Sayonara Slam (5 page)

While Mas was driving east on the 10, the cell phone in his pocket went off.

“What's that? You mean you have a cell phone,
Ojisan
?”

Mas didn't bother to reply. Once he braked to a stop for traffic, Mas pulled it out to see who had called.

“Ge—neh—see.” Yuki looked over Mas's shoulder. “What kind of name is that?”

Mas returned the phone to his pocket. The last thing he wanted to talk about with the boy was Genessee.

“I'm hungry,” Yuki said when they were passing downtown L.A.'s skyscrapers.

So was Mas.

“Anywhere to eat near Dodger Stadium?”

There was nothing directly around Chavez Ravine. But on the edge of Chinatown was Philippe's, a Dodger Blue haunt. It was the historic home of the French dip sandwich: slices of beef, pork, lamb, or turkey soaked in meat
jus
and stuffed in a long bun that had been dipped into the savory jus. Add just a dab of custom-made hot mustard, and you were set.

Yuki brought his tablet into the restaurant—which was smart, since you never knew when robbers would do a smash-and-dash in the parking lot. After they ordered their sandwiches at the counter from a waitress wearing a little blue cap on her head, they carried their trays past long tables of uniformed cops, office workers wearing laminated badges, and men in baseball caps. The heels of their shoes crunching on the sawdust on the floor, they finally found an empty wooden booth in the corner.

Mas chowed down on his lamb dip, but Yuki was more interested in his tablet screen. “
Souuuuu
,” he finally said. He leaned back in the booth and took his first bite of his sandwich. “The date on this computer file. It's from three days ago. Right when he arrived.”

What of it?
Mas thought.

“There's dirt on here, but it's all things we already suspected.”

“Maybe more on his laptop?” Mas asked.

“Probably.” Yuki then cursed. “I hoped this thumb drive would hold all the answers.”

They finished off their lunch with gulps of Coke and left. Only twenty minutes until the press conference—Mas sped up the hilly streets to the stadium. A press representative was waiting for them at the top of the stadium's stairs and directed them to the elevator. They joined another journalist in the elevator down to the Tommy Lasorda room.

Mas stood in the back of the room, while Yuki sat at the end of the second row. Mas saw the same cast of press characters: the sleepy-looking cameramen, the Japanese reporters in suits, and the Latino photographer who had helped Itai.

“You're back. Mas Arai, right?” said a familiar gravelly voice next to him.

Mas grunted. It was one of the detectives who had questioned him a couple of days earlier.

“Back to the scene of the crime.”

Just what was this
aho
saying to him?

“Or, I guess, the scene of what we think was a crime. The coroner is still working on the toxicology report. These things take time, I guess.”

In fact, the
hakujin
man up front was saying the same thing. “We're waiting for the results from the coroner's office. As soon as we hear from them, we'll hold another press conference for the Japanese media. So please refrain from contacting us in the meantime.” He then stopped talking and let an interpreter translate his message.

Based on his scowl, Yuki was not impressed. He was furiously tapping his pen on his notebook, as if he could
barely stay seated.

“Why is the head person not here to speak to us? A member of our press corps was killed in this stadium, and we need to hear directly from him,” he practically shouted in Japanese. “I'm Kimura Yuki with
Nippon Series,
and it was my colleague who met his sad demise here.”

While the baseball executive listened to the English translation from the interpreter at his side, Yuki turned to his colleagues. “I'm shocked by your response. Or lack of response. Itai-
san
's killer is at large. Any of you could be the next victim. Maybe the killer is in this room.”

The reporters let out audible sighs; it was obvious that no one took Yuki seriously. Mas sincerely felt badly for him, but having an outburst like this seemed less than professional.

“Again, we are sorry for your colleague's passing, and we are certainly working with the authorities to get answers. We'll inform all of you as soon as we hear anything definitive.”

The reporters got up, making sure not to make eye contact with Yuki. Only the young blonde, April Sue, approached Yuki, taking down his contact information and giving him her business card. Smitty Takaya wasn't there; this probably had nothing to do with his area of responsibility, but Mas missed that shock of white hair and his easygoing demeanor. The female broadcast reporter, Amika, was also absent. She probably knew that the press conference would be a waste of time.

Mas left the press conference first, figuring that Yuki
had enough interpreters, professional ones, to come to his aid. Also, he wanted to stay clear of that detective. What was he doing here, anyway? Was it like Yuki has said—maybe the killer was someone in the press corps?

Because the follow-up game was tomorrow, some Japanese players were out in the wide hallway. A couple were cleaning their teeth with toothpicks; they'd probably just finished their afternoon meal down the hall. Yuki finally emerged, and when he saw Neko Kawasaki walking toward him, his face visibly softened.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.”

“It's been a while.”

“Only six months.”

“You've been pitching well.”

“So you've been following?”

“Watching on the internet when I can.”

“I need to go back to Hawaii soon.”

“I'm in Sho Tokyo. At the Miyako.”

“Oh, I'm at the Bonaventure downtown.”

“Bonaventure—oh, that's famous.”

“It's old. I think that it was built in the 1970s.”

This conversation was complete nonsense. Mas finally approached Yuki and murmured in Japanese, “Let's go.”

But Yuki would not be deterred from his mission. “Dinner. Tonight.”

“Not sure if that's a good idea. I don't think the team manager wants us to socialize with reporters. Especially someone from
Nippon Series
.”

“I won't ask you anything about Itai.”

Neko rolled her eyes.

“Well, you don't have to answer them then.”

“If it only would be that easy.”

“You have your same cell phone number, right? I'll call you later.”

“You can try. I can't stop you from trying.” Neko walked away, bobbing her head toward Mas before disappearing into the women's restroom.

Mas shook his head, not believing what he'd just witnessed.

“What? What?”

“Embarrassing,” Mas said in Japanese.

“What do you mean?”

“Sheezu not interested,” he stated plainly in English.

“How do you know?”

Mas heard the tapping of high heels against concrete, and then a swirl of yellow appeared in front of them. “So I see the
Nippon Series
has sent another one of its loser dogs to America. I guess they're more desperate than I thought.” It was Amika, wearing a dress the color of the center of a daisy.

Yuki cringed. Mas knew that Yuki had a sharp tongue, and so she was surprised that he didn't use it against the broadcast reporter. “I'm just here to cover a story. Just like you.”

“No, what we do is report. Not spread unsubstantiated gossip.” She turned and clicked away.

“She just can't let it go,” Yuki murmured.

“What?” Mas asked, but the boy pretended not to hear him. Their drive back to the Little Tokyo hotel was quiet, which suited Mas just fine. He was beginning to realize that this so-called journalist's trip to Los Angeles may be about more than just his dead colleague. Perhaps a female knuckleball pitcher.

After Mas dropped Yuki off, he got on his cell phone. Genessee deserved more than he had offered last night.

When she opened her front door, she looked fresh and bright-eyed. And yes, maybe beautiful. Mas felt a tingle in his limbs.

“How was your day?” she asked, offering him a glass of red wine.

“Orai if we don't talk about it?”

Genessee smiled, revealing the tiny gap in her teeth. “Of course.”

Chapter Five

T
he next morning, Mas checked his cell phone as best he could. As far as he could tell, only one message. From Mari.

Walking out of Genessee's bedroom through the sliding glass doors and into her backyard, he carefully pressed the button to call back.

“Hallo.”

“Dad, where are you?”

“Genessee's house.”

“Oh. You haven't been staying over there lately, so we didn't know where you were.”

It wasn't what Mari thought. Genessee had filled Mas up with lasagna and garlic bread after he'd stopped by last night. It was the wine that had done it. The last thing he remembered was sitting back on her couch while something was on the television. How he'd ended up in Genessee's bed, he didn't know. He was stripped down to his T-shirt but was still wearing his jeans.

Mas didn't say a word. How many times was Mari
missing from her room during her summers in between college semesters? By that time, Chizuko was gone; communication had all but broken down between father and daughter.

“You have to call, Dad. Just check in so we know that you're safe.”

“Yah, yah.” He knew she was right, but again, it hadn't been his intention to stay the night on the westside. It was already nine in the morning. And no call from Yuki yet. “Anybody callsu me?”

“No. Who were you expecting? That Yuki dude?” She pronounced his name like “yucky”—on purpose, Mas figured.

“I'zu be home tonight. No
shinpai
.”

“I'm making dinner. You can invite Yuki, if you want.”

Mas grimaced. His little girl wasn't much of a cook. But he knew she was being gracious, so he accepted the invitation as best he could.

After he got off of the phone, he walked toward Genessee's rock garden. The one he'd created for her about five years ago. He'd picked up the larger rocks from the Imperial Valley. One was shaped like the giant head of an eagle. All in all, the garden was holding up well, even though the occasional bird chose to splatter its white gifts onto the rocks.

It needed to be raked periodically, and Mas had purchased a special metal one for this purpose. He knew that the
hakujin
pictured a Zen priest in a robe doing such raking in a meditative state—not a white-T-shirted old man with morning breath. And while a priest might think of the
fragility of life while he raked, Mas was pondering murder.

Who hated Itai? The first person that came to his mind was the TV reporter, Amika Hadashi. She definitely seemed to have a bone to pick with Itai. He wasn't sure what had happened between them, but it seemed very personal. But would she attempt to kill him right in front of the entire Japanese media corps? It seemed unwise, and she struck Mas as being very clever. The catcher, Sawada, wasn't a fan of Itai's, either.

Other than those two, Mas couldn't think of any others. But Itai had said he'd be making an announcement that would rock the baseball world. What in the world could command such interest?

Mas tried Yuki's cell phone a couple of times, but no dice. He even called the Miyako Hotel, but after a few rings he was sent to the guest voicemail service. Until now, Yuki had been so eager and on the ball to get moving. Perhaps Amika Hadashi's biting words had dampened his enthusiasm.

Genessee appeared, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. She knew the right way to start the day. Mas could imagine that this would be something he could easily get used to. He literally shook his head to erase such thinking before accepting the cup.

After coffee with Genessee, Mas was on the move. He parked the car in the Miyako's three-story structure and walked into the lobby. There was no sense in calling Yuki
again, so he took the elevator to the third floor.

“Yuki,” he called out, knocking his knuckle against the door. “Yuki, youzu in there? Mas here.”

He heard the pitter-patter of feet and then somebody knocking into furniture.

Whatthehell was going on?

He stayed quiet for a few seconds and then tried the door. It swung open and Amika Hadashi stood on the other side. Instead of being flawlessly coiffed, her hair was mussed up, frizzy all over. Wearing the same yellow dress—only it seemed to have wilted a bit—she held a pair of high-heeled shoes.

“Ah,
ohayo
,” she mouthed her good morning and then ran down the hall in her bare feet.

For a moment, Mas didn't know what to do. He, of all people, should not judge, but he did. What had the boy gotten himself into?

Yuki appeared, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He wore no shirt, revealing a carriage that was muscular, despite his thin frame. On his arm was the tattoo Mas had forgotten about—a wart hog, because he'd been born in the year of the
Inoshishi
. “Come in,
Ojisan
.”

Mas did.

“You have a light?” Mas shook his head.

“I quit,” Mas admitted. It was after Takeo had been born.

“Too bad,” Yuki said. “I think I liked you better when you smoked.”

Mas let that one pass, because it was obvious that Yuki
was recovering from a hangover. His room was a complete mess. The ice tub was on the floor next to an empty bottle of whiskey and, of course, two glasses. One of them was marked by red lipstick.

Yuki pulled the crumpled sheets off the bed, revealing a shiny metal lighter. “Got it,” he said, finally smiling before lighting his cigarette.

Mas was pretty sure that the hotel didn't allow smoking. But what did he care? Yuki's name was on the registry, not his. He did, however, notice the smoke alarm on the wall and pointed to it for Yuki's edification. The boy bent down to retrieve one of his shoes and aimed it toward the disk. Bam! Got it on the first try. Maybe Yuki had a future as a baseball pitcher.

Mas sat on the padded chair on wheels by the desk. Yuki, meanwhile, reclined on his unmade bed, the cigarette ash falling onto the pristine white sheets.

“
Sou
,” Yuki said.

“So,” Mas replied.

“Looks like Japan may be facing Korea again on Sunday.”

As interesting as that statement was, Mas wasn't waiting to hear that. He wanted to know why a half-dressed Amika Hadashi had come out of Yuki's hotel room.

“Ah, shit,” Yuki said. “I know you probably think I'm lying, but I really didn't expect that to happen. I actually went to the Bonaventure. To talk to Neko. I didn't have her room number, and the employees wouldn't give it to me. I called her room, and she said she couldn't talk. That she had an appointment.” He tossed the cigarette stub into a
glass with a line of brown liquid. “She wouldn't tell me with who. I just waited there by the elevators. Waiting for her to appear so I could just talk to her.”

The boy was obviously lovesick, so sick that he looked like a pitiful fool.

“I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly she was there, shaking my shoulder. I thought I saw an angel. I really did. But the angel was with someone. Was with that Korean pitcher, Jin-Won Kim.”

“Both knuckleball pitcha. Maybe talkin' about dat.”

“No, this wasn't anything about knuckleballs, I'll tell you that much.”

“Youzu don't know.”

“No,
Ojisan
, I know. I could tell how he held her elbow. And how she leaned into him. And he's married. A kid, just a baby.”

“Whatchu do?”

“I went back to Little Tokyo, to the bar across from the hotel. And then she shows up. Amika. She sits right next to me. I tried to ignore her, but how could I? The bar is filled with mostly Americans. College students. Strangers. I have no one to talk to, so I talk to her.”

Mas knew what was going to happen next.

“We came back to my room.”

“It looks like it,” Mas said in Japanese.

“Don't judge me, okay? You're old, so you don't know how it is. She's the one who brought the whiskey.”

This Amika was something else
, Mas thought. For a woman to be carrying around a bottle of whiskey like that?

“She's seeing someone, you know. The catcher, Sawada.”

Mas lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

“They have an open relationship,” said Yuki.

“What dat mean?”

“That he gets to sleep around.”

“And she?”

“Not so much,” said Yuki. “He adores her. I don't know why. She's awful.”

Mas frowned, confused.

“I was drunk, okay? I actually don't remember much of anything. But obviously something happened here.”

Naturally.

“I don't like Amika. Not one bit.” Yuki's glasses were back on his face. “She was engaged to a sumo wrestler before, you know. It was supposed to be true love. Once his star began to fall, she dropped him. Just like that.”

The thin reporter with a beefy giant? Unfathomable.

“She's too old for me, anyway. And she's always digging around for stories. She's working on a big one on Neko, actually. Not sure when it's going to air, but she even interviewed Neko's parents back in Yokohama. It didn't go well; at least that's what Neko said. Her father won't even talk about it.”

“So Neko-
san
your girlfriendo or sumptin?”

“Well, we did spend some time together.
Nippon Series
sent me to Hawaii to cover her a few months ago. I thought maybe, well, that we could continue where we left off. But it certainly seems like she's moved on with Jin-Won.”

Yuki sat up, the ash falling onto his T-shirt. “She needs
to be careful,” he said, talking to himself more than to Mas. “There's a lot of Korean media here, too. It would be terrible if they cast her as Jin-Won's mistress. It could even have international repercussions.”

Mas's interest was peaked. Isn't that what Itai said? That he knew of something that would have a global impact?

Yuki stepped over his mess to make his way to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Mas rolled open the curtains to take a look down at First Street. A van was parked at the curb, and Mas recognized some of the photographers he'd seen at the first game between Japan and Korea.

The toilet flushed, and Yuki joined Mas by the window. Peering down on the street, he said, “Something is going on. Let's get down there.” He rummaged for his pants and then a shirt. He couldn't seem to find anything that wasn't wrinkled into a ball. “
Ojisan
, let me wear your
Nippon Series
polo shirt? You're wearing a T-shirt underneath that, right?”

I thought I didn't look professional
, Mas thought, but he took off the shirt anyway and handed it over. Looking at himself in the full-length mirror, Mas scowled.
Now I look a gardener-
san
more than ever
. He put on his jacket so he'd at least have a more professional appearance.

The two of them rushed downstairs. As they headed out through the hotel's glass door, they saw that the van was still in front. The driver was programming his GPS, while another Asian man rushed into the open vehicle, shouting instructions in a foreign language, most likely Korean.

In the jumble of foreign words, Mas and Yuki were both able to make out the destination. The Bonaventure Hotel.

Yuki pulled out his cell phone. “I need to warn her,” he said, pressing down on the screen.

The lovesick boy was again overreacting. Who knew why they were headed to the Bonaventure?

“Neko-
san
. It's me. Yuki. Call me as soon as you get this,” he said, his words rapid-fire. Then to Mas: “Get the car.”

“Where weezu goin'?”

“Bonaventure.”

“Who knowsu why they goin' ova there.”

“We do this all the time, Arai-
san
,” Yuki. “If our competitors are rushing off to cover a story, we follow them.”

“But no idea—”

“Yes, even if we have no clue about what's happening.”

Mas grit down on his dentures. No wonder the news business was in big trouble these days.

Once they parked in the expansive lot across the street from the Bonaventure and entered the hotel, Mas and Yuki faced a maze of escalators and elevators. A collection of reflective cylinders near the 110 Freeway, the Bonaventure reminded Mas of high-tech urban silos, but instead of grain, they held human strangers to Los Angeles. The silos were old, built in the mid-seventies, but they'd aged surprisingly well. Or maybe they were like palm trees—originally from an alien place, but now solidly part of the L.A. landscape.

They found a video screen with a list of that day's hotel events: a meeting of community college administrators, a gathering of doctors, and then, yes, a press conference in a banquet room on the second floor. Some familiar-looking
Asian journalists were heading up the carpeted stairs, so Mas and Yuki followed all the way to one of the banquet rooms.

Jin-Won Kim was seated behind a covered table in front of a few rows of padded chairs. TV cameras were set up and ready to roll.