Sayonara Slam

by Naomi Hirahara

  “Lil’s not taking it well, as you can imagine. I guess she dreamed that her little girl would be going down the aisle in a white dress, even though that little girl is now in her mid-forties.”

  “No white dress in those kinds of weddings?”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m not even sure what they’ll be wearing. But I guess Lil also thought the groom would be a nice young man in a tuxedo, not a woman with a snake tattoo on her arm.”

  Mas nodded. Yes, he remembered the tattoo now. He spotted it when she was sitting at the Yamadas’ dinner table, Iris’s arm loosely dangling from the back of Joy’s chair. Life, especially when it came to children, was full of surprises. If you told Mas back in 1999 that his daughter and her family would be living with him in ten years, he’d have laughed in your face.

  But this was not a laughing matter for Tug. There were his faith and family to consider. This wedding, Mas assumed, was putting both to the test.

  “Lil feels that if we attend, we approve. But if we don’t go, I don’t think Joy will ever talk to us again.”

  Mas didn’t know what to say. Even though he had Mari, he was no expert on father-daughter relationships, except maybe on the things you should avoid. And as for religion, that wasn’t something he was familiar with, although he did occasionally accompany Genessee to church—ironically, sometimes after his sleepovers. The last time, the minister talked about judging other people, how you shouldn’t do it. Something about needing to take a three-by-five out of your eye. Such talk mystified Mas. How could you even put something that large in your eye in the first place?

  “Sumptin about love. You Christians talk a lot about it. And forgive, too.”

  It was now time for Tug to chuckle. “Yes, two of the biggest proponents of our religion.” His face then became more serious. “But it’s hard to know how to love. It’s not easy.”

  That Mas could agree with. And that was why he didn’t like how the hakujin threw around the “love” word so much. They loved this movie, they loved this car, they loved this flower. The word had become so weak that it failed to spark any real emotion.

  The conversation had taken such a serious tone that Mas scrambled to find something else to talk about. He spied the program from last night’s baseball game on Tug’s work bench and flipped to the dog-eared page with photos of all the players.

  Mas hadn’t seen the program, and it fascinated him to see the head shots of the players. The yellow-haired one was named Kii Tanji, and he played for the Yomiuri Giants in Tokyo. The young hapa pitcher was Soji Zahed—what kind of name was Zahed? Sounded Arabian to Mas. The catcher, Sawada, was with the Colorado Rockies, but Mas wasn’t that familiar with him.

  Tug pointed at yellow head, Tanji. “This one was actually very impressive,” he said. “He’s the second baseman. A journeyman player. I think he’s in his late thirties. Helped make a double play. Got a man out at second and then threw the ball perfectly to home.”

  “But not good enough for majors.” Mas remembered Tanji’s altercation with the pitcher, Zahed.

  “I guess it’s all about timing.”

  Mas agreed. Just like Uno-san—the stars had aligned regarding the timing of his free agency, which made it possible to come to America. He mentioned that to Tug, who nodded. “He was spectacular yesterday, wasn’t he? Oh, you missed his home run.”

  “But I see him on the field. Maybe two feet away.”

  “You did? Did you talk to him?” Before Mas could respond, Tug withdrew his question. “No, of course not. He probably was in the zone.”

  Mas rose to his feet. It was late, almost dinnertime. The washer was restored, and there was no reason to stay any longer.

  When Mas pulled the Impala into the driveway, Mari, much like she did when she was a child, was looking at him through the screen door. She pushed it open as he walked up, and the words rushed out. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve been calling you on your cell, Dad. You should carry it with you.”

  Mas frowned. What was this all about? “I carry,” he said, digging it out from the corner of his pocket.

  Mari flipped it open. “But it needs to be on. Never mind that right now. You have a visitor. From Hiroshima.”

  The first people who came to mind were his siblings, at least the couple that were still alive. And then—no, it couldn’t be. Akemi? Mas blushed in embarrassment for what he was thinking. He wasn’t a married man, but he was the next closest thing to it.

  Mari had to almost push him into the living room. Mas’s eyes, through his glasses, had to adjust to the light. Instead of an old Japanese woman sitting on his couch, there was a young Japanese man, also wearing glasses, but his were thick black-rimmed ones.

  Mas had no idea who this person was. The man quickly got to his feet and began to speak in Japanese. “Arai-san, it’s me, Kimura Yukikazu. Yuki. I’m Akemi’s grandson. My magazine sent me here to replace Itai-san.”

  “He said he knows you, Dad.” Mari came to Mas’s side. “That he even stayed here before, ten years ago.”

  Yuki nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said in halting English. “My grandmother and I sleep here. Then the police come and arrest me.”

  “What?!”

  Takeo, his head wet presumingly from a bath, entered the living room. “Who’s that, Mom?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  Mas noticed a backpack next to the couch. Oh no, he wasn’t thinking of staying here, was he?

  “Dis my daughta, Mari,” Mas kept speaking in English for all to understand. “Grandson, Takeo.”

  Yuki gestured with his right hand toward Mari. “You the one never call. No contact with Mista Arai back then, ten years ago?”

  Mari’s mouth fell open. “Dad, who is this guy?”

  “Sorry, my name Yukikazu Kimura,” he repeated. “Or Yuki. Reporter with Nippon Series.” He fished out a business card from the inside of his blazer and presented it to Mari with two hands, as was customary.

  “I don’t have a card. I didn’t think it was necessary…in my own house.”

  Chotto matte, Mas thought. This is my house. But that technicality aside, he was faced with a more pressing matter. “I thought you work for Shine.”

  Yuki switched over to Japanese. “Oh, that went out of business after a couple of years. Nippon Series is a respectable publication. It’s been around for twenty-five years.”

  Oh, yah, a lifetime, Mas thought. Maybe your lifetime. He took the conversation back to English. “Whatchu doin’ here? Youzu probably want to stay in Little Tokyo. I can take you ova.” Right before I pick up Genessee from the airport.

  “I have job for Arai-san.”

  “A job?” Mari’s fists were on her hips.

  “I need driver. And translator.”

  “You realize that my father is almost eighty years old, right? And his English skills aren’t the best.”

  “I need man I can trust,” Yuki said emphatically. “I read and understand much English, but speaking, not so good.”

  Somehow those words softened both Mas and Mari. What a magician Yuki had become, Mas thought.

  “How much?” Mas asked.

  “No, Dad—”

  “How much do you charge?” Yuki threw that question back to Mas in Japanese.

  “Hundred a day.” That’s how much he charged during the heyday of his gardening route. The coins and bills in the Yuban coffee can in his closet were getting low due to the new residents at the house.

  “Hundred. Okay. I’zu here a week.”

  Mas extended his hand. “Orai. Deal.”

  “I don’t know about this—” Mari was still skeptical.

  “Dis my life. My bizness.”

  Mas directed the boy out the door and into the driveway, where his Impala was parked. Mari moved her hybrid Honda out of the way, while Takeo, barefoot and hair still damp, waited on the porch.

  “Hey, what happened to your truck? Finally broke down?” Yuki spoke in Japanese as he put his backpack
in the trunk. “Actually, this car is pretty old, too.”

  Mas didn’t like to tell the story of how he’d lost the truck, so he did what he usually did. Ignored the question.

  Before they left the driveway, Mari flagged down Mas, causing him to roll down the window. “What time will you be home?”

  “Late.” She didn’t need to know about his midnight drive to the airport. In that way, she was like her mother. Always weighed down by shinpai. Worry, Mas found, was like cockroaches. Worries only led to more worries.

  Yuki said he was registered at one of the hotels in Little Tokyo. Mas was familiar with it. The boy had come a long way from what he had been.

  “So you’re a real reporter,” Mas said in Japanese.

  “Yes, a real one. You seem surprised.”

  “You know I was there. When that Itai died on the field.”

  Yuki squirmed in his seat. Mas knew this was no coincidence. “I saw your photo in some of the digital prints our freelancer sent us,” he finally admitted. “Akemi had mentioned that you had a son-in-law who works for the Dodgers.”

  Mas changed back to English. It seemed safer that way. He needed some kind of barrier to separate himself from the reporter. “So youzu don’t need me to drive youzu around.”

  “No, I do need you,” said Yuki, staying in Japanese. “I never got my license in Japan. I work now in Tokyo. I need a person I can depend on, who knows his way around Los Angeles.”

  Mas frowned. What was the big deal? “Dis baseball story, desho? How come such mystery?”

  “You don’t know, do you?” Yuki said. “I’m not here for the World Championship. I’m here to investigate what happened to Itai-san. He didn’t die from natural causes, Arai-san. I mean, he had high blood pressure, but he took medicine for that.”

  Mas almost lost control of the steering wheel.

  “He’s always received death threats. He was that kind of journalist. I guess this time someone made good on it.”

  “How about you?”

  Yuki was quiet. “Had my share, too.”

  Mas shivered. Here he was, the driver for a man who might be targeted. He’d already been in a car accident that had threatened his life. He didn’t need to be in another one.

  “By the way, Akemi says hello,” Yuki said.

  “Oh, yah.”

  “She’s still single. All by herself in Hiroshima.”

  “Sure she likesu dat way.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Mas didn’t know why he was feeling guilty. There was absolutely nothing between him and Akemi. And if there was, that was before World War II, when he was just a boy.

  “So see you tomorrow? You can come up to my room. I’m in 302.”

  Mas had to admit that a part of him appreciated being needed. When did anyone say that he or she needed Mas Arai, and only Mas?

  Of course, Yuki was not the only person who needed him today. Mas got on the 110 and took a straight shot to the 105, a newborn-baby freeway in comparison. The 105 took him directly to LAX and at that time of night, the drive was thankfully fast.

  He’d made sure to turn on his clamshell phone this time, and it chirped cheerfully—a sign that Genessee had indeed arrived. And there she was on the curb, the familiar silhouette of her thin frame and the halo of her short-cropped Afro.

  She pushed her suitcase in the back before settling in the passenger seat. “Thanks for picking me up,” she said. “So, did anything happen while I was away?”

  Chapter Four

  Luckily, Genessee was dead tired, so when Mas answered her invitation to come into her house with a blank stare, she didn’t seem bothered.

  “I have a long day tomorrow, anyway,” she said, adding that she was supposed to babysit her grandchildren the next morning.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek while Mas patted her back a couple of times. Physical affection in public, even under the cover of night and on the quiet front porch, was uncomfortable for him.

  As he returned to the Impala, he felt bad that he hadn’t mentioned anything about his new “job.” But how to explain his relationship with Yuki Kimura? Genessee was like Chizuko in that she enjoyed digging for details. Inevitably Akemi’s name would come up, and how to describe their childhood friendship? Would she sense in a catch in his throat that something had happened between them in the past? It was only a kiss between teenagers, but it had been his first. And one that had never been forgotten.

  The next day he was again awakened by a phone call. It was even before the noise of the Jensen family, so he knew it was early.

  “Let’s go, Ojisan.” To hear the familiar term “uncle” once again caught Mas off guard. He had surprisingly missed it.

  “Wheresu we goin’?”

  “Goin’ to where Itai-san was staying.”

  “Where?”

  “Relative’s house. Sunny Hirose. In Soteru.”

  Sawtelle. Mas frowned. That was practically where UCLA was located, on the other side of town. Another long drive. Think of the money, he reminded himself. One hundred dollars.

  “Right now?” He brought his Casio watch to his nose. It was six o’clock in the morning. No time to be knocking on people’s doors.

  “Around ten o’clock. I’ll have a US cell phone by then. And then a press conference at Dodger Stadium.”

  When Mas arrived at Yuki’s hotel, the boy was waiting at the curb with a piece of clothing in his hands.

  “Can you wear this polo shirt?” Yuki said after he was in the passenger seat and they’d exchanged niceties. “You’d look more professional.”

  Sonofagun. First Lloyd gets all high-tone with his expensive sunglasses and expensive haircut. (Mas had volunteered to mow down his hair with an electric shaver for free, but for some reason Lloyd declined.) And now this from the Japanese boy wonder.

  When they reached a traffic light, Mas pulled the polo shirt over his T-shirt. The logo for Nippon Series—a large N and S—was stitched on the front left of the shirt. The light changed to green; with the polo shirt still scrunched up above his belly, Mas stepped on the gas pedal. Yuki was fixated on his cell phone, as all people, including his own family members, seemed to be these days. It’s a wonder that they even know what each other looks like. Their gazes always down on the screen, not on faces.

  Yuki tapped on his screen, unleashing a robotic female voice telling him to make a left turn on Olive Street.

  “I knowsu how to get to Soteru.” Mas frowned. “Once we getsu closer you can let the phone talk.”

  As he went from the 110 to the 10, Mas wondered what they would say to the relative. Wouldn’t this be the ultimate jama, or bother, to barge into a stranger’s house after a loved one was murdered? The police—maybe even the detectives who’d questioned Mas back at Dodger Stadium—probably had been there. I just drive, I just drive, Mas told himself. Maybe he could just stay in the Impala if Yuki didn’t need translation assistance.

  As Mas guided the car from one lane to another, he gradually began to feel better. The LAPD would find out who killed the Japanese journalist. Yuki didn’t have the know-how to tackle something like this.

  “Get off where?” Mas finally asked when he went north on the 405.

  “So you’re allowing my phone to speak now?” Yuki gave a slip of a smile and tapped on his phone again. “Let’s see what Akemi tells us.”

  “Akemi?”

  “That’s what I decided to call my phone. So my grandmother is still close to me.”

  Mas grimaced. He had heard of mama’s boys, but a grandma’s boy? That was carrying it too far.

  “You can talk to her anytime,” Yuki said. “My real grandmother, I mean. I’m going to have her number programmed in here. You can Skype her and it won’t cost me hardly anything.”

  Mas didn’t know why Yuki was pushing Akemi so hard on him. He couldn’t say that he didn’t want to talk to her. But the past was finally the past. Mas was advancing forward, but just when he thought he was totally free of t
he past, something would grab hold of his foot and not let go.

  The house was a neat, white ranch-style place with a poodled hedge resembling float orbs, a sure sign that Sunny Hirose used a Japanese gardener. Mas had to give the man credit for that.

  They stood on his porch and rang his doorbell. They already knew someone was at home, because the closed curtains had parted for a second as they came up the walkway.

  The door opened, revealing a man about Mas’s age. He was a head taller, with a huge, round face. He looked run-of-the-mill, aside from a huge abalone-shell pendant hanging around his neck.

  “We lookin’ for Sunny Hirose,” Mas said.

  “I’m Sunny Hirose.”

  “You speak Japanese?” Mas spouted out, hoping that his translator role could be dispensed with.

  “No,” Sunny said, a little too emphatically. “Just a few phrases.”

  Yuki stepped forward. “I am Kimura. Yuki Kimura. I work with Itai-san back in Tokyo.”

  “Really? He was a lone ranger. Please, come in. Sorry for the mess. When I closed my jewelry store, I had to move everything in here.”

  The interior of the house was nothing like the exterior. It was stuffed with random objects that clashed and confused Mas. An iron sat on the fireplace mantel, next to a Christmas elf. Never mind that it was the middle of March. There were dusty packages of chocolate macadamia nuts on the floor, next to about five containers of automotive oil.

  “Did you work with my cousin’s son, too?” Sunny asked Mas, while he removed a stack of Rafu Shimpo newspapers from one of his chairs.

  “No. I’zu Mas Arai.”

  “Mas. I think I’ve seen you before. You connected with the credit union?” Sunny went over to another chair, which was loaded up with packages of toilet paper, and attempted to clear another place to sit.

  Mas shook his head.

  “Bay City Gardeners’ Association over on Sawtelle Boulevard?”

  Yuki was obviously tiring of the twenty questions directed as Mas. “Arai-san is gardenah,” he said, “but not here.”

  “Pasadena, San Gabriel,” Mas finally interjected.