Sayonara Slam

by Naomi Hirahara

  Korea started strong. They got a run across in the first inning. By the seventh-inning stretch, Korea had tacked on two additional runs, taking a 3-0 lead. But in the eighth, Uno-san sent two men home with a triple down the line. The score was 3-2, with Korea still on top.

  It was the bottom of the ninth, and if Korea kept Japan from scoring, they’d have the win. The knuckleball pitcher and closer, Jin-Won, was in the bullpen, warming up his arm. But he never appeared. Instead, Mas saw a short, stocky pitcher running to the mound.

  Vin Scully handled the switch with aplomb, introducing the player who was taking Jin-Won’s place. While the spectators didn’t seem to catch on, Mas knew immediately that something was seriously wrong.

  Chapter Eight

  Unfortunately for Korea, Jin-Won’s replacement was a straight-ahead fastball pitcher, and both Tanji and Uno easily got on base for Japan. Sawada, the catcher and also Amika’s boyfriend, was swinging now. Mas expected Sawada to go for a big hit, but he wisely hit a sacrifice bunt. He was out on first, but only after Tanji and Uno advanced to second and third. Next at bat was the tall hapa pitcher, Soji Zahed. On the television screen, he looked nervous. Vin Scully even mentioned Zahed’s pitching woes on his minor league team. “Back in Japan, he was a Nippon-Ham Fighter who had an extraordinary rookie year, with eight wins and only two losses,” Scully said. “He did well today. If he could only take some of that magic back to his team in Rancho Cucamonga.”

  Zahed swung at a ball, missing completely. Even Mas could see that his timing was off. Pretty soon it was a full count. The Korean cowbells were ringing throughout the stadium, while the Japanese fans were cheering in unison. Sitting there practically underground, Mas felt the walls shake. If Zahed got a hit and Tanji made it to home plate, Japan would at least tie. If he got at least a double, Uno would score and Zahed would win the game for Japan. Mas felt bad for the boy; he probably wasn’t even twenty years old. Quite a lot of stress to place on the shoulders of a teen.

  Zahed licked his lips, stuck out his oshiri, and held up his bat. The pitcher contorted on the mound and released the ball. Zahed swung and made contact. The ball rolled down into an empty place on left field. Tanji made a run for home from third base, with Uno right behind him. Japan had won.

  “Yatta!” Mas was on his feet, his fingers clenched in fists. For a moment, he was transported back in time to an empty country field in Hiroshima, which he and his brothers cleared for their personal baseball diamond. They cut up a soiled tatami mat to make the bases and secured together three short bamboo poles to use as a bat. They wrapped rags to form a lopsided ball. Besides judo, baseball was the sport for them, ever since Babe Ruth had come to Japan for the exhibition games in 1934.

  Mas looked around at Lloyd and his crew, who were all standing, too. Their attention, however, was not on the TV screen but on their greenskeeping equipment. Not fans of either team, they just wanted to do their job and go home.

  One crew member said he had to go check out the skin in left field.

  Lloyd must have seen the puzzled expression on Mas’s face.

  “That’s what we call the grass, Dad.”

  Mas decided to make his way back to the press box, and as he walked there, his phone rang. He flipped it open.

  “Ojisan,” Yuki said, “we have to go to the hospital immediately.”

  “Orai. I comin’.” Before Mas even said that much, Yuki had clicked off. Something had happened to Jin-Won, Mas figured. First Itai and now the Korean knuckleball pitcher. Was this some kind of Japanese far-right-wing plot?

  When he finally met the reporter in the hallway, it was worse than he had initially imagined.

  “It’s Jin-Won’s grandmother,” Yuki informed him as they rushed to the Impala. “She collapsed while watching the game.”

  Did someone purposely harm the old woman? Mas wondered as he got into the driver’s seat. His hands shook as he held the steering wheel. They were stuck in the parking lot gridlock, which agitated Yuki no end.

  “How did you find out?” Mas asked in Japanese, hoping that conversation would calm Yuki down.

  “Amika told me. I knew something was up from the way the Korean media was huddled together.”

  Forty-five minutes later, they finally arrived at White Memorial Hospital in East Los Angeles, a trip that without the baseball traffic would have taken them fifteen minutes.

  Mas braced himself for bad news. That poison, the cyanide, had taken hold of Itai in a matter of minutes. The Korean grandmother was almost twice his age—and most likely had had a broken body for most of her life—so surely she could not survive its effects.

  When they walked down the hall toward intensive care, Mas noticed someone leaning against the wall. At first he thought it was a teenage boy, but as they got closer, he could clearly make out the uniform and the black layered hair.

  “Neko-san.” Yuki stood in front of her, opening himself up for any kind of response, even another slap. But there was no slap. Neko literally fell into his arms, pressing her face in his shoulder and shaking with sobs.

  Mas felt so awkward; he didn’t know if he should stay or go. He stuffed his right hand into his jacket pocket. There was something round in the pocket—the baseball with Japanese writing. He then checked his left: some quarters. He went back toward the elevator to buy the girl a Coke from a vending machine.

  When he returned, both young people were sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall. He handed the Coke bottle to Neko, who accepted it appreciatively with a bow of the head. Yuki took it from her and screwed open the cap while she cleaned her face with a handkerchief.

  She took a long sip of the Coke. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, her voice wavering. Mas was afraid the girl would start crying again. “Just when I met her.”

  Mas and Yuki exchanged glances. What was she talking about?

  Neko picked up on their confusion. “Don’t you know?” Her long eyelashes were clumped from her tears. “Mrs. Kim is my grandmother.”

  “So Jin-Won….”

  “He’s my cousin.”

  “I don’t understand.” Yuki’s voice was gentle and soft. “Mrs. Kim is Korean.”

  Just when Yuki spoke those words, the realization hit both him and Mas. According to Itai’s notes, Mrs. Kim had been a comfort woman. Somehow that connection had led to the birth of a child, either Neko’s father or mother.

  Neko didn’t reply and dabbed her eyes again with her handkerchief. Her nose had become swollen and red. Mas hated to think it, but the girl looked like a mess.

  “When did you find out?”

  “Jin-Won approached me the first day I arrived here in Los Angeles. The day before the game.”

  “It must have been a shock.”

  “The funny thing was, it really wasn’t. It was like someone had been preparing for me to finally learn the truth. I grew up with secrets. I knew my father was born in Manchuria; my Japanese grandparents were stuck there during World War II. My grandparents never talked about it. And neither does my father. A taboo topic. That’s why I told Amika to tread lightly.”

  “Amika?” Yuki withdrew from Neko for a moment, as if she could smell his intimate encounter with the TV reporter.

  “She insisted on speaking with my parents in Yokohama. Said that it was essential for her profile on me. I’m not sure exactly what she said, but whatever it was, it deeply offended them. They were so upset. Apparently, my father threw the whole news crew out of their house. They were furious with me, too, but wouldn’t say why. And they cut off ties with my grandparents. I immediately called Amika to find out what had happened, and she claimed that my parents had overreacted. But to what? I still to this day don’t know exactly, but I can guess.” Neko took another sip of her soda. “They didn’t want to consider that my father had been adopted. And even worse, that he’d been a product of something unspeakable.”

  Amika knew more than she was letting on to them, Mas thought.

  “
Mrs. Kim had given birth in Manchuria. A boy. He was taken from her and given up for adoption at an orphanage. For the last five years, Jin-Won has been helping her find out what happened to him.”

  “Your father.”

  Neko nodded. “My father. I didn’t know he’d been adopted, and I don’t think he even knew until Amika told him. Jin-Won took me out to dinner and showed me the paperwork. Given that my grandparents had been so secretive all these years, it made sense. They hadn’t done anything wrong; they’d done a good thing, in fact. Gave my father a second chance at life. But why keep it a secret?”

  Mas, who had harbored some secrets of his own, understood Neko’s grandparents’ motivation. What good would it be to dig up dark secrets from the past? Why hoist that dead weight onto your children and grandchildren?

  “That’s why you were so tender toward Jin-Won. He’s your blood,” Yuki said it aloud, obviously more for his benefit than Neko’s.

  She nodded. “You know that I’m an only child. To have a younger cousin, another knuckleball pitcher, with a baby. And a new grandmother. In one week, my family multiplied.” The girl’s face darkened again. “But now I might lose my grandmother, just when I met her.” Neko began to cry again, and Mas couldn’t take it anymore.

  He wandered back to the vending machine, but his pocket held no more quarters. He was checking his worn wallet when he felt someone’s presence. That woman, Sally Lee, aiming her camera toward him.

  Mas frowned. All this photo-taking and spying had to stop. “Whyzu you take my pikucha?”

  “I have a better question. Why are you here? You’re no friend or relative to Mrs. Kim.”

  Well, I’m no enemy, either, he thought.

  “You don’t belong here. The police are on their way anyway. Get out of here before I call security.”

  Mas was in no mood to make a scene in an intensive care ward, so he stumbled away.

  “Letsu go,” he said to Yuki, adding in Japanese, “we are not wanted here.”

  “I’m staying put, Ojisan,” Yuki said. His arm was around Neko’s slumped shoulders. He was back in the pitcher’s good graces, and he wasn’t going to budge.

  Suit yourself, Mas thought. He wasn’t going to hang around where he wasn’t wanted, to be possibly accused of being a killer, or maybe be killed himself.

  The first thing Mas wanted to do was drive to Genessee’s and sit back on her couch, listening to her plucking her Okinawan banjo-like instrument, the sanshin. But that wasn’t an option, at least not now. To go back to that meant he’d have to commit to some changes, and he didn’t know if he could really follow through.

  He got into the Impala and closed the heavy door behind him. Were they dealing with some kind of deranged serial killer? First to be downed was Itai, who seemed somewhat sensitive to the plight of the comfort women, and now a comfort woman herself?

  He needed something to help him escape his worries. He’d stopped smoking, and he hardly drank anymore. But a soft bean-and-cheese burrito, easy on the dentures—that would be something to enjoy. There was no parking lot for Al & Bea’s, so he had to fight churchgoers (why were the churches around here open almost every night?) and mariachi musicians for an open spot on First Street. The eatery was literally a shack with an aluminum awning and practically no sign. But anyone who was anyone in L.A. knew that they made the best bean-and-cheese burritos.

  Mas finally found a spot near the freeway onramp and slowly made his way to the street. It was pitch dark now, with no visible streetlights. The sidewalks were sometimes damaged into concrete crumbles, so Mas knew he needed to take it slow.

  Before he reached the curb, two men blocked his path.

  “Are you for us or are you against us?” one of them said in English, his accent betraying his Japanese background.

  Who was “us”? Mas wondered. The one who spoke looked about forty, and he had a faint mustache.

  “Omae, do you understand?” the other added forcefully in Japanese. He was chubby in tight pants, which gave the illusion that his middle was melting.

  No, Mas thought, I don’t, but it wasn’t a good time to admit that.

  “Are you a traitor to Japan?” asked the mustachioed man.

  “I’m American,” Mas said in Japanese. “So if that makes me a traitor, then I am.”

  “So you are on the side of the United States. The people who want to take over our land for army bases. To make us toothless. Impotent.”

  “You drop bombs on us, seeking to obliterate us,” the chubby one added.

  “Chotto, chotto,” Mas said. That’s one thing he could not let pass. “I’zu a hibakusha.”

  “Atomic-bomb survivor? You? Where were you?”

  “At the Hiroshima train station.” He gave the exact address and the name of his school.

  “I cannot believe this,” said the chubby one.

  “So you know what they’re saying about these ‘comfort women’ are lies.” The mustachioed man was more of a talker. “Those brothels were not sanctioned by the military. They were independent from the Japanese government. Those women volunteered to work there for money.”

  Mas was too young to have fought for the army, so he had no idea what was going on in different parts of Asia, or even in his own backyard. It was actually Yuki who’d told him about the Koreans who were forcibly brought over by the Imperial Army to work in defense factories in places like Hiroshima.

  “I dunno nuttin’,” Mas said, changing to English. “I’zu no soldier. But you’zu two plain too young to knowsu either.”

  The mustachioed man cursed him and spit on the ground in front of Mas.

  “You just watch out, old man,” the chubby one said. “You don’t want to fall down dead like Itai some day.”

  As they strolled away, the traffic on the nearby freeway buzzed in Mas’s ears. He realized that he’d seen these two before. They were the men following the yellow-haired outfielder, Kii Tanji, back at Dodger Stadium.

  Chapter Nine

  Mas didn’t know if the boy journalist would be answering his phone in the hospital, but he tried calling anyway.

  He’d just finished polishing off his second bean-and-cheese burrito—he thought he deserved it, after the encounter with the two hanakuso good-for-nothings, little bugger snots that Mas could have quickly brushed aside when he was in his prime. But he wasn’t in his prime now, and he knew it.

  “Mas-san, hello.” There was a lightness to Yuki’s voice, a carefree warmth that Mas had never heard before. It didn’t surprise him when Yuki reported that Mrs. Kim’s condition had stabilized. Tests revealed no cyanide in her bloodstream, although it was possible that other poisons could be present. Unfortunately, testing for unknown chemicals could take days to process in the laboratory.

  Mas told Yuki about the two men and the threat delivered by the roly-poly one. “I saw these two kuso-heads with Kii Tanji this morning,” Mas said in Japanese. “They were following him around like hungry dogs.”

  “I think I know who you’re talking about. Just a minute, okay?” Mas heard Yuki speak to someone, most likely Neko. “Come pick me up at the hospital. I think we need to have a conversation with Tanji-san.”

  “Maybe police betta handle,” Mas said.

  “No, they have no idea what’s going on,” Yuki said. “You need to be from Japan to really understand.”

  When Mas went to the hospital to pick Yuki up, he noticed Sally Lee standing by the glass doors. As soon as he parked the Impala by the entrance, she crossed her arms and scowled, as if to say, Didn’t I tell you to stay away?

  “Whatsu dat lady’s problem, anyhowsu?” Mas asked after Yuki got into the car and closed the door.

  “Who?” Yuki buckled his seat belt. “Oh, Sally Lee. She’s kind of Mrs. Kim’s assistant while she’s in Los Angeles.”

  “Sheezu the one who told me to leave.”

  “She’s just trying to protect Mrs. Kim. Don’t take it seriously, Ojisan. She’s actually not bad when you get to know her
.”

  Yah, right, thought Mas. He’d as soon see flowers bloom from a rock before that ever happened.

  Tanji was staying at the Bonaventure like all the other Japanese team members. Neko had called him, feigning that she needed to talk to him about a very important matter.

  Yuki even had his room number, so he and Mas went into the glass tube-like elevator with a clear mission: find out what Tanji was up to. And make sure to warn him to keep his minions far away from Mrs. Kim, who had to remain at White Memorial Hospital for who knows how many days.

  Neko chose to stay with her grandmother in her hospital room. It made sense. She and Jin-Won needed to focus their energies on helping their elder get better. Yuki and Mas, on the other hand, had dirty work to do.

  Climbing to the twenty-ninth floor, Mas looked out the elevator’s glass walls at the downtown L.A. skyline. It was now close to ten o’clock, yet some floors of the office skyscrapers were still lit up, either for the cleaning crews or late-night workaholics. He felt as though he was lifting off into space, until the glass pod shuddered to a stop. It was time to get out and face Tanji.

  Tanji was obviously expecting Neko, so he opened the door immediately after they knocked. “Ara—” he said, stepping into the carpeted hallway to see if Neko was lagging behind Mas and Yuki.

  Yuki pushed Tanji back into his room. Mas was shocked by the audacity but impressed by this new Yuki, transformed after being reconciled with his true love. “We have some questions for you, Tanji.”

  “Oh, you do now?” Tanji sneered, revealing crooked teeth. Mas never understood why the young Japanese, even the rich ones, never seemed to fix their teeth. Mas and Chizuko had spent a small fortune to correct Mari’s, and she was no superstar celebrity.