Summer of the Big Bachi

by Naomi Hirahara

  Mas didn’t bother to get up. “Yah, everybody ’round here, I guess.”

  Tug stepped over some overturned bowling trophies and sat down at the desk in the corner. There were too many things to be fixed. Besides, Tug didn’t seem like he was in any mood to be putting things back together.

  “Heezu innocent,” Mas said.

  Tug picked up a pen and tried to balance it on the side of his index finger. He did this for about fifteen minutes straight without saying a word. Finally, he got up. “Justice will prevail. The truth will come out.”

  Mas nodded. That was precisely what he was afraid of.

  It was already one o’clock, and no sign of either G. I. or Akemi. Mas had finished cleaning up as much as he could, and couldn’t just sit around watching TV talk shows with crazy people yelling at one another. He had to do something. He walked outside and pulled at some dandelions. Studying the Jeep in the driveway, Mas got an idea. Why not? Rather than waste time, he might as well make some money.

  Like a wartime medic, he patched what equipment he could from the garage. He still had a push mower, what the old-timers called a Pennsylvania, all rusty and blades dull. A rake with some missing teeth. A pair of hedge clippers with a busted handle. They weren’t his finest, but good enough.

  Today was Thursday, so it was the East Indian family in Arcadia. Arcadia was a wealthy city with a good supply of cash flowing from its racetrack and a large shopping center off Huntington Drive. There was plenty of new blood pumping in the residential neighborhoods, too, people who built mini-castles on sites that once held 1970s ranch-style homes. Mas’s customers, the Patels, were among them.

  Mr. Patel owned a small chain of chicken-bowl fast food eateries throughout San Gabriel Valley. He even sometimes asked Mas for advice. “This too sweet, you think?” he said, spooning some teriyaki sauce onto some rice.

  It was Mas who had told Mr. Patel that he should have a spicy-bowl alternative. “Chili powda,” he told him. “Maybe jalapeño peppa on side.” P’s Spicy Bowl was a hit. As a token of thanks, Mr. Patel had given him a case of P’s Teriyaki Sauce. The unopened box was now collecting dust beside Mas’s washer and dryer.

  As Mas began to unload the Jeep, he was surprised to see Mr. Patel in the doorway of his house. “Hey, Arai, how are you doing?” He waved and walked toward Mas. He was wearing bright blue Bermuda shorts with a pink polo shirt.

  “Betta,” Mas said.

  “Those substitutes you had were a little overeager with the clippers.”

  “Oh, yah.” Must have been Stinky, thought Mas. He wasn’t a detail man, and was notorious for cutting bushes down to their bare leaves. Mas kept unloading the Jeep. The push mower, the rake, the hedge clippers. Ugly, broken-down tools.

  Mr. Patel picked up on it right away. “Hey, what’s all this?” he said.

  “Izu robbed. My truck gone. Have to do best with whatsu I gotsu.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Mas. You don’t cry when life throws you a curve. You get back in the saddle. I wish my partner could learn a thing or two from you.”

  “Partner?”

  “Yeah, silent partner, I guess you call him. Well, things have been a little rough with the restaurant business. Now he says he wants his investment back. Wants me to sell half the restaurants.”

  Mas frowned.

  “We’re in litigation. Hell of a world, huh?” Mr. Patel hiked up his Bermuda shorts on his scrawny body. “You’re in a good situation; you’re a one-man show. Partners, they can turn on you at any time. And when money’s involved, watch out. Money can destroy a friendship.” Just then the Patels’ shar-pei, a wrinkled caterpillar on legs, ran out the front door. “Max—” Mr. Patel called out. “Damn dog,” he muttered, and excused himself before running down the street.

  The Patels’ was a straightforward job. Prune hedges, which today, due to Stinky’s buzz cut style, required little effort. Cut grass. Tend rosebushes. In less than an hour, Mas was finished. The sweat stung his eyes, and he felt good. He wasn’t ready for the grave—yet.

  It was rush hour, and time to take a shower, rest his feet, and watch the horse race broadcast. Yet Mas was heading toward Sawtelle on the Santa Monica Freeway. That was as smart as driving through Pasadena during the Rose Parade. Mas knew better, but he had little choice. To free the boy, Mas had to do his share. While G. I. tackled the courts, Mas needed to be in the field and come up with evidence.

  He finally arrived in Sawtelle two hours later, his back sopping wet with sweat. He drove straight into the parking lot and was surprised that it was empty, aside from a twenty-year-old Toyota Cressida. Was Chochin’s closed?

  A Mexican man was in the back, throwing full trash bags into the rubbish bin.

  “Not open?” Mas asked.

  The man shook his head. “No inglés,” he said.

  Mas tried to muster up all the Spanish he had learned in a city college class. He tried various versions but wasn’t getting very far.

  “La Migra,” the man finally said.

  “Girl, de dónde?” Mas tried again. His tongue seemed awkward as he tried to form words that sounded more Japanese than anything else. The man squinted and looked confused. Finally Mas returned to the Jeep and rummaged through the glove compartment. There was the Polaroid, the one with Yuki and the girl with the tadpole eyes.

  Mas pointed to the girl and then himself. “Papa. Mi hija.”

  The man must have had a daughter, too, because his face lit up in recognition.

  “Uno minuto.” He went back into Chochin’s and then came out with a pink bag. On the handle was a tag, RUMI KATO, and an address in Gardena.

  Driving from Sawtelle to Gardena meant traveling on the 405 again. It was slow, and the setting sun blinded his right eye. But Mas was patient. He knew what had to be done.

  Gardena was a cigarette burn below downtown Los Angeles. At one time, Mas knew, the Japanese had multiplied in Gardena like mold on month-old leftovers. Now most of them, or least their children, had moved south to cozy neighborhoods next to clean shopping centers and sanitized parks. The older and poorer ones had stayed behind, like passengers on a run-down boat. But the food was still good and cheap, and old gamblers still frequented local coffee shops. In other words, it was Mas’s kind of town.

  Finding Rumi Kato’s apartment was no problem. Finding Rumi Kato, though, wasn’t quite as simple. The apartment was in a cul-de-sac, a stone’s throw from a large Asian grocery store that had changed hands at least two times within the last five years. It was a typical Gardena apartment—about seven units, with an upstairs and downstairs. Two sets of hedges were pruned Japanese-style, like floating orbs in the sky. A toro, a stone lantern shaped like a mini-pagoda, sat in between the hedges.

  Rumi Kato’s unit was on the first floor, smack in the middle. Mas rapped on the door, which was decorated with a dried flower wreath. No answer. Mini-blinds in the window were half-open, so Mas snuck a look. The unit was pretty much empty. Either Rumi Kato was immaculate, or else she was on the run.

  Mas sat on the steps. He pulled out a pack of Marlboros and waited. After his third cigarette, a woman in the front unit poked her head out. “Can’t you read?” she said. Her voice was rough and high-pitched at the same time, like feedback from a cheap audio system. She was small and chubby, with heavy arms that bulged from her polka-dotted blouse.

  She then pointed at a row of signs that Mas had somehow missed. NO SMOKING, they said five times over.

  Mas doused his cigarette on the stoop, which made the woman even angrier. She pulled out a hose that was rolled up near the toro, and nearly soaked Mas as she aimed a stream of water toward the cigarette ash.

  This was some urusai mama, thought Mas as he leapt to his feet. He wanted to tell her off, but then thought better of it. A nosy landlady meant someone who knew what was going on. With everybody.

  Before Mas could come up with something to say, the landlady approached him. “You got some business here with somebody?” she said aft
er turning off the water.

  Mas nodded. “Kato. Rumi. Gotsu delivery for her.”

  “Hah,” the landlady said almost triumphantly. “That girl is finally out of here, and I’m telling you that I couldn’t be happier. She had her loud parties—I called them orgies, only with women. Never listened to me. Was a disrespectful girl, typical of the young ones today. Used to be you could rent to a Japanese and expect no problems. Now I’m going to discriminate against the Japanese, and I don’t care if the Fair Housing Authority tries to get me or not. I can tell them I’m Japanese, and I know.”

  Mas didn’t react, which apparently fired up the woman even more.

  “If you don’t believe me, look.” The landlady, with her strong arms, virtually pushed Mas into the empty apartment. There was no furniture, but on the living room wall was a large X painted in red. The paint had dripped down in areas, looking like spilt blood. “Can you believe she did this? Just to spite me, I think.”

  Mas pressed down on the red paint. It left a faint mark on his finger. Looked like it had happened at least a day earlier. “You knowsu where I can find her?”

  “I would forget about it, if I were you.”

  “I really needsu to give sumptin’ to her.”

  “Well, she’s probably out of the state by now. But she used to spend a lot of time at the bowling alley. The coffeehouse.” The landlady then tore the wreath off the door and crunched it up in her powerful hands. “If you find her, you can give her this,” she said, handing Mas a ball of broken dried twigs.

  The Gardena Bowl coffeehouse was an old-time Japanese hangout that still served Portuguese sausage, eggs, and rice all day, as well as greasy chow mein and, if you were lucky, egg foo young swimming in gravy. Mari had once told Mas that real Chinese didn’t eat such things, but Mas brushed her comments aside. He wasn’t Chinese, and besides, it tasted good.

  The waitresses were mostly middle-aged or older and had the menu memorized so you barely had to say two words before they took your order down. One greeted Mas as he walked in. “Counter?” she asked, but Mas ignored her. He could hear bowling pins crash against one another in the distance. Usually, it was a comforting sound, but now it seemed suffocating.

  After walking down the worn carpet alongside the couple of dozen lanes, Mas went back into the coffee shop and ordered some green tea. It came in a plastic coffee cup and was hot enough to burn his tongue and cold sores. He sat at a table for at least an hour when he finally saw who he was looking for. She came through the doorway and settled down in a booth by the women’s bathroom. Mas got up, getting the girl’s attention. She immediately picked up her purse and jacket to leave.

  “I’m not with Nakane,” he said, but apparently the mere mention of the name terrified Rumi Kato.

  “Dis yours?” Mas had brought the pink bag. The girl tried to grab it away, but Mas held on tight. “First talk. Five minutes.”

  Rumi relented. Sitting across from her at the table, Mas noticed that her eyes were constantly in motion. Next to her on the floor was a small tan suitcase.

  “You goin’ somewheres?” he asked.

  Rumi nudged the suitcase with the edge of her foot. “What do you want?” she said in Japanese. “And who are you?”

  Mas, for a second, was stumped. Yes, who was he? He was no friend to the dead mistress, and definitely did not represent the interests of Riki Kimura. “I Arai,” he said. “Masao Arai. Dat boysu Kimura, my friend.”

  “I remember you from Chochin’s. And Keiko’s Ramen House, too.”

  Mas took out the Polaroid photo of Yuki and Rumi. “Just young kid. Straight from Hiroshima.”

  Rumi nodded. “Hai, that is what he said.”

  “Youzu there, desho? When Junko all beat up?”

  Rumi’s eyes continued to dart back and forth.

  “Youzu went straight to ramen house afterward. Told Keiko sumptin’, but not whole thing.”

  She took two quick breaths. “Two guys,” she finally said. “One Japanese and a hakujin. And Nakane and a Japanese old man waiting outside. I was in the bedroom. They didn’t know I was there.”

  “Whatsu they want?”

  “They were going to give her big money. A hundred thousand dollars to keep quiet about that Joji Haneda. But she refused it. Said that she wasn’t going to keep some secret. So the two began to hit her. I was so scared. I called the police, and when they heard the sirens in the distance, they ran away.” The girl folded the edges of her napkin. “I went to her. She was trying to tell me something. ‘What, Junko-chan, what?’ I asked, but blood came out of her mouth. I heard footsteps from below, so I slipped out before they could find me. I just left her there to die.”

  That must have been when Yuki came in, thought Mas.

  “In the hospital, I told her that I was sorry. That I should have never left her. But she said, ‘Rumi-chan, don’t worry. You still young. You make a life for yourself.’ She wanted me to go back to Japan. Like she was planning to.”

  You should, thought Mas. Go back home to your parents before it’s too late.

  “Then that Nakane and his men came after me. Told me that I had to tell the police that the young guy had killed Junko. Or else.”

  Mas could guess what “or else” meant. And now Rumi Kato was obviously going to take off to another American city. Maybe Las Vegas, Chicago, New York—who knows? There was a Chochin’s in every big town. “You needsu to talk to police.”

  “And tell them what? I’ll deny everything. I’ll tell them that you’re an old sukebe just coming after a young girl.”

  “So the boy go to jail for sumptin’ he didn’t do.”

  Rumi had folded the napkin into the shape of a samurai helmet. She propped it up in between the Tabasco and soy sauce containers. “They’ll deport me back to Japan. If they do that, they’ll take away my passport. I won’t be able to leave for years,” she said. “Or else Nakane. Who knows what that bunch will do.”

  The red X had frightened the girl; there was no doubt about that.

  “They closed Chochin’s down, did you know?” she said. “Someone called the INS. There’s nothing in Los Angeles for me now. I’m sorry about your friend, but he seems smart. With me gone, he won’t be in jail long.” She gathered up her things and waited for the pink bag. It was no use. Like in gambling, Mas knew when to stop. And the time had come.

  “You didn’t look in here, did you?” she asked as Mas handed over the bag.

  “No,” Mas lied. In fact, he had searched the contents shortly after he had left Chochin’s. Underwear, contraceptives, and a faded color photo of the girl, much younger, with her parents back in Japan.

  Mas watched as Rumi headed for the glass door. “You won’t get away,” he called out.

  “What?”

  “It come back to youzu.”

  “What? What are you talking about? Bachi?”

  Mas felt his breathing grow deeper, from the pit of his stomach through his sore lungs. It wasn’t bachi or even a threat of bachi that was ruining him, he realized. It was something else entirely, a spirit he couldn’t describe. “Your insides.” Mas thumped his rib cage. “Your kokoro will neva be the same.”

  The girl, for the first time, smiled. “Then I’ll just have to take my chances.”

  It was late, past eight o’clock, but Mas drove past Tanaka’s anyway. The lights were all on; the outline of a few heads, including someone in a pith helmet, could be seen through the dusty window. Mas parked the Jeep and went in. That’s when he heard the news. Just like the mistress, the man called Haneda was dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In Hiroshima, gossip buzzed altogether like the nasty cicadas that bleated incessantly throughout the summer nights. You couldn’t figure out where one of those pests was, but you heard them, all in unison. In L.A., it was different. Gossip moved around in small circles, mini-tornadoes whipping the landscape. The fake Haneda had had a mistress, had shamed his entire family. Shame, shame, shame. The same mistress was now d
ead, a victim of a suspicious beating. The twister of news multiplied, traveling down from Ventura to Sawtelle to Crenshaw to Gardena to Pasadena.

  It was the next morning. G. I. and Akemi had already left for Yuki’s arraignment, so Mas could take a good look at the Los Angeles Times. There were a few Japanese names among the obituaries, but no Haneda. It made sense. The Hanedas would have a private family ceremony, away from the talk and the spotlight.

  But later that afternoon, the L.A. Japanese newspaper The Rafu Shimpo, came in the mail, and there it was—two times, in fact. One was within the English pages, the other in the Japanese section, bordered by a thick black line. Joji Haneda, 68, a Los Angeles–born Nisei resident of Ventura. Survived by wife Betty, son Jeff, and daughter Susan. The next line shocked Mas, enough so that the blood rushed from his hands. Also survived by sister Akemi Kimura, of Hiroshima. How could they have included Akemi? But more important, why? Why make the connection so public, so clear to everyone? This was not a simple mistake. Mas knew how it worked with mortuaries; he had been through it with Chizuko. They went through the obituary, carefully selecting each word and going over the spelling of each name. You didn’t want so-and-so in the obituary, fine. Leave out an urusai brother-in-law, ex-wife, whatever.

  But on the other hand, this Betty Haneda wanted to make damn sure that everyone thought her husband was kin to Akemi. That meant only one thing: Shuji Nakane had gotten to the wife and two children.

  Mas licked his lips. They were so dry that skin was peeling off of them like fish scales. He checked the date. Two days from today. Visitation at seven P.M. At Evergreen Cemetery in Los Angeles.

  The phone rang around noon. Mas figured it was Stinky pumping him for more gossip, but it was another voice. Lifeless, dull, as if she were lying in a coffin herself. “We lost,” Akemi said. “No bail.”

  Mas felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t have even mentioned the funeral, but he did. It had been a mistake, because immediately afterward, Akemi hung up the phone. A few minutes later, she called right back, reciting a set of numbers.