Sayonara Slam (4 page)

“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

L
uckily, 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 the 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.

“Oh, out that way. That's pretty far.”

“Arai-
san
is my driver. And translator.”

“You drink
ocha
?” Sunny asked. “I'm an old bachelor, but I can still make a cup of green tea.”

“Yes, but—” Yuki started to say, but before he could finish his sentence, the old man disappeared through his stacks of boxes.

Mas was not the king of housekeeping himself, but with three additional people in his home, he had become more particular. Sometimes one unwashed spoon or plate in the sink could set him off. In the past, it was fine because it was his own mess, but now he often found someone else's mess to be completely intolerable.

This mess of a house was Sunny Hirose's. It had nothing to do with Mas, so he tried to keep it that way in his head. Still, he refused to take a seat, afraid that a pile of magazines would fall on his head.

Yuki used Sunny's absence to snoop around. He studied a trophy on top of the mantel next to the Christmas elf and some crooked framed photos on the wall behind boxes of soy sauce. Over in the corner was a large piece of equipment, a tabletop with a metal sander attached to it. Mas, who'd done his share of woodworking, had seen something like that before but couldn't remember where.

Sunny finally returned with two steaming mugs, a tea-bag string hanging from each one. He wore thick gold rings—Mas could make out the words, “Korea” and “Army” on a couple of them.

“You play
beisuboru
,” Yuki said after accepting one of the mugs.

“What?”

“Baseball,” Mas interpreted.

“You have photos.” Yuki pointed to the framed photos.

“Oh, yeah. Me and my older brother. A lifetime ago. When we were in camp. Does he know what that is?”

Mas turned to Yuki and asked whether he was aware of the camps that imprisoned Japanese Americans during World War II.

Yuki nodded, but Mas had his doubts about whether the Hiroshima-born man really understood.

“I was in Gila River. Had a pretty good team there.” Sunny turned his attention back to Mas. “What camp were you in?”

“I'zu not in camp. In Japan.”

“Oh,” Sunny said. Now that Mas had said Japan, Sunny seemed totally disinterested. Some Nisei had no idea what it was like overseas during World War II: the firebombings over Tokyo, the hunger in their bellies that could barely be sated by sweet potatoes, the black rain over a decimated city. There was no sense in mentioning Hiroshima, because that's not why they were there in Sawtelle.

“Anyway, what can I help you with?”

“Itai-
san
,” Yuki said, “did he seem bothered by anything while he was here?”

Mas attempted to translate the best he could.

“Well, you worked with him. You know what he was like. Never slept. Always on his phone or on the computer. It was no wonder that he dropped dead like that. He was married to his work. I told him it would be better if he settled down, got married. Don't be like me. But he told me that no
woman would be able to stand him. I guess he was right.”

Yuki's back straightened when Sunny spoke of Itai's phone and computer. Mas could guess what Yuki's next question would be. Sure enough, he asked, “Are the computer and phone still here?”

“The phone, I don't know, but the police took away his computer yesterday. You can go into the room he was using and see what's left.”

This room was as bare as a prison cell compared to the living room: just a small twin mattress topped with a nylon sleeping bag, and a television tray that probably served as a makeshift desk.

Yuki leafed through the papers on the TV tray. They were all computer printouts in Japanese. “This is a list of the players on the Japan team.”

Not surprising
, Mas thought.
Wasn't that what the reporter was here for?

“Can you ask whether he has a computer printer? Did Itai-
san
use it?”

Mas interpreted and Sunny responded, “Yes, in fact, he did. He gave me a file on those what-you-call-it…thumb drives. I think I may still have it.” When he went to retrieve it, Mas wandered into the attached bathroom. It replicated the living room's discordant look. A shelf that was probably designed for toiletries held about ten boxes of baseball bobble-head dolls. An open hamper revealed not dirty clothes but shoe boxes.

On the tile counter Mas saw shaving cream, a used disposable razor, a toothbrush,
and Japanese toothpaste, squeezed from the middle. He didn't see any prescription medicine, although based on the rings in the medicine chest, there once were some.

Sunny appeared in the bathroom's doorway and handed over the thumb drive, a simple gray rectangle.

“Itai-
san
take medicine,
desho
?” Yuki asked directly.

“High blood pressure. Runs in the Itai family. I have it, too.”

“Youzu see him take it?”

“If you mean his pills, yes. He usually carried them with him, though. Why?”

Yuki nudged Mas. “Ask him if someone has access to his house. Or if anyone has come over.”

Mas frowned. “Like who, a housekeeper?”

“Just ask.”

Mas did.

“No, it's just me,” Sunny responded. “I mean, I have a poker game here every Friday night with my old buddies from the Korean War. But that's about it.”

After a few more circles of Itai's space, Yuki nodded that he was ready to go.

“Sah, thank you,
ne
.” Mas was genuinely appreciative. Not many men his age would be this accommodating.

“You guys take it easy,” Sunny said, taking hold of the half-empty mugs.

“Again, very sorry about Itai-
san
.” Yuki bowed before he left. As they made their way back to the Impala, he hissed in Mas's ear: “I think he knew more Japanese than he let on.”

“Could be,” Mas replied. It was hard to figure out
the Nisei and their attitudes about speaking their parents' language.

Back in the passenger seat, Yuki pulled out a digital tablet from his computer bag. Slipping the thumb drive into one of its ports, he tapped the screen here and there. Mas watched as Japanese text appeared on the screen.

“Itai-
san
was collecting dirt on practically every player on the team.”

“You don't seem too bothered that this Itai's dead,” Mas said to his passenger in Japanese.

“Of course, I'm upset. He was my
senpai
. Practically my mentor. Taught me everything about research, writing good stories. That's why I'm here.”

Still, Mas thought Yuki's emotional responses this whole time seemed muted. It was all about the story. As he started the Impala, he glanced back at the neat ranch-style house, its exterior masking the chaos within.