“Thatsu what good-for-nutin’ counselor saysu? Whatta ’bout your kids? You gonna go ova there in some bus?”
“Maybe. If I hafta.”
Mas felt heat rise to his ears. That damn Haruo. No pride.
The dark man, called Luis, patted the metal cash box. “There’s the five hundred dollars.”
“I match it.” Mas shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Okay, two hundred, but I get fifty dolla in chips. He’s got about that much left, anyhowsu.”
Luis brushed down the overgrown whiskers above his lip. “Sounds good to me.”
“Mas, howzu you gonna get four hundred?” Haruo whispered, remaining in his folding chair.
“Let’s see it right now,” said Riki.
“I gotsu it,” Mas said, thinking about the IRA Chizuko had opened for them years ago.
Riki lifted a cigarette from an ashtray to his dry lips. A line of ash an inch long bent down from his fingers as he inhaled. “Cash,” he repeated.
Mas opened his wallet and dumped wadded-up bills and change onto the table. Luis flattened the bills and organized them in neat stacks. “A hundred thirty-five and nineteen cents,” he said.
Haruo shook his head and shoved his hair behind his ears. “No, Mas. I needsu to take sekinin.” The scar on the left side of his face was clearly visible now. A web of puffed skin and deep recesses, gnarled like the bark of a diseased tree, stretched from his mid-forehead to his cheek. With his left eyebrow and eyelashes missing, Haruo’s fake pupil looked undressed, naked, startled, while the right side of his face held his true nature—soft and lightly freckled, thin eyebrow, gentle double-lidded eye.
Tug, who had been silent, stepped forward with a rectangular blue checkbook. “How about I pay for the rest?”
The men stared at Tug and began laughing. Riki almost spilled his drink on the table. “Check?”
“This not your business,” Mas said to Tug. Tug and Lil were careful with their money, going to senior citizen early-bird specials at coffee shops, and even trading flattened aluminum cans for mere nickels at the local recycling center.
“He can just pay me back. In monthly installments, right? That would be the responsible thing to do.”
Haruo bit his lip, folded his arms, and rocked in the folding chair. “I dunno.”
Luis’s dark brown eyes seemed to take stock of Tug’s clean golf shirt, his pressed khaki pants, his neat loafers, a pipe sticking out of his shirt pocket. “He’s good for it, Joji.”
“No.” Riki smashed his cigarette stub in the ashtray. “We’re not a pawnshop.”
“Now, Joji—” interjected Wishbone.
“No.” Riki clamped his jaws together, and his eyes seemed to burn like coals in their sockets. Mas felt something charge in his brain. It was dread, like the time his car overheated right there on the Pasadena Freeway. The whole car had rattled as if it were going to explode.
Luis arranged Mas’s bills in various compartments in the metal cash box. “Look, I’ll cover him.” He counted out five blue chips while Tug asked for the spelling of his name for the check. “Luis Saito,” he said. “L-U-I-S, the Spanish way.”
Riki, looking a bit defeated, got up and poured himself a beer by the makeshift bar in the corner. On his way back to his seat, he muttered in Mas’s ear, “You betta watch your friend. You don’t want nutin’ to happen to him.”
As if his body were reacting to Riki’s poison, Mas felt a jolt go up his back. Then he saw another familiar face among the other good-for-nothings standing around the table. Yuki Kimura.
“You,” Mas could only manage to spit out. The boy must have followed him and Tug to Little Tokyo.
Yuki pulled at a long chain that was attached to his belt loop and grinned. “Second time today,” he said.
Mas said nothing. He didn’t have time for the boy right now. He needed to concentrate all his energy on the card game and getting Haruo out of his jam.
Riki must have noticed Mas’s reaction to Yuki, because he invited the boy to sit down. “Might learn sumptin’.” Riki smiled, pulling a flimsy wooden chair beside him.
Yuki sauntered to the chair and sat down, his brown arms folded at his chest. Mas felt queasy just thinking that grandfather and grandson were unknowingly right next to each other. There was definitely a physical resemblance around the eyes, the high bridge of the nose.
“It’s your call, Mas,” Wishbone said. “What you going to do?”
Mas settled in the chair and picked up his hand. Seven of diamonds, ten of diamonds, jack of spades, three of hearts, three of spades. A pitiful hand worth nothing. “We drop.”
“But, Mas—” Haruo muttered behind him.
Mas bit down. That’s what Haruo’s problem was: He didn’t know when to quit.
“Okay, I call.” Luis proudly displayed a full house—two eights and three kings.
“Damn.” Wishbone tossed his cards in the center pile.
“Chotto matte.” Riki grinned, exposing his black, rotting teeth. “Got me a straight flush.” He had a line of clubs—all in ascending order: seven, eight, nine, ten, and jack.
Luis’s mustache went flat.
“Too bad, Saito.” Wishbone laughed as Riki pulled in the blue, yellow, and green chips.
“New hand, new chance,” Luis said, lifting his beer glass.
Wishbone was the dealer. His arthritic, bent fingers shuffled the cards into a red spray of cascading curves and straight-flowing rivers. Everyone tossed in a blue chip, worth ten bucks. The cards were dealt, and both Tug and Haruo sat in back of Mas like trainers in a boxing match. The young reporter, on the other hand, remained next to his secret grandfather. The whole scene was enough to make Mas sick.
It had been years since Mas played with Wishbone, and even longer with Riki. This other man, Luis, turned out to be a Japanese from Peru.
Wishbone threw two cards toward Luis. “If we got a few more guys, we could start another game. But that dang Heart Mountain reunion. Seems like every guy wants to see their old buddies and dance partners from camp.”
Yuki, who had long been quiet, finally spoke up. “Heart Mountain? What is Heart Mountain?”
“It’s a camp. You know, internment camp during World War Two.” Wishbone wrinkled his nose at Yuki. “You not from around here, are you?”
“Heezu Japanese, from Hiroshima,” said Haruo. “Really smart boy.”
“Not that smart,” mumbled Wishbone.
Mas, trying to drown out their conversation, studied his cards. A ten of spades, jack of spades, jack of diamonds, king of spades, and seven of hearts. Strong possibilities. Now, was he going to go for an entire set of spades, or maybe a royal flush? Or maybe just stick to the two jacks. Two jacks were decent enough, and he could hang on to the king for another match. But then, Riki asked for just one card. Meant that he had something big going on in that hand.
Mas’s instincts told him to play it safe. He could faintly hear Haruo in back of him, breathing loudly through his mouth.
“Decision, decision.” Riki raised another cigarette to his mouth. “Pretty soon, the moon will be out.”
Mas tried to ignore Riki. Do something rash in cards, and you pay for it later. He put the seven of hearts and ten of spades facedown. “Two,” he said.
“Hey, that’s it.” Wishbone sent two cards Mas’s way. A four of spades and a king of diamonds. Two pair, face cards. Good, but was it good enough?
Wishbone turned his attention to Tug. “That’s where I know that name, Yamada. From Heart Mountain. You got a sister, right? She was a member of one of those girlie clubs, the Divines. Softball player, if I remember correctly. Catcher.”
“Yep, won the camp championship.” Tug removed his pipe from his pocket and began stuffing it with cherry tobacco.
Luis put down one of his cards.
“Big girl,” Wishbone said. “What’s she up to now?” A new card was dealt back to Luis.
“She’s an assistant principal in the valley. Married to an
insurance man. Got three kids and a grandkid. He’s playing football over in Ohio.”
“Wow, imagine that.” Wishbone fanned out his own cards. “A Buddhahead playing football. And he’s pure Japanese, right? None of these mixes. Yessiree, one of these days we’ll see one of our boys in the NFL.”
Luis thumped down his empty glass on the table. “Wishbone, play.” The scent of cherry tobacco pervaded the room.
“Ah, you’re just sore because you’ve been salty all night. Ah, hell.” Wishbone looked at his cards. “I’m gonna get me four.” He counted out four cards from the deck and added it to his single remaining card.
It was back to Riki. “Izu in.” He threw in another blue chip. He exhaled smoke in a steady stream, a snake inching forward and then disappearing.
Mas hesitated. Could two pair of kings and jacks beat whatever Riki had? Even three deuces could do it. But then again, Riki was the champion bluffer.
“You all knowsu that me and Mas were friends back in Hiroshima?” Riki spoke up. “Yah, weezu known each other a real long time.”
Yuki seemed mesmerized by Riki and even took out his notebook from his backpack. Mas, meanwhile, steadied himself. He knew that losing his head would only quicken his ruin.
Riki continued. “Youzu think friends help each other. Watch each other’s back. Not always the case.”
Mas felt his face grow hot. He was thankful for the liquor that flowed freely throughout the room. Maybe everyone figured that Riki was drunk, or maybe the listeners themselves couldn’t grasp the conversation. He finally threw in a blue chip. Only about fifteen left. He could barely hear Haruo murmuring something in the back.
It was Luis’s turn next. His elbow on the cash box, he remained still. He rearranged his cards, poking one from the side into the middle and then repeating it again.
“Move it around; don’t change anything, Saito.” Wishbone crinkled his nose and let out a dry laugh. He scratched his scrawny chest and then returned his attention to Tug. “So, were you in Wyoming, too?”
“Just in the beginning.” The spicy sweetness of the cherry pipe tobacco pervaded the room.
“Oh, you were a ‘No-No’?”
“I enlisted and was shipped out to Camp Shelby.”
“Oh, I see.” Wishbone’s face lost its gleam. “Hurry up, Saito. We don’t have all day. Ándale, ándale,” he added in Spanish.
Luis moved a blue chip to the center pile.
Wishbone tossed his cards. “I’m out.”
“In, and raise another ten.” Riki flipped in a yellow chip. “Your turn, my friend.”
Mas sucked on the insides of his loose cheeks. That probably was some hand Riki had. Still, he couldn’t give in now. He pushed two blue chips toward the center pile.
A line of sweat rolled from Luis’s thick black hair down his forehead. He stared at the litter of chips in the middle and at his steadily decreasing stack. He tried to twirl a yellow chip like a top, but it merely bounced awkwardly on the green felt. “I’m in,” he said finally. The yellow chip clicked against the blue ones.
“No more waiting.” Riki set out his hand. “Two pair.” He flashed two queens and two tens. Mas felt the top of his head tingle.
“Can you believe this? I have some kind of curse.” Luis shook his head over his pair of aces, and then a single king, queen, and jack.
Wishbone began collecting the discarded cards. “Some kind of bachi. Maybe you didn’t treat your wife so good last night.”
“Wait.” Mas carefully put down his pair of kings and jacks. Their stoic faces were beautiful against the green felt.
“Hey!” Wishbone clapped his hands. “We got a poker game going here. Pot goes to Mas. Two pair—king beats out queen.”
“Yatta!” Haruo made two bony fists and threw punches in the air. Settle down, thought Mas, counting the blue and yellow chips. One hundred, counting the thirty dollars he put in. They were only seventy bucks ahead. More than three hundred to go.
Tug puffed on his pipe and patted Mas’s back. “Good job. I would have gone for the straight, and come up with nothing.”
Riki doused his smashed cigarette in his glass. “More beer,” he called out to no one in particular.
“Next time you make sure you shuffle those cards good, Wishbone,” said Luis, wiping his forehead with a napkin.
“You got complaints, you deal, then.” Wishbone dropped the deck of cards in front of Luis.
“No, it’s Joji’s turn.” Luis passed the deck to Riki and then rummaged in a blue airline bag at his feet. He brought out a wrinkled paper bag, and from that he pulled out a short black bottle. It had the face of a tiki warrior, geometric eyes, nostrils, and mouth, much like the design on Luis’s pouch. “Pisco,” he said.
Wishbone batted his hand as if he were shooing away a fly. “Not that Peruvian poison. That’ll kill us for sure.”
“Hey, my brother brought this back from Lima. Best quality. Can’t buy this here.” Luis pulled out the cork and took a big sniff. He began pouring a small amount of the clear liquid into each glass. “Back home, we drink with lemon and egg. Today, try it straight.”
Riki put his hand over his glass. “Pass.”
“No, just try. I insist.”
“I said pass,” Riki rasped. He began coughing, first a few times, and then more furiously, until he hacked up some spittle and aimed it into a metal trash can next to him. Mas puckered his lips and moved a few inches to his left. There was something wrong with Riki. He was like a snake shedding its skin—only this one wasn’t generating anything new.
“You need to do something about that cough. Go see a doctor or something,” Wishbone said.
Riki ignored him and poured himself some beer.
Luis passed out the glasses. Tug demurred, explaining that he didn’t drink, and instead got some 7-UP from the corner vending machine.
Yuki poured a generous amount in his glass to the point that Luis even commented, “Hey, this kind of pisco is kind of expensive, son.”
Mas rearranged his chips in short, neat stacks and accepted a glass of pisco. He was ready to take a sip when Luis stopped him. “We must make a toast.”
“A toast to what?” Wishbone’s left eyebrow arched upward.
“To life, to our families, to happiness.” Luis’s voice was almost musical.
“To ole friends.” Riki lifted his beer glass before letting out another cough and spitting into the wastepaper basket. Mas himself almost choked on the powerful liquor, which bit like whiskey but went down like the finest tequila.
They were in the middle of their next hand when Tug excused himself to go to the rest room. When he had left the table, Wishbone leaned over toward Mas. “So, why the hell you bring Mr. Straight over here, Mas?”
“Whatchu talkin’ about?”
“That guy, Yamada. Writes checks, doesn’t drink. Betcha he’s one of those religious types, huh?”
Mas remembered the Yamadas’ affiliation with the Sunrise Baptist Church. “That don’t mean nutin’.”
“That kind of guy can really put a damper on things.” Wishbone’s pockmarked face was red; even the tips of his pointy ears were flushed.
“He the type to get us in trouble,” Riki added. “How do we knowsu heezu not callin’ police right now?”
“Heezu not doing that,” Mas said without conviction.
Riki cut the deck of cards with one hand. “Heezu inu, I betcha.”
Inu. Dog. Snitch. The lowest thing one man could call another.
“He’s a Go for Broke guy,” Wishbone said. “If he figures out who I am, probably knock my head off. Or maybe I should knock his first.”
Yuki was scribbling in his notebook again. “What’s ‘Go for Broke’?”
“Army man. That’s their motto—you know, ‘Go for Broke.’ ” Wishbone seemed wary of having to explain everything to Yuki.
Mas felt his chest tighten. “Whatchu have against him?”
“I’m a ‘No-No’ boy; my brother’s a dra
ft resister. We on the other sides of the line from guys like him.”
“Dunno what you talkin’ about,” said Mas.
“My brother went to Leavenworth, okay? The federal penitentiary, for not fighting.”
Mas remained quiet. The Nisei who were in California during the war all seemed to be thrown into some kind of jail—whether they were trying to prove a point or minding their own business.
“Never heard of it, I betcha. Yeah, just lately, the young people are making a big deal about it. My brother’s a hero to them. And rightly so. Nobody else had the guts to say no to the government. Instead, those others were patsies, sacrificing their lives, for what? They say ‘yes, yes’ to the loyalty oath. ‘Yes,’ they were willing to serve in combat; ‘yes,’ they wouldn’t bow down to the emperor. Like any of us would.”
Wishbone’s bloodshot eyes grew large and still. “So I checked ‘No-No.’ What the hell. They were gonna keep me behind barbed wire; I wasn’t gonna promise anything. My brother did one better—he said he would serve, if we were restored our constitutional rights. So they were sent to hard-time prison, eighteen months. I had to go to Tule Lake. We all were the black sheep of the community.”
“So the U.S. government imprisoned your brother for not fighting?” Yuki seemed confused by Wishbone’s personal history lesson. It was confusing. First the Nisei were placed in camps because they lived near the Pacific Ocean; then they were put in jail if they didn’t agree to fight on behalf of the government that had put them in camps in the first place. Didn’t make much sense, Mas had to agree.
“Yes, yes,” Wishbone said impatiently. “But my brother would have killed you son of a guns back in Japan if we were left free.”
Mas tried to shield the boy from Wishbone’s wholesale anger toward the Japanese and American wartime leaders. “That’s fifty years ago. So what?”
“Mas, you weren’t over here. You don’t understand,” said Wishbone. “Your friend and his people are the ones making a big deal about being veterans, making monuments. They’re the ones talking bad about us, even now. All running scared about dying.”
“Tug’s not like that. He minds his own business.” Thinks more about fixing toilets and doorbells than anything else, thought Mas.
Summer of the Big Bachi Page 9
