Sayonara Slam (9 page)

“Yah,” Mas lied.

“I think Japan has a good chance to sew this whole
thing up.”

“Dat pitcha, Jin-Won, gonna leave Korea for the majors, huh?”

Smitty, for a moment, was tongue-tied, as if he'd underestimated Mas's inside-baseball knowledge. “Well, we'll have to see what happens. The Unicorns will have to agree to release him.” For some reason, Smitty didn't seem thrilled with that possibility.

Tanji, his yellow hair hidden under his baseball cap, passed by with a couple of Asian men in suits. They were trailed by two others in street clothes.

“Tanji's entourage,” Smitty commented. “They're always making special requests for the highest-quality green tea for Tanji. I even had to go to Little Tokyo myself to buy it.”

Soka,
Mas muttered to himself. That was a superstar
senshu
's life. Mas had even witnessed that in some of his celebrity customers' daily activities. It wasn't coffee made in a common percolator or a can of Folgers and a Mr. Coffee machine, but fancy contraptions with freshly ground whole beans. Now even regular people like his own daughter and son-in-law had taken on these practices. A chance to feel like a rich bigshot, at least for the time it took to drink a cappuccino.

“Youzu see Lloyd?” Now that Yuki was busy with whatever, Mas thought he might as well check up on the boy.

Smitty informed him that he was out on the field, and after Mas grunted his goodbye and walked away, he heard another voice behind him: “Mr. Arai.”

Mas turned. Ah,
tsukammata
! He was caught by those
detectives again.

“We were just talking to your associate, Yuki Kimura,” said Cortez Williams, this time wearing a bright orange tie. His partner, Garibay, the older detective with the unruly hair, looked like he was in the same clothes that he wore earlier in the week.

Associate?
Mas cursed.
When does being a driver make me an associate?

“He claims that he arrived at your house on Wednesday evening, the day after Mr. Itai died. Can you confirm that?”

Mas nodded his head. “Yah, he come.”
Sonofagun. Is Yukikazu a suspect?

“And how exactly do you know Mr. Kimura?” Williams continued.

“My friendsu grandson.”

“And he happens to be a reporter with the same publication as Mr. Itai?”

Mas nodded again.

“Hell of a coincidence,” Detective Garibay finally chimed in.

Mas left out the part that Yuki actually sought him out because of his and Lloyd's connection to Dodger Stadium. He shrugged his shoulders. What did the
hakujin
say? “Small world”?

“I gotsu go help with field,” Mas lied.

“Well, don't let us stop you,” Detective Garibay said. Mas felt the sarcasm ring in his ears.

He escaped into the elevator and went downstairs. All those knuckleheads—the police detectives, baseball players,
groupies and all—were beginning to suffocate him. As the elevator doors opened and he stepped out onto the field, Mas was able to regain his equilibrium.

The turf at Dodger Stadium was a beautiful thing. The grass was living and breathing, roots stretching down into the ground where Jews were once buried in the 1800s. Mas learned from Lloyd that the sod was actually raised in Palm Desert, a Bermuda grass overseeded with rye grass to get that perennial green sheen. But it wasn't like the dye some flower growers used in standing water to get their carnations to be green for St. Patrick's Day. This concoction was natural hocus-pocus, not fake.

Lloyd's crew was connecting their long, heavy-duty hoses to the water supply to make sure the field had enough moisture. Lloyd himself was checking a spot out in left field. Mas knew enough about baseball and gardening that you had to make sure the turf was uniform. One dry spot and the ball could bounce in a different direction, perhaps even determining a win or a loss.

Mas walked along the dirt sideline. During the World Baseball Classic games, security was more relaxed than at regular Dodger games. His special ID was around his neck, but no one gave him a second look. He was just an old Japanese man to them. Utterly toothless. And if they thought that, they would be most certainly correct.

He raised his hand in acknowledgment to Lloyd, and Lloyd tipped his cap back. As Mas approached the storage area for the greenskeeping equipment, he noticed something white stuck underneath the bullpen gate. He bent down to
pull it out. A baseball, but not a regular major league one. This one had some Japanese writing on it—actually, upon closer inspection, it had an imprint of a signature, but not of a baseball
senshu
. No, this one was the commissioner of the Japanese professional baseball league.
Funny that such a ball would be brought over here
, Mas thought. For these international competitions, especially with Japan versus Korea, a ball from Japan would never be allowed. He didn't know what to do with the ball. Give it to the Japanese manager or one of the coaches? Mas wasn't on that high level to have that kind of interaction. He'd just give it to Lloyd. Maybe Takeo would end up being the recipient of the wayward ball from Japan.

Stuffing the ball in his jacket pocket, Mas continued to watch the greenskeeping crew work. All of them were young and
genki
, with knees that worked and shiny eyes and hair. They had their whole lives ahead of them.

Lloyd, sweat running down the sides of his face, finally made his way to Mas. “If you want to be with your reporter friend, you better go now to the press box. The game will be starting.”

“Nah, I stay wiz you guysu.” The greenskeeping crew was the closest thing to his people in this place.

They sat amid lawnmowers and fertilizer carts in the storage area, the familiar scent of chemicals and dung permeating the space. A large-screen TV broadcast images of the Korean players taking the field, but the audio was turned off. Instead, an old-fashioned boom box provided the audio—the legendary Vin Scully. Scully's voice immediately
soothed Mas, a familiar balm that eased the discomforts of the past few days.

Both Mas and Chizuko had been fans of John Wooden, the legendary UCLA basketball coach. Vin Scully was in the same class. The highest class, as far as Mas—and L.A. sports fans—were concerned. The longtime Lakers basketball announcer, the late Chick Hearn, was more colorful, full of sayings that made Chizuko, an immigrant, scratch her head. Hearn, who'd also hosted a bowling competition show on a local TV channel, was like a trumpet squawking in a jazz improvisation, while Vin Scully was more melodious, a wind instrument made from aged oak.

Korea started strong. They got a run across in the first inning. By the seventh-inning stretch, Korea had tacked on two additional runs, taking a 3-0 lead. But in the eighth, Uno-
san
sent two men home with a triple down the line. The score was 3-2, with Korea still on top.

It was the bottom of the ninth, and if Korea kept Japan from scoring, they'd have the win. The knuckleball pitcher and closer, Jin-Won, was in the bullpen, warming up his arm. But he never appeared. Instead, Mas saw a short, stocky pitcher running to the mound.

Vin Scully handled the switch with aplomb, introducing the player who was taking Jin-Won's place. While the spectators didn't seem to catch on, Mas knew immediately that something was seriously wrong.

Chapter Eight

U
nfortunately for Korea, Jin-Won's replacement was a straight-ahead fastball pitcher, and both Tanji and Uno easily got on base for Japan. Sawada, the catcher and also Amika's boyfriend, was swinging now. Mas expected Sawada to go for a big hit, but he wisely hit a sacrifice bunt. He was out on first, but only after Tanji and Uno advanced to second and third. Next at bat was the tall
hapa
pitcher, Soji Zahed. On the television screen, he looked nervous. Vin Scully even mentioned Zahed's pitching woes on his minor league team. “Back in Japan, he was a Nippon-Ham Fighter who had an extraordinary rookie year, with eight wins and only two losses,” Scully said. “He did well today. If he could only take some of that magic back to his team in Rancho Cucamonga.”

Zahed swung at a ball, missing completely. Even Mas could see that his timing was off. Pretty soon it was a full count. The Korean cowbells were ringing throughout the stadium, while the Japanese fans were cheering in unison. Sitting there practically underground, Mas felt the walls
shake. If Zahed got a hit and Tanji made it to home plate, Japan would at least tie. If he got at least a double, Uno would score and Zahed would win the game for Japan. Mas felt bad for the boy; he probably wasn't even twenty years old. Quite a lot of stress to place on the shoulders of a teen.

Zahed licked his lips, stuck out his
oshiri,
and held up his bat. The pitcher contorted on the mound and released the ball. Zahed swung and made contact. The ball rolled down into an empty place on left field. Tanji made a run for home from third base, with Uno right behind him. Japan had won.

“
Yatta!
” Mas was on his feet, his fingers clenched in fists. For a moment, he was transported back in time to an empty country field in Hiroshima, which he and his brothers cleared for their personal baseball diamond. They cut up a soiled tatami mat to make the bases and secured together three short bamboo poles to use as a bat. They wrapped rags to form a lopsided ball. Besides judo, baseball was the sport for them, ever since Babe Ruth had come to Japan for the exhibition games in 1934.

Mas looked around at Lloyd and his crew, who were all standing, too. Their attention, however, was not on the TV screen but on their greenskeeping equipment. Not fans of either team, they just wanted to do their job and go home.

One crew member said he had to go check out the skin in left field.

Lloyd must have seen the puzzled expression on Mas's face.

“That's what we call the grass, Dad.”

Mas decided to make his way back to the press box, and as he walked there, his phone rang. He flipped it open.

“
Ojisan
,” Yuki said, “we have to go to the hospital immediately.”

“Orai. I comin'.” Before Mas even said that much, Yuki had clicked off. Something had happened to Jin-Won, Mas figured. First Itai and now the Korean knuckleball pitcher. Was this some kind of Japanese far-right-wing plot?

When he finally met the reporter in the hallway, it was worse than he had initially imagined.

“It's Jin-Won's grandmother,” Yuki informed him as they rushed to the Impala. “She collapsed while watching the game.”

Did someone purposely harm the old woman?
Mas wondered as he got into the driver's seat. His hands shook as he held the steering wheel. They were stuck in the parking lot gridlock, which agitated Yuki no end.

“How did you find out?” Mas asked in Japanese, hoping that conversation would calm Yuki down.

“Amika told me. I knew something was up from the way the Korean media was huddled together.”

Forty-five minutes later, they finally arrived at White Memorial Hospital in East Los Angeles, a trip that without the baseball traffic would have taken them fifteen minutes.

Mas braced himself for bad news. That poison, the cyanide, had taken hold of Itai in a matter of minutes. The Korean grandmother was almost twice his age—and most likely had had a broken body for most of her life—so surely she could not survive its effects.

When they walked down the hall toward intensive care, Mas noticed someone leaning against the wall. At first he thought it was a teenage boy, but as they got closer, he could clearly make out the uniform and the black layered hair.

“Neko-
san
.” Yuki stood in front of her, opening himself up for any kind of response, even another slap. But there was no slap. Neko literally fell into his arms, pressing her face in his shoulder and shaking with sobs.

Mas felt so awkward; he didn't know if he should stay or go. He stuffed his right hand into his jacket pocket. There was something round in the pocket—the baseball with Japanese writing. He then checked his left: some quarters. He went back toward the elevator to buy the girl a Coke from a vending machine.

When he returned, both young people were sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall. He handed the Coke bottle to Neko, who accepted it appreciatively with a bow of the head. Yuki took it from her and screwed open the cap while she cleaned her face with a handkerchief.

She took a long sip of the Coke. “I can't believe this is happening,” she said, her voice wavering. Mas was afraid the girl would start crying again. “Just when I met her.”

Mas and Yuki exchanged glances. What was she talking about?

Neko picked up on their confusion. “Don't you know?” Her long eyelashes were clumped from her tears. “Mrs. Kim is my grandmother.”

“So Jin-Won….”

“He's my cousin.”

“I don't understand.” Yuki's voice was gentle and soft. “Mrs. Kim is Korean.”

Just when Yuki spoke those words, the realization hit both him and Mas. According to Itai's notes, Mrs. Kim had been a comfort woman. Somehow that connection had led to the birth of a child, either Neko's father or mother.

Neko didn't reply and dabbed her eyes again with her handkerchief. Her nose had become swollen and red. Mas hated to think it, but the girl looked like a mess.

“When did you find out?”

“Jin-Won approached me the first day I arrived here in Los Angeles. The day before the game.”

“It must have been a shock.”

“The funny thing was, it really wasn't. It was like someone had been preparing for me to finally learn the truth. I grew up with secrets. I knew my father was born in Manchuria; my Japanese grandparents were stuck there during World War II. My grandparents never talked about it. And neither does my father. A taboo topic. That's why I told Amika to tread lightly.”

“Amika?” Yuki withdrew from Neko for a moment, as if she could smell his intimate encounter with the TV reporter.

“She insisted on speaking with my parents in Yokohama. Said that it was essential for her profile on me. I'm not sure exactly what she said, but whatever it was, it deeply offended them. They were so upset. Apparently, my father threw the whole news crew out of their house. They were furious with me, too, but wouldn't say why. And they cut
off ties with my grandparents. I immediately called Amika to find out what had happened, and she claimed that my parents had overreacted. But to what? I still to this day don't know exactly, but I can guess.” Neko took another sip of her soda. “They didn't want to consider that my father had been adopted. And even worse, that he'd been a product of something unspeakable.”

Amika knew more than she was letting on to them
, Mas thought.

“Mrs. Kim had given birth in Manchuria. A boy. He was taken from her and given up for adoption at an orphanage. For the last five years, Jin-Won has been helping her find out what happened to him.”

“Your father.”

Neko nodded. “My father. I didn't know he'd been adopted, and I don't think he even knew until Amika told him. Jin-Won took me out to dinner and showed me the paperwork. Given that my grandparents had been so secretive all these years, it made sense. They hadn't done anything wrong; they'd done a good thing, in fact. Gave my father a second chance at life. But why keep it a secret?”

Mas, who had harbored some secrets of his own, understood Neko's grandparents' motivation. What good would it be to dig up dark secrets from the past? Why hoist that dead weight onto your children and grandchildren?

“That's why you were so tender toward Jin-Won. He's your blood,” Yuki said it aloud, obviously more for his benefit than Neko's.

She nodded. “You know that I'm an only child. To have
a younger cousin, another knuckleball pitcher, with a baby. And a new grandmother. In one week, my family multiplied.” The girl's face darkened again. “But now I might lose my grandmother, just when I met her.” Neko began to cry again, and Mas couldn't take it anymore.

He wandered back to the vending machine, but his pocket held no more quarters. He was checking his worn wallet when he felt someone's presence. That woman, Sally Lee, aiming her camera toward him.

Mas frowned. All this photo-taking and spying had to stop. “Whyzu you take my pikucha?”

“I have a better question. Why are you here? You're no friend or relative to Mrs. Kim.”

Well, I'm no enemy, either
, he thought.

“You don't belong here. The police are on their way anyway. Get out of here before I call security.”

Mas was in no mood to make a scene in an intensive care ward, so he stumbled away.

“Letsu go,” he said to Yuki, adding in Japanese, “we are not wanted here.”

“I'm staying put,
Ojisan
,” Yuki said. His arm was around Neko's slumped shoulders. He was back in the pitcher's good graces, and he wasn't going to budge.

Suit yourself
, Mas thought. He wasn't going to hang around where he wasn't wanted, to be possibly accused of being a killer, or maybe be killed himself.

The first thing Mas wanted to do was drive to Genessee's and sit back on her couch, listening to her plucking her Okinawan banjo-like instrument, the
sanshin
. But that wasn't an option, at least not now. To go back to that meant he'd have to commit to some changes, and he didn't know if he could really follow through.

He got into the Impala and closed the heavy door behind him. Were they dealing with some kind of deranged serial killer? First to be downed was Itai, who seemed somewhat sensitive to the plight of the comfort women, and now a comfort woman herself?

He needed something to help him escape his worries. He'd stopped smoking, and he hardly drank anymore. But a soft bean-and-cheese burrito, easy on the dentures—that would be something to enjoy. There was no parking lot for Al & Bea's, so he had to fight churchgoers (why were the churches around here open almost every night?) and mariachi musicians for an open spot on First Street. The eatery was literally a shack with an aluminum awning and practically no sign. But anyone who was anyone in L.A. knew that they made the best bean-and-cheese burritos.

Mas finally found a spot near the freeway onramp and slowly made his way to the street. It was pitch dark now, with no visible streetlights. The sidewalks were sometimes damaged into concrete crumbles, so Mas knew he needed to take it slow.

Before he reached the curb, two men blocked his path.

“Are you for us or are you against us?” one of them said in English, his accent betraying his Japanese background.

Who was “us
”
?
Mas wondered. The one who spoke looked about forty, and he had a faint mustache.

“
Omae
, do you understand?” the other added forcefully in Japanese. He was chubby in tight pants, which gave the illusion that his middle was melting.

No
, Mas thought,
I don't
, but it wasn't a good time to admit that.

“Are you a traitor to Japan?” asked the mustachioed man.

“I'm American,” Mas said in Japanese. “So if that makes me a traitor, then I am.”

“So you are on the side of the United States. The people who want to take over our land for army bases. To make us toothless. Impotent.”

“You drop bombs on us, seeking to obliterate us,” the chubby one added.

“
Chotto, chotto
,” Mas said. That's one thing he could not let pass. “I'zu a
hibakusha
.”

“Atomic-bomb survivor? You? Where were you?”

“At the Hiroshima train station.” He gave the exact address and the name of his school.

“I cannot believe this,” said the chubby one.

“So you know what they're saying about these ‘comfort women' are lies.” The mustachioed man was more of a talker. “Those brothels were not sanctioned by the military. They were independent from the Japanese government. Those women volunteered to work there for money.”

Mas was too young to have fought for the army, so he had no idea what was going on in different parts of Asia, or
even in his own backyard. It was actually Yuki who'd told him about the Koreans who were forcibly brought over by the Imperial Army to work in defense factories in places like Hiroshima.