Sayonara Slam

by Naomi Hirahara

  Mas was hoping to avoid any discussion of his relationship with Genessee when he arrived home on McNally Street, but no such luck. Mari was waiting for him, ready to pounce. “What happened last night, anyway?” she asked as she scooped rice into a small bowl for her father. “Genessee didn’t look too happy with you.”

  “Nuttin’.”

  “Dad, you know it’s okay. You can get married again. Genessee is good for you.”

  Mas thought he’d be relieved that his daughter was giving him permission, but it actually made him feel worse. “Whyzu I get marry again? I’zu ole man.”

  “Haruo did it. And he seems very happy for it.”

  “Anyways, wiz you all in my house, no room for nuttin’ else,” Mas declared, causing Mari’s mouth to drop open. He was sure she’d have something to say to that, but rice or no rice, he wasn’t going to stick around the kitchen to find out.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day, Mas was ready. He didn’t have the same Nippon Series polo shirt, but he had a similar type that he’d gotten free at a pesticide workshop. He figured that Yuki wouldn’t notice the dead-garden-snail insignia, especially as it was covered by his jacket, and he was right.

  As soon as he got in Mas’s car at their rendezvous spot in Little Tokyo, the boy opened the laptop he was carrying and announced, “I know why Itai-san was killed.”

  Mas felt like a stone dropped into his gut.

  “This is big, Ojisan, bigger even than baseball itself.”

  Isn’t that what Itai had said? That he had information that would shake up international relations?

  Mas continued driving up through Chinatown, passing a newsstand manned by an old Asian man wearing a cap.

  “It’s about Jin-Won. The old lady who we saw at the press conference at the Bonaventure? That’s his grandmother.”

  Mas waited to hear more. Surely that in itself wasn’t earth-shaking.

  “She’s reported to have been an ianfu.”

  Mas had heard or read that Japanese word, ianfu, maybe a few times on television from Japan. Here in America, people said “comfort women.” They were women, mostly from Korea and other Asian countries, who were taken to provide sex for Japanese soldiers during World War II. Had the Korean woman who’d said “konnichiwa” to him in Dodger Stadium endured such an experience? She looked like an ordinary Asian grandmother. But then didn’t Mas and Haruo fall in the same category? Who could have imagined that they had survived the beast of the Bomb and the black rain that followed?

  Mas couldn’t put words to his thoughts, but it didn’t really matter. Yuki would fill up the Impala just fine with words of his own. “She hasn’t gone public yet, but Itai-san believed that she was going to announce it here in Los Angeles.”

  “Don’t make sense,” Mas murmured. Wouldn’t she do that in her home country?

  “Itai-san wanted to be the first to break the news. There’s not many of them left anymore. The Nippon Series is one of Japan’s more liberal publications, you know. Even more liberal than the Asahi Shimbun.”

  Mas didn’t know about such things. Besides the TV broadcasts, all he read was the Japanese American newspaper in Los Angeles, The Rafu Shimpo. Yuki went on to explain that the newspapers in Japan, along with the politicians, were in a sense at war with this issue. “Some maintain that the women went along willingly to make money. That they were prostitutes.”

  Mas frowned. That grandmother in the Korean jacket looked about his age. What fifteen-, sixteen-year-old would volunteer for such a miserable fate? He felt sick to his stomach.

  “On Itai-san’s calendar on this computer, it says he was supposed to meet someone after the first Japan-Korea game. He didn’t say who, but he wrote that it was related to a ‘book publisher.’”

  A publisher about the ianfu?

  “This is not something to take lightly. You should see what these people write on the internet,” Yuki added. “The mayor of Nagasaki was shot some years ago by a nationalistic fanatic. You never know what some of these people will do.”

  Mas felt shivers go down his spine.

  “But he wasn’t killed,” the reporter clarified.

  And that’s supposed to make me feel better? Mas was beginning to regret agreeing to help Yuki in the first place.

  “Some files in here have been erased, too,” Yuki said, looking at the laptop screen. “There’s an empty folder called ‘Gurippu.’ I wonder what that’s about.”

  Maybe “grip” in English?

  Yuki was on the same wavelength. “Maybe Itai was looking into baseball-bat grips. I’m not sure. He was a diehard baseball fan, though. Came out for spring training to see all the Japanese players on the major league teams. Sometimes he toured the minor leagues and even the independent leagues.”

  “Hawaii too?”

  Yuki closed Itai’s laptop. “I know what you’re getting at, Ojisan. Neko had nothing to do with Itai. Or his death.”

  Since they got to Dodger Stadium a few hours early, Mas had no problem getting a special press parking space. As he got out of the car, he noticed Yuki bringing Itai’s laptop. “Youzu takin’ dat wiz you?”

  “I can’t let anything happen to it.”

  Mas had a very bad feeling about the computer. It held secrets that even empires might kill for.

  Once they were on the press-box level, Yuki said, “Go get something to eat, Arai-san. I’ll be back soon.”

  In the distance, Mas saw the two detectives walking toward them, and he was only too happy to avoid another encounter with them.

  Mas had actually eaten at Dave’s Diner, the press-box dining room for special people, once with Lloyd and Mari. He felt funny going in there, but he had an official pass, compliments of Nippon Series. He just wished he wasn’t wearing a polo shirt advertising a pesticide that kills snails.

  Pork chops were on the menu, and Mas chose that, along with mashed potatoes and lentil soup. Having come straight from Japan, Chizuko had been a terrible cook at the beginning of their marriage, but she eventually mastered potatoes and red meat. Pork chops were her specialty. He was savoring Chef Dave’s version when a thin giant sat down at his table. It was the pitcher with the strange Arabian-sounding name. Soji Zahed.

  “So you’re a reporter, too,” Zahed said. Close up, he looked more Japanese to Mas. It wasn’t only the curve of his eyes but the shape of his mouth. And, of course, he was also speaking impeccable Japanese, much better than Mas’s.

  “No, I just drive,” Mas said.

  “Oh. But you knew Itai-san.”

  Mas shook his head.

  “Your friend has Itai-san’s computer, I noticed. Where did he get it?”

  “You familiar with Itai’s computer?”

  “Well, he had that funny sticker on the back of it. It had the Japanese characters ‘teia.’”

  Depending on how it was written, teia could have different meanings. Zahed borrowed a pen and napkin from the kitchen staff and wrote it down for Mas.

  Mas studied it. Curious. It could mean “emperor of Asia” or something like that. He didn’t notice that writing on the back of the laptop. He’d have to check.

  “Police finished taking a look,” Mas finally told him. “Why, you worried about it?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just wondered if they know what happened to Itai-san. He was my friend.”

  Mas was astonished. How could this mixed-race teen have anything in common with a kuso-head like Itai?

  “I went to his same high school in Kyoto. Ryukokudai Heian. It’s a baseball powerhouse.”

  Even Mas had heard of it. His own school in Hiroshima had its own impressive baseball reputation, always performing well in Japan’s World Series for high school students. But the Kyoto school, he grudgingly admitted, had an even more stellar reputation.

  “He’s been writing about me ever since junior high school.”

  Mas didn’t know quite what to make of Itai. He had a terrible personality yet he was obviously a hatarakimono, hard
worker. He had always admired anyone who put sweat into his job, no matter what it might be.

  “Not everyone was supportive. You know how Japan is. Hard to be a hafu over there. Especially as a kid.”

  Mas didn’t ask Zahed what his non-Japanese half was. None of his business, he figured.

  But Zahed volunteered the information anyway. “My dad’s Iranian. Operates a little corner store in Kyoto with my mother. Itai-san knew my parents. They were shocked by his death. I still can’t believe it.”

  Mas wondered if Yuki knew of Itai’s close relationship with Zahed. He hadn’t mentioned it before.

  Just then the Latino photographer wearing his trademark vest joined them at the table. He had a pile of lettuce on his plate, which was a surprise. Mas would have guessed that the large-framed man was a cheeseburger-type guy.

  The photographer sensed what Mas was thinking. “Diabetes runs in the family,” he said with a sad smile.

  “Well, see you later then,” Zahed said to Mas in Japanese and got up.

  “Tall guy.” The photographer watched Zahed leave before taking a bite of his lettuce. After a few chews and a wipe of his mouth with a napkin, he said, “It’s been a wild series, hasn’t it? Just spoke to the detectives. For the second time.”

  “Oh, yah.” Mas hoped they wouldn’t find him again.

  “Told them the exact same thing that I told them the first time. I saw him take his pill. Right before he collapsed. Took it right out of his suit pocket.”

  Sunny was telling the truth then. Itai carried his pills with him.

  “He told me he always takes his medicine at the same time. Seven o’clock in the morning, Tokyo time. Which makes it, what, around three here in L.A. We ate together that afternoon. In this room, in fact. Nobody seemed to want to sit with him. Not well liked by other reporters, I guess.”

  “Whatchu talk about?”

  “Nothing much, really. Our health problems. He did ask me some questions.”

  Mas finished his soup but kept dipping his spoon in the empty bowl.

  “About why I worked for a Japanese American newspaper. And that he was curious about the Japanese over here. The Nisei specifically. He wanted to know where their allegiances would fall. Japan or America. America, I told him.”

  Mas hadn’t picked up a napkin, so he wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.

  “Are you Nisei?” the photographer asked.

  Mas nodded. “I’zu Nisei. Kibei Nisei.”

  “The ones who were born here and went to Japan for their education. I know about you guys.”

  Mas wasn’t sure what he was insinuating by saying “you guys.”

  “So what do you think? Am I right?” Another bite of lettuce.

  Mas didn’t know why people asked these kinds of questions. What did it matter whether he felt American or not? Didn’t change anything. He was more interested in what happened the day that Itai died.

  “So after he eat, heezu orai?”

  “Well, I had to get going to check the flash on my camera. One of the baseball players actually came by to talk to him when I was leaving. He didn’t seem too happy.”

  Mas jerked his head up. Which player?

  “It was the Japanese guy with the blond dye job. What’s his name? Tanji?”

  Yuki never made it to Dave’s Diner. Mas got tired of waiting; besides, he felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. After the photographer left, there were only bigshots at the other tables. Bigshots who Mas revered. It was surreal to even be in the same room as them.

  Mas stumbled out of the restaurant and almost crashed into another old man. Smitty Takaya. “Mas! Good to see you again. Looking forward to the game this afternoon?” Smitty looked exactly the same as the time Mas had met him. Dazzling white hair, perfect dentures, and an erect back. He could have been in a television commercial for hemorrhoid suppositories or retirement annuities.

  “Yah,” Mas lied.

  “I think Japan has a good chance to sew this whole thing up.”

  “Dat pitcha, Jin-Won, gonna leave Korea for the majors, huh?”

  Smitty, for a moment, was tongue-tied, as if he’d underestimated Mas’s inside-baseball knowledge. “Well, we’ll have to see what happens. The Unicorns will have to agree to release him.” For some reason, Smitty didn’t seem thrilled with that possibility.

  Tanji, his yellow hair hidden under his baseball cap, passed by with a couple of Asian men in suits. They were trailed by two others in street clothes.

  “Tanji’s entourage,” Smitty commented. “They’re always making special requests for the highest-quality green tea for Tanji. I even had to go to Little Tokyo myself to buy it.”

  Soka, Mas muttered to himself. That was a superstar senshu’s life. Mas had even witnessed that in some of his celebrity customers’ daily activities. It wasn’t coffee made in a common percolator or a can of Folgers and a Mr. Coffee machine, but fancy contraptions with freshly ground whole beans. Now even regular people like his own daughter and son-in-law had taken on these practices. A chance to feel like a rich bigshot, at least for the time it took to drink a cappuccino.

  “Youzu see Lloyd?” Now that Yuki was busy with whatever, Mas thought he might as well check up on the boy.

  Smitty informed him that he was out on the field, and after Mas grunted his goodbye and walked away, he heard another voice behind him: “Mr. Arai.”

  Mas turned. Ah, tsukammata! He was caught by those detectives again.

  “We were just talking to your associate, Yuki Kimura,” said Cortez Williams, this time wearing a bright orange tie. His partner, Garibay, the older detective with the unruly hair, looked like he was in the same clothes that he wore earlier in the week.

  Associate? Mas cursed. When does being a driver make me an associate?

  “He claims that he arrived at your house on Wednesday evening, the day after Mr. Itai died. Can you confirm that?”

  Mas nodded his head. “Yah, he come.” Sonofagun. Is Yukikazu a suspect?

  “And how exactly do you know Mr. Kimura?” Williams continued.

  “My friendsu grandson.”

  “And he happens to be a reporter with the same publication as Mr. Itai?”

  Mas nodded again.

  “Hell of a coincidence,” Detective Garibay finally chimed in.

  Mas left out the part that Yuki actually sought him out because of his and Lloyd’s connection to Dodger Stadium. He shrugged his shoulders. What did the hakujin say? “Small world”?

  “I gotsu go help with field,” Mas lied.

  “Well, don’t let us stop you,” Detective Garibay said. Mas felt the sarcasm ring in his ears.

  He escaped into the elevator and went downstairs. All those knuckleheads—the police detectives, baseball players, groupies and all—were beginning to suffocate him. As the elevator doors opened and he stepped out onto the field, Mas was able to regain his equilibrium.

  The turf at Dodger Stadium was a beautiful thing. The grass was living and breathing, roots stretching down into the ground where Jews were once buried in the 1800s. Mas learned from Lloyd that the sod was actually raised in Palm Desert, a Bermuda grass overseeded with rye grass to get that perennial green sheen. But it wasn’t like the dye some flower growers used in standing water to get their carnations to be green for St. Patrick’s Day. This concoction was natural hocus-pocus, not fake.

  Lloyd’s crew was connecting their long, heavy-duty hoses to the water supply to make sure the field had enough moisture. Lloyd himself was checking a spot out in left field. Mas knew enough about baseball and gardening that you had to make sure the turf was uniform. One dry spot and the ball could bounce in a different direction, perhaps even determining a win or a loss.

  Mas walked along the dirt sideline. During the World Baseball Classic games, security was more relaxed than at regular Dodger games. His special ID was around his neck, but no one gave him a second look. He was just an old Japanese man to them. Utterly toothless. And if they thought that
, they would be most certainly correct.

  He raised his hand in acknowledgment to Lloyd, and Lloyd tipped his cap back. As Mas approached the storage area for the greenskeeping equipment, he noticed something white stuck underneath the bullpen gate. He bent down to pull it out. A baseball, but not a regular major league one. This one had some Japanese writing on it—actually, upon closer inspection, it had an imprint of a signature, but not of a baseball senshu. No, this one was the commissioner of the Japanese professional baseball league. Funny that such a ball would be brought over here, Mas thought. For these international competitions, especially with Japan versus Korea, a ball from Japan would never be allowed. He didn’t know what to do with the ball. Give it to the Japanese manager or one of the coaches? Mas wasn’t on that high level to have that kind of interaction. He’d just give it to Lloyd. Maybe Takeo would end up being the recipient of the wayward ball from Japan.

  Stuffing the ball in his jacket pocket, Mas continued to watch the greenskeeping crew work. All of them were young and genki, with knees that worked and shiny eyes and hair. They had their whole lives ahead of them.

  Lloyd, sweat running down the sides of his face, finally made his way to Mas. “If you want to be with your reporter friend, you better go now to the press box. The game will be starting.”

  “Nah, I stay wiz you guysu.” The greenskeeping crew was the closest thing to his people in this place.

  They sat amid lawnmowers and fertilizer carts in the storage area, the familiar scent of chemicals and dung permeating the space. A large-screen TV broadcast images of the Korean players taking the field, but the audio was turned off. Instead, an old-fashioned boom box provided the audio—the legendary Vin Scully. Scully’s voice immediately soothed Mas, a familiar balm that eased the discomforts of the past few days.

  Both Mas and Chizuko had been fans of John Wooden, the legendary UCLA basketball coach. Vin Scully was in the same class. The highest class, as far as Mas—and L.A. sports fans—were concerned. The longtime Lakers basketball announcer, the late Chick Hearn, was more colorful, full of sayings that made Chizuko, an immigrant, scratch her head. Hearn, who’d also hosted a bowling competition show on a local TV channel, was like a trumpet squawking in a jazz improvisation, while Vin Scully was more melodious, a wind instrument made from aged oak.