bit of fat leave his body as he bit into the fancy organic lettuce. Just what did his daughter want—for them to be a family of skeletons?
The doorbell rang, saving him from taking another forkful of salad. “I’ll get it, Dad,” Mari said, pushing him back down in his seat.
Mas heard a familiar bright voice at the door and then, there she was. Genessee, with a casserole dish full of carbohydrates and cheese.
“Auntie Genessee!” Takeo called out. Even Lloyd was smiling. She was a favorite of the house, no doubt about that.
Sayonara Slam Page 6
