Sayonara Slam

by Naomi Hirahara

  The emcee, the enthusiastic banzai man from table 2, took his place on stage at the podium. He spoke of the proud tradition of Kagoshima, how its geographic isolation in the southern part of Japan had led to fierce independence, yet also ties with foreign countries. He was obviously giddy to be in the presence of Kii Tanji. Mas was starting to feel sick, but not sick enough to refuse the plate of prime rib set in front of him.

  The emcee then proceeded to introduce the special guests. He went around the room, almost calling out the name of every person at every table. Finally he got to table 5.

  “Kimura Yukikazu,” the emcee read from his list of names.

  Toda rose to provide additional details. “He’s a journalist born in Kagoshima. With Nippon Series magazine.”

  “And your other guest….”

  “Ah, Arai Masao.”

  Toda didn’t bother further identifying him, because what could he say? A fellow gardener, with currently only one customer. A has-been. Washed up. Poorer than dirt, with a few coins in his personal bank, a Yuban coffee can in the back of his closet. No, there wasn’t much that could be said about Mas Arai, but Mas really didn’t care.

  There was then a bit of a rumbling at table 1.

  The chubby Tanji was on his feet, pointing at Yuki. “He’s a liar! He’s not from Kagoshima!”

  Toda frowned. Sitting back down, he asked Mas for clarification. “You said….”

  A skinny man who Mas hadn’t seen before stood up and joined the two other Tanjis in casting aspersions on Yuki’s credentials.

  Yuki’s face was as white as that of a ghost. He pointed at his cell phone. “That bony kuso-head,” he said, pointing to the skinny man with the Tanjis. “He sold me this phone.”

  “Where? At the tourist office?” Mas asked.

  “No, in the hotel parking lot.”

  The boy had purchased something from someone in a parking lot? Mas had once bought a bowling ball bag from a stranger’s trunk outside of his local lanes. As soon as he inserted his fifteen pounder in the bag, the handle fell off.

  “I’m on a budget,” Yuki said, defending his purchase. “He sold it to me for thirty dollars.”

  Mas couldn’t believe it. Is that how the Tanji gang seemed to mysteriously know their every move?

  “Damn you!” Yuki shouted at the skinny offender. “You’ve been spying on me with that piece-of-shit phone you sold me!” He charged toward the table of Tanjis.

  Mas bowed his head. “Moshi wake gozaimasen,” he said to apologize to Toda, who probably needed a third drink.

  The skinny Tanji supporter had taken off running, and now he was flying down the stairs toward the golf course, with Yuki at his heels. Behind him were the two Tanjis who had confronted Mas, the chubby one surprisingly leading the other. Bringing up the rear was Kii Tanji, but not for long. Being the true athlete of the bunch, in spite of his smoking habit, he quickly passed the two in the back. Led by the stick-figure man, they zigzagged across the putting green and jumped over parked golf carts. Finally taking a flying leap, Tanji grabbed hold of Yuki’s legs, sending him skidding on the green inches away from the eighteenth hole.

  “Fore!” High-pitched voices called out, and a neon pink golf ball bounced about two feet from the red flag stuck in the hole.

  Mas, who’d been watching all this from the second-floor balcony, spied a group of angry Asian women in visors marching toward the pile of men on the green. You can get away with a lot of things in this world, but not messing with golfers on the eighteenth hole.

  By the time Mas made it downstairs, the men, including the skinny one who’d run away in the first place, had wisely moved to the concrete in front of the golf cart check-in area.

  “He sold me a tracker phone,” Yuki yelled at Tanji. “Your relatives—and yes, we know they’re all your relatives,” Yuki said, drawing a straight line in the air with his index finger, connecting all the Tanjis on their nametags. “Your relatives have been following us, badgering us. All to protect you. Because you killed Itai-san.”

  Tanji rubbed his yellow crown of hair, which obviously had a generous amount of hair product, because it barely moved. The carnation in his boutonniere was smashed, its stem broken, so the flower hung like a bloody appendage. His face changed expressions quickly—first indignation, then disbelief. He doubled over, but although his face was hidden, the sounds of laughter were unmistakable. “Don’t even say a joke like that, Kimura. You’re going to kill me with your nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense. And it’s not a joke. You were seen before Itai-san was killed in the cafeteria, angry about something. Later, he keels over dead, a situation that was celebrated by your minions on the internet.” Yuki sneered at the other Tanjis. “And I’ve copied everything, so don’t even bother trying to erase them from your news boards.”

  Kii Tanji’s muscular body straightened. “Are you serious?” He turned to the mini-Tanjis. “You assholes have been posting things on the internet?”

  “It’s all anonymous. We didn’t use our names or anything,” the mustachioed one finally said.

  “If this miserable, no-good, so-called reporter figured it out, don’t you think my political opponents will, too? And it’s not like you can get rid of your digital footprint.” Tanji started slapping the heads of his minions, who had no choice but to accept their punishment. After a few seconds of that, Tanji stopped and faced Yuki. “Listen, I had nothing to do with Itai’s death, okay? And they didn’t, either. Like I told you before, they’re all talk.”

  “Then why did you confront Itai-san on the day he was killed? And don’t tell me it had anything to do with Zahed.”

  Tanji’s chest heaved in and out in his formal suit. “He left a message on my phone. That he had some information that might affect me breaking the home-run record this year.”

  Yuki didn’t seem convinced.

  “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Here, listen for yourself.” Tanji pulled his phone from his pocket and put it on speaker. A couple of swipes of his screen, and then they heard the familiar raspy voice that Mas had heard on the Dodger Stadium field: “Tanji, it’s Itai. I need to talk to you rght away. It’s of the utmost importance. Your future Japan home-run record is on the line.”

  Tanji returned the phone to his pocket. “So if you got that kind of message, how would you react?”

  “What did he say when he spoke to you?” asked Yuki.

  “We made arrangements to talk after the game. I have no idea what he was talking about, okay? And why would I want to kill him? If I murdered every journalist who was causing me problems, there wouldn’t be hardly anyone in the press corps, okay?”

  That actually sounded like it had a ring of truth, Mas thought. Yuki seemed to think the same way. He took a deep breath. “Okay, you kuso-heads, you stay away from me and my people. And that includes Neko and Mrs. Kim. You come within ten feet of them and I’ll have you arrested, or I’ll write something in the Nippon Series.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” said Tanji. “I have to be back in Tokyo. We’re on a plane out of here in two days.”

  Yuki immediately relaxed. But Mas didn’t receive the news of their exit in the same way. The scattering of the Japanese team meant that whoever killed Tomo Itai could conceivably get off scot-free.

  That evening, Mas and Yuki ended up again at Suehiro’s in Little Tokyo. They were seated in the same place with another group of loud youngsters in the place of the ones from the previous night.

  “I don’t think Tanji killed Itai-san,” Yuki said after his first chew of his broiled mackerel.

  Mas had just dug his fork into his chicken oyakodonburi.

  “I mean, Itai-san’s phone message did sound ominous. But that’s it—why would he share Itai-san’s phone message with us?”

  “You’zu makin’ it tough for him.”

  “Yes, but still. He could have made up another lie.” Yuki’s phone began ringing, and he excused himself to
take the call outside, where it was quieter.

  Mas lifted his forkful of chicken, cooked egg, and rice toward his mouth. Chizuko had occasionally made oyakodonburi at home. Literally meaning “parent and child bowl,” the name was a bit cannibalistic, which added to its charm. But it was really just simple comfort food: a stew of the child (an egg) and the parent (cut-up chicken), with a sauce that combined soy sauce, sugar, and mirin, a low-alcohol rice wine. Genessee made wonderful macaroni and cheese and Greek salad, but oyakodonburi wasn’t part of her culinary fare.

  Yuki returned to the table. “They’re going to be moving Mrs. Kim tomorrow from the hospital into a nursing home in Koreatown. Her heart’s doing fine, but it turns out that she fractured her hip when she fell. She’ll be staying in Los Angeles until she fully recovers.”

  They decided that Yuki would stay with Neko the next day during the transfer. Mas, on the other hand, had his line of questioning to pursue. One involving a man named Stinky.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mas had first met Stinky Yoshimoto at Tanaka’s Lawnmower Shop in Altadena, near a supermarket called Market Basket. More than for selling equipment and parts, it was most known among gardeners for its covert activities in its backroom. In a haze of cigarette smoke, and around the poker table littered with red pistachio shells, the men traded money and gossip, with the quieter ones typically winning the whole pot at the end of the night. Stinky usually lost.

  Mas never knew how Stinky had earned his nickname, and he never wanted to ask. Wishbone Tanaka, the proprietor of the lawnmower shop, was a more formidable figure who usually overshadowed Stinky’s ridiculousness. But when you least expected it, Stinky would be inserting his opinion whether you wanted to hear it or not.

  Tanaka’s was gone, replaced by a nail salon, with its tinny chemical smell instead of the earthy cling of the lawnmower shop. Both Wishbone and Stinky had found refuge at a nursery underneath power lines near Eaton Canyon. Mas hadn’t seen Wishbone’s pockmarked mug for a while; he blamed that on the fact that his regular schedule had been upended to accommodate the new additions to his household. Not to mention his friendship with Genessee.

  A call to Eaton’s Nursery resulted in shocking news. Wishbone had just undergone surgery for stomach cancer. And, coincidentally, he was recovering at the same nursing home in Lincoln Heights where Stinky was now living. The dismal duo, inseparable again.

  After Mas got off his cell phone, he felt sadder than hell. It wasn’t like he was buddy-buddy with either one of those guys, but he preferred to imagine them causing trouble in multiple neighborhoods rather than rotting away in an institutional box.

  He called the nursing home for Wishbone. Would it even be worth talking to Stinky?

  “Come on over, Mas,” Wishbone said. “Stinky has his good days. He has his bad, too. Either way, it would be good to see you.”

  Wishbone hadn’t been joking about his anticipation. As soon as Mas parked in the lot for the Japanese nursing home on top of the hill in Lincoln Heights, he saw a familiar pigeon-toed man leaning by the front entrance. He had a walker and his back was bent, but sure enough, the old attitude remained. “Hell of a place to see you in, Mas. Here I am, with half a gut. Probably from eating too many umeboshi.”

  Could too many pickled plums kill a man? Mas wondered.

  “Just started walking yesterday. Figure that I’ll break out tomorrow.”

  “Sorry, Wishbone. Gomen ne.”

  Wishbone scowled. “Nah, not like you had anything to do with it. Getting old is a bitch. But you know that, Mas.” His eyes were milky and moist. Mas wondered how long the old man had. “So, what do you want with Stinky? You know that his brain isn’t working right. Locked up in the Alzheimer’s ward.”

  Hearing Wishbone say “break out” and “locked up” made Mas want to run in the opposite direction. But he was here to investigate a lead. Find out about the Gripsholm. He might as well test it out on Wishbone, Stinky’s supposed best friend. “Hey, youzu knowsu about Gripsholm?”

  “Gripsholm? Haven’t heard that in long time.” Wishbone turned his head awkwardly toward Mas, as if he had a kink in his neck. Mas helped him sit down on a bench.

  “Yeah, the Gripsholm, that’s a story in itself,” Wishbone continued. He was wearing a hospital gown and red socks with webbed soles. “It was a fancy Swedish cruise liner at one time, I believe. But during World War II, it went to the dark side and took prisoners of war to Japan from the US. The thing is, they went the long way.”

  “Whatchu mean, long way?”

  “Well, they couldn’t just cross the Pacific, right, with all the fighting there. So they went from New York City down to Latin America, South Africa, India, Singapore, the Philippines, and finally Japan.”

  “Stinky was on it?”

  “Stinky? Nah. He’s never been east of Las Vegas. Come to think of it, me neither, if it weren’t for camp. Got to see the Bighorn Mountains, compliments of the US government.” Wishbone, still full of his piss of sarcasm, puckered his mouth. Maybe his days weren’t that numbered after all. “But Stinky was in Tule Lake after his parents went No-No. On the loyalty oath.”

  Mas struggled to follow what Wishbone was saying. Since Mas had been in Hiroshima during World War II, the goings-on in the camps were a bit of a mystery to him. He’d heard that Tule Lake, right on the California and Oregon border, had the most complicated history. Halfway through its existence, Tule Lake became a segregation center for the No-Nos, folks who wouldn’t agree to forswear allegiance to the emperor and fight for America—mostly because they were ridiculous questions, and also because citizenship wasn’t even on the table for people straight from Japan. To be a person without any country was a scary proposition, one that Mas knew too well.

  “Stinky’s old man was one of those types who wasn’t going to go down without a fight. You know they were one of the biggest grape growers out by Fresno, right? His dad was so mad about the government telling him that he had to give it all up, that he actually burnt the whole vineyard down to the ground.”

  Mas completely understood Mr. Yoshimoto’s point of view.

  “So when they started passing around that questionnaire, Stinky’s old man wrote down ‘no, no.’ Stinky was only sixteen, but he had to go along with what his father wanted, you know.”

  “He talksu one time about the Gripsholm. Mukashi, mukashi.”

  “He might have had a girlfriend who was on it or something. That Gripsholm all happened before Tule Lake started having a special section for No-Nos. When folks think of Gripsholm, they think traitors who rejected America. Wrong-headed, but that’s how people are.”

  Mas felt a bit dejected. It might have been a mistake for him to have come.

  Wishbone sensed his disappointment. “Never know what will jog his memory. Can’t hurt, at least.” Wishbone pushed his walker to the glass door and waited for Mas. “C’mon, I can vouch for you.”

  Mas wondered about an outfit that would value an endorsement from Wishbone Tanaka. But it didn’t matter. All he needed was a way in.

  He signed his name on a check-in sheet and followed Wishbone down a hall. The nurse accompanied them to open the door; the Alzheimer’s ward was locked for the benefit of the patients who had a penchant for wandering.

  Stinky wasn’t in his room, which was decorated with hand-drawn pictures from his grandchildren in Seattle. According to Wishbone, Stinky’s wife, Bette, was up there now for a quick respite. “She’s all skin and bones now,” Wishbone said. Mas was surprised to hear about her physical transformation. She was one of those Nisei women who were built sturdy, like a fire hydrant. The fact that she’d lost weight likely meant that caregiving had taken its toll on her.

  Mas followed Wishbone from the empty room to an activity center with a large-screen TV and overstuffed couches. A few folding tables were set up, and at one of them, a woman was pushing around puzzle pieces but failing to make any connections. Stinky was in front of the TV, transfixed by the infinite loop of
the Japanese cable programming.

  “Hey, Stinky. It’s Wishbone.”

  Stinky didn’t respond to his lifelong friend’s voice. He blinked hard, as if blinking would make the speaker disappear.

  Stinky used to have a few long strands of hair that he whipped over his bald scalp like a piece of limp seaweed over a polished rock. Now those sad strands were all gone. Stinky was completely bald, with a pale, green-gray tint to his skin, which made him look like something from outer space. Gardeners weren’t meant to be trapped inside, and Stinky was living proof of that.

  “This is Mas. You remember Mas Arai, right? Used to garden out our way.” Wishbone leaned forward in his walker.

  Stinky squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide. “Oh, yah, Mas. You have a daughter, right. Jill?”

  “No, sheezu Mari,” Mas corrected, but Wishbone jabbed him in the ribs to tell him such details were not germane.

  “Mas came all this way to ask you a question.” Wishbone turned to Mas. “You didn’t bring him any chocolates or something, did you? He usually does better with some kind of bribe.”

  Mas felt embarrassed. Any Japanese worth his salt knows that you bring an omiyage, a token gift, when you visit someone. He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket. The baseball that he’d found at Dodger Stadium. He knew it was ridiculous, but he held it out in his palm.

  “Baseball! I love baseball,” Stinky said, almost squealing. “I played in camp, you know.”

  “What camp Stinky in?” Mas asked Wishbone.

  “Gila River. That’s where a lot of those Fresno people went. Pasadena, too.”

  Sunny Hirose had said that he was in Gila River, Mas remembered. Sunny and Stinky must have been around the same age.

  “You knowsu anyone name Itai, no, Hirose?”

  “Itai. Itai.” Stinky made a sour face and grabbed hold of his calf.

  “He banged his leg on the side of his bed,” explained Wishbone. “He thinks you’re saying the Japanese itai.”

  “No, no.” Mas shook his head and tried again. “Sunny Hirose. You knowsu a guy named Hirose?”