Sayonara Slam (2 page)

Kuso
, Mas silently repeated back to the journalist. This
kuso
-head wasn't holding onto a camera, but a notebook. He was dressed in a white linen suit and would have looked like a preacher if it wasn't for the shiny navy blue shirt and black leather tie. He was no youngster, unlike most of the ones holding onto poles with mounted cameras. Judging from the few gray hairs sprouting in his black goatee, Mas guessed the man to be at least forty.

“Shouldn't you be up there in the press box, Itai?” a cameraman in the back said.

Mas noticed that the speaker failed to tag the man's name with a “
san
,” or Mister. No honorifics granted here, which meant he was probably viewed as pond scum.

“Get your cameras ready, everyone.” Itai almost seemed to be bragging. “Because you'll soon witness the breaking of a story that will shake up the baseball world.”

“Be quiet, no one wants to hear your shit.” A sharp female voice cut through the male posturing. Instead of Japanese, she spoke an accented English. But it was perfectly understandable and heard. She was also dressed in a white suit, only instead of slacks, she wore a skirt. Her blouse was dotted with blue smears.

“What did you say?” Itai's voice took on the tone of a samurai declaring war.

“You heard me,” she repeated in English. “We all know you're a slimy snake.”

Itai pushed a few cameramen away as he approached the woman. “Some of us here are real journalists—”

“What's going on here?” The catcher who'd had such a hard time with Neko's knuckleball came forward. His mask was off his face, revealing dark eyes narrowed in a frown.

“It's nothing, Sawada-
kun
,” the woman said to the catcher. “Right, Itt-
chan
?”

Itai looked sheepishly down at his feet and pushed his way back to his original position.

Mas was amazed. Itai was obviously intimidated by the catcher, this Sawada. But what amazed him even more were the honorifics the woman used:
kun
for Sawada, an intimate, affectionate term for males—close friends, family, and lovers—and
chan
for the jerk, Itai.
Chan
was usually for babies and children. Sawada's presence had reduced Itai to infantile status. And to further denigrate Itai, the woman snipped off the end of his name. This Sawada was someone to be be reckoned with, that was for sure.

Batting practice had apparently ended, because the entire Japanese team was now making its way back to the dugout.

“Just because you're playing here, don't forget that I'm your
senpai
,” the one with the bad blond dye job said to a thin, young player who looked only part Japanese.

“
Kohai, senpai
, that's old talk. Old Japan,” said the young one. “This is the majors. The real thing.”

The hairs on the back of Mas's neck stood on end. He remembered this kind of talk when he was in junior high school back in Hiroshima. The
senpai
, the elders, lorded over the younger ones, the
kohai
. Whatever the
senpai
ordered the
kohai
to do—whether it be lugging heavy rocks or cleaning the wooden floors of their classroom—the young ones had to obey. But the same rules apparently didn't apply on American soil.

“Maybe your head is getting too big for this stadium,” said the blond player. “You haven't even made it out of the minors. And the way you've been pitching, who knows when that will happen.”

The skinny man positioned himself right in front of his
senpai.
His long nose almost grazed his older teammate's pug one.

“
Yamare
.” Uno-
san
put an end to the squabbling between the two players. He apparently had enough stature on the team for both parties to listen. Yellow head went one way and the part-Japanese man went another.

Watching this exchange was another Asian woman who also stood on the sidelines. Mas had problems guessing any woman's age, but she looked to be around Mari's age or maybe a bit younger. She had an ID around her neck, but it
didn't read “Press.” Even though she wasn't in the press box, she kept taking photographs with her simple automatic camera. Mas briefly locked eyes with her and then quickly looked away.

Just then the Korean players began to take their places on the field. They wore white uniforms, and most of them were beefier looking than their Japanese counterparts. One carried a baseball, and Mas noticed that the fingernails on his right hand were immaculately polished. This must the knuckleballer for the Korean team. What was his name? Jin-Won Kim, Smitty had said.

Jin-Won's build was graceful—more like a dancer's. As Mas watched him approach the pitcher's mound, he wondered how he'd deal with the female knuckleballer, who was still up there. Would he elbow Neko off the mound like the journalists in the makeshift media box did? Would he give her the cold shoulder? Instead he spoke to her—Mas wondered if it was in English? Neko bowed, her face flushed pink. Jin-Won must have paid her some kind of compliment. Mas was shocked. First of all, they were competitors, members of opposing teams. And it went way beyond baseball; this was nation versus nation. And although it had been decades since Japan had colonized Korea, the resentment, especially among old-timers, remained deep. In fact, the early fans had already entered Dodger Stadium, with the Korean supporters waving Korean fans and hitting cowbells while the Japanese carried giant banners sporting their symbol, the singular red sun. Mas, on the field, could feel the heat of rivalry around him. National honor was at stake here.

That's even more of a reason why Mas couldn't understand Jin-Won's graciousness toward a Japanese player, especially a woman. Maybe there was some kind of special club that knuckleballers belonged to.

Mas knew he had to go back to where the lawnmowers were stored to do some maintenance work. But before he made his way back to left field, he knelt down to feel the grass. Soft as velvet, the individual blades were angled in different directions. For his son-in-law to be responsible for this carpet of grass was something that Mas could never have imagined.

Mas took in a few more breaths from the field and then heard a loud commotion coming from the Japanese journalists again. Only this wasn't a fight for the best position. Itai was on the ground, and most of the cameramen were aiming their lenses on him instead of helping. His chest was pumping fast—up and down, up and down. He then vomited and the photographer, the one from the L.A. newspaper, turned Itai over on his side. “Call 911,” he yelled, but Smitty was already on it.

Mas watched the goateed man's face turn tomato red, and then his body became completely still. The entire press corps, which seconds earlier had been eager to document Itai's struggle with life, lowered their cameras and notebooks. It was clear to all, even Mas. Death had won.

Chapter Two

T
he next hour was a blur. The LAPD had descended in a matter of minutes as officers had already been patrolling the parking lot. Two men appeared with a metal gurney; they put Itai's body on it and covered it with a dark cloth that read “L.A. Coroner.”

“Are they going to cancel the game?” Mas overhead April Sue ask Smitty as the gurney was quickly wheeled out of view.

“We have a game to play with TV crews from fifteen countries. A dead journalist from Japan isn't going to stop anything.”

Most of the police officers also dispersed, leaving only two male investigators—one black and one white—wearing dress shirts and ties. The press was being escorted from the field into the stadium. Based on the humming
monku
of the Japanese journalists, their removal was under protest.

Mas put his head down and attempted to make his way back to the equipment storage area. He had barely taken two steps when he heard a harsh male voice, the sound of twisted
rusty metal.

“Wait a minute. You. We need a few words with you.”

Mas turned to see one of the men in suits—the
hakujin
man, his brown, wavy hair whipped to one side like dead branches on the side of a highway. Lloyd—where did he come from?—appeared suddenly, standing in front of Mas, a human shield. “That's my father-in-law. He had nothing to do with any of this. He's just here to sharpen some lawnmower blades—”

“We need to question everyone on the field, and that includes him.” The detective studied Mas. “What, he can't speak English?”

“I can speak orai.”

The detective hesitated, as if he didn't quite understand. “It'll just be a few minutes.”

Lloyd relented. After all, the boy had responsibilities. This was his first big event since the promotion, and the hubbub of the dead journalist had delayed his final field prep.

As it turned out, it wasn't just a few minutes. It was forty-nine to be exact. Mas knew because about every five minutes he checked his digital Casio watch, held together only with twine around his wrist. He and the journalists had to sit in the hallway inside the stadium as one person at a time was called into a room named after one of the Dodger's former managers, Tommy Lasorda. It was worse than a doctor's waiting room.

Finally, the detective with the wind-blown hair, the one who'd spoken to him, appeared. “You,” he gestured toward Mas. “You're next.”

Mas grimaced. He'd had encounters with homicide detectives before, and only half of them had been good. He had a feeling this one would not fall in that category.

Already sitting at a table in the room was the black detective. He was young and clean shaven, wearing a colorful tie with rainbow swirls. He introduced himself as Detective Cortez Williams and extended his hand for Mas to shake. Mas took it—what alternative did he have? Williams looked like he was eighteen years old. Mas wondered if the LAPD was that desperate these days. The ugly one, Detective Garibay, sat beside him, studying the dirt under his nails.

“What's your full name?” Williams asked.

“Mas—Masao Arai.”

He had to repeat the spelling a couple of times before the detective got it.

“So tell me about yourself, Mr. Arai.”

“I'zu gardener. Gotsu son-in-law who's now in charge of the field. Heezu one brought me on board.”

“Did you know Mr. Itai from before?”

“Neva seen his face. Neva heard of him.” Mas's life would certainly have been better if that remained the case. “Just helpin' dat girlu.” Mas silently cursed the skinny blonde, April Sue. Why hadn't he just held back from helping her? Ten years ago he would have. But lately Mas found himself getting involved in things that he never would have in the past.

“So did someone hand you that water to give to Mr. Itai?”

The water. So that's what they were after. Did it have
something to do with Itai's death?

“I just grab and give it ova to him.”

Detective Williams scribbled something in his notebook.

“Did you take it from April Sue or someone else? Or did you pull it from the rest of the bottles?”

Mas explained that it had been randomly pulled. It could have been any of the bottles with the Dodgers label.

“Mr. Arai, would it be okay if we took your fingerprints? Just so we can exclude them.”

“I gotsu fingerprinted,” Mas announced after leaving the Tommy Lasorda room.

His daughter, Mari, was there in the open walkway, as well as his grandson, Takeo, and Lloyd.

“What the hell, Lloyd? How could you let that happen?” Mari said.

Takeo grabbed hold of Mas's right palm and examined it closely. “Are you getting arrested, Grandpa?”

“It's just routine,” Lloyd interrupted. His ridiculous sunglasses were now perched on his head. “That guy probably just had a heart attack. It wouldn't have been a big deal if someone hadn't said that he'd probably been killed. And then someone from the coroner's office confirmed that the body looked suspicious.”

Outside they heard the cheers of the crowd.

“You can still see most of the game,” Lloyd said to Mas. “It's not like you missed much of anything.”

Mari then assumed a very familiar position—all five feet of her erect, hands on her hips, staring up at her six-footer husband. “Are you kidding me? A man just died, Lloyd. Right on the field. My father just witnessed it, and you want us to pretend everything is fine?”

“I'zu orai.” And really, Mas was all right, or at least he thought he was. He had, unfortunately, witnessed much, much worse. “No good leavin' those other guys all by themselves.” Lloyd had secured group seats for not only the family, but all of their friends.

“Well, you come, too,” Mari said. “There's a seat for you.”

“Gonna just take it easy for a while.”

“It's not like you can drive yourself home. You came with Lloyd, remember?”

“Meetcha by the store when game ova?” Mas asked. That was their regular meeting spot.

Mari gave her husband a parting frown. “See, I told you it was too much.”

Mas didn't bother to say goodbye. He didn't like a big to-do. When he decided something, it was decided. And he decided that he needed to be by himself.

He wandered and checked out the displays in the stadium's hallways, where the big shots roamed. In the corner was a little bug of a vehicle, painted like a baseball, which they once used to bring in the relief pitchers. Other funny memorabilia were displayed on the walls. Farther down the hall were rows of shiny trophies, gold catchers' mitts, and engraved trophies.

Even though Mas wore a lanyard with a laminated pass, no one checked to see if he was official. They probably figured that he was a janitor. Someone harmless. Utterly forgettable.

In one of the side display rooms, he encountered another person. An Asian woman about his age. She stood in front of a row of baseball bats engraved with names of former Dodgers. She wore a jacket with “Korea” stitched in the back, so it was clear who she was rooting for.

Mas dipped his head. “Hallo.”
What the hell
. He had to say something.

“
Konnichiwa
,” she responded in Japanese.

Was it that obvious that his roots were back in Japan? It wasn't unusual for people straight from Korea to start talking to him in Japanese, but it made him uncomfortable, like he was suddenly in a position to be the colonizer. As soon as he could, he excused himself and headed in the opposite direction.

Outside he heard the roaring of the crowds, the clanking of the bells, the hum of the organ. To hear such excitement made him feel melancholy for a moment—he was again outside of the circle, the pulse of the heart.

He thought of Genessee for a moment—the gap between her front teeth, her dark and animated eyes. She could talk with her eyes, he thought. That's one thing that he appreciated about her. That they could be dead silent yet Mas would know what she was thinking.

Was it love? He wasn't quite sure what love was. He met Chizuko just weeks before they were to get married. She,
like Genessee, was a brain, big on reading and investigating details. With Chizuko, it was everyday things like tax rebates and the best college for Mari, while with Genessee it was beyond their homes and mundane lives: the world and music.

Had Mas loved Chizuko? That was almost an insulting question. They'd been beyond love. They didn't need red roses or silly Hallmark cards to prove their commitment to anyone. But Mas hadn't been constantly at Chizuko's side during her chemo treatments—and he still felt badly for that. It wasn't that he didn't love her; it was that he cared for her too much. To see this vibrant woman wasting away and getting sick to her stomach was too much for Mas. He knew now that he was capable of doing more. But it was too late. It almost had been too late to mend his relationship with Mari, but he'd answered the call. And now the four of them were squeezed in his two-bedroom in Altadena.

Genessee never mentioned anything about love, thank goodness. But her eyes said love. Mas could see it as she looked over from her couch and gazed at Mas while he watched an old Western on TV. It caught him by surprise. Why would this part-time professor want to spend so much time with him, a semi-retired gardener? He was, however, grateful for her desire.

Mas took the elevator to the top of the stadium and walked by murals heralding the stadium's past. Long lines for Dodger dogs and beer stretched out from concession stands—a tangle of stout, tall men of all colors, women in blue and red T-shirts, crying babies wetting their jumpers.

For a moment, Mas felt like he couldn't breathe. Even though they were all out in the open air, it seemed like the air was heavy, pressing down. He needed an escape from all the people. He needed quiet. He needed green.

Mas walked through the exit and past the sculptures of giant numbers, all belonging to the Dodger greats, all retired. Number 42, Jackie Robinson, back in Brooklyn, before the move to Chavez Ravine. Number 39, Roy Campanella, the catcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Number 32, Sandy Koufax, the southpaw pitcher. In the hush of emptiness here, were their spirits present?

Seeing that man die in front of him, the
kuso
-head Itai, had indeed taken a toll on Mas. Mari knew him better than he would like to admit. One moment, Itai had been bellowing and bragging, and another moment, struggling for air. Mas had seen something like that before, but it was decades earlier, buried and unimaginable.

One of the first times he stayed over at Genessee's, his yelling during his sleep had frightened her.

“You were crying ‘help!'” she said, her eyes shiny with tears. “‘Give us water!'”

Mas dismissed it as indigestion. “Shoulda neva eat chili and onions.” But in his heart of hearts, he knew what it was about. Chizuko had also spoken about his late-night cries. He decided then that he shouldn't sleep over at Genessee's anymore.

It was a bit indecent anyway, especially when Genessee went to church the next Sunday morning. Marriage would make everything decent, but then what would Mas lose? His
freedom, for one, but even more was his identity, and perhaps his late wife's identity. If he went and got married, he'd no longer be seen as a widower. And if he wasn't a widower anymore, would Chizuko's existence be somehow erased?

He walked faster down the curve of the driveway into the sinkhole of the parking lot. Outside the stadium, which glowed with fluorescent lights, he felt even more alone. If he didn't belong inside with his family, where did he belong?

And then he remembered. The Japanese garden. What was it that Smitty had said? That the garden could be found along a line from home base to second. Formerly parking lot 37, close to where a Union 76 station had once pumped gas. Mas walked in between the parked cars to make his way to a hill shaded by ill-shapen pine and cedar trees.

When he finally reached the edge, he came face to face with a tall, black iron fence with a sign that was menacing in its simplicity: “No Trespassing.” The gate, which was too high for him to scale, had a simple lock that was probably easy to pick. But he didn't have to go to such lengths, because with one jiggle, the gate opened.

Did Mas even dare? He looked back at the lit stadium, the vortex of life. Was someone watching him as he made his way down here? Were there secret cameras mounted on those light poles? But he saw nothing. No police, no guards. Everything was focused on the game and the spectators. Not out here in a dirty corner of the parking lot.

Mas quickly went through the gate and closed it behind him. No sense attracting attention. There was still some light left, so he was able to see the broken cement stairs
that took him up the dried-out hill. Did they ever bother to water this area?

When he finally reached the top, Mas felt weak in the knees. It wasn't the climb that did it. It was what he saw. Dead, uprooted pine trees. Stones thrown haphazardly like giant dice. Dead grass. If a garden could bleed, this one would be covered in blood.