Sayonara Slam (11 page)

“They don't have the balls to hurt anyone,” Tanji said. “They talk a lot, but when it comes right down to it, a barking dog doesn't bite.”

After getting back in the Impala, Mas didn't start the engine right away. He was still a bit shaken by the encounter with the two fools, regardless of whether they really were a legitimate threat. But what was more disconcerting was Yuki's conversation with Tanji. The veteran baseball player was a convincing speaker, but then weren't all politicians? Many were great manipulators of feelings; perhaps Tanji was one of them with this dangerous gift.

“Whatchu think?” he asked Yuki directly.

“When I think about it, it makes sense that Tanji is contemplating a career in politics. He was meeting a lot with various community leaders here in Los Angeles. It wouldn't be the first time that a Japanese politician came to the US to court international support.”

Mas fumbled with his keys.

“But on the other hand,” Yuki continued, “I think he's hiding something. I don't believe for one moment that Itai-
san
was telling him how to treat Zahed. I think this has something to do with his future as a politician.”

Mas gave his passenger a sidelong glance.

“It's all in Itai-
san
's notes,” Yuki said. “He'd actually heard
that Tanji was planning to retire from baseball and run for office. Even sent Tanji an email about it. But Tanji denied it. It's all in here.” Yuki patted the laptop. “Maybe Itai-
san
was planning to write something about Tanji's candidacy. Along with his connection with these right-wing nuts who traveled to L.A.”

Mas didn't know about Japanese politics, but figured campaign dirt was still dirt, no matter what the country. Would that be enough to cause a man to commit murder?

After they returned to Little Tokyo, Yuki invited Mas to go out for a late-night snack. Mas tried to defer; he had two bean-and-cheese burritos rolling around his stomach, after all. It was now close to midnight, and the only place open seemed to be Suehiro's, a Japanese diner on the other side of Yuki's hotel on First Street.

Apparently lots of other people—mostly young—had had the same idea, so most of the booths were occupied. There was one empty table for two in the middle of the diner, not very comfortable with its metal chairs, but it would have to do.

After they ordered—Mas opted for simple
ochazuke
, the bowl of green tea over rice he often ate at home—they returned the laminated menus to the side of the napkin dispenser. A party in the far corner exploded in laughter—all twentysomethings whose faces were flushed with drink.

Mas had been thinking more about Itai's protectiveness
toward Zahed. “Youzu know that Itai was buddy-buddy with the boy pitcher?”

Yuki, who was promptly served a bowl of miso soup, nodded. He broke his disposable wood chopsticks in half and stirred the cloudy soup with the ends of his chopsticks. “Yeah, Itai was funny about Zahed. He kind of lost all editorial judgment there. Itai, as far as I knew, didn't have children, but Zahed was like his son.”

Mas pictured the middle-aged journalist with his pitiful wilted goatee standing next to the towering, skinny
hapa
pitcher. What a pair they made.

“Maybe it was that Kyoto pride or something. They went to the same high school, you know. At different times, of course. But Itai-
san
still would not advocate on Zahed's behalf. He wouldn't cross that line.”

“Zahed tole me that Itai was doin' stories on him since he was in junior high.”

A plate of pork
tonkatsu
, cabbage salad, and a mound of rice was placed in front of Yuki. Mas's humble bowl of
ochazuke
looked perfectly peasant-like in comparison.

“I didn't know that,” Yuki said in between bites of rice. He squirted dark brown sauce on top of the sliced fried pork cutlet. “But it doesn't surprise me. Itai-
san
always rooted for the underdogs, the minorities. His family, in fact, bounced around between Japan and the US. That's why his cousin, Sunny, lives here. Sunny's brother, on the other hand, died recently in Japan.”

Mas took a big slurp of his
ochazuke
. “Oh, yah?”

“Sorry, my phone. It's Neko.” Yuki, still chewing,
excused himself and took her call outside.

Mas took out his phone while he was alone at the table. Flipping it open, he was greeted by the current time, 12:38 a.m. He didn't know the last time he'd stayed out so late. There were no voicemail messages waiting. No calls from Genessee. Being that it was after midnight, Mas knew that he shouldn't be calling anyone. But Genessee was a late-night person, who at this hour was often curled up on the corner of her living room couch, a hand-stitched quilt from her paternal grandmother around her slim shoulders. On her stereo system was usually a CD, perhaps folk music from Okinawa, a classical symphony, or even sometimes a rock song. Genessee had many different dimensions to her, dimensions that he ardently missed right now. It was as if eating the
ochazuke
had taken all the sour pretense out of his system. He needed Genessee, really needed her, and before he knew it, he was calling her home number. The telephone rang once, twice, and then her recorded message came on. What? Where was she at this hour? If she was home, she surely would have answered the phone, fearing some kind of emergency. Then the beep to leave a message, and Mas could only breathe into his cheap cell phone once before snapping it closed. Then the table in the corner roared again, and this time Mas silently cursed them for their momentary happiness.
Happiness is indeed fleeting
, he thought.
Before you know it, it's gone forever
.

Chapter Ten

Y
ou look tired,
Ojisan
,” Yuki said after returning to the table at Suehiro's.

It's no wonder
, thought Mas,
at this hour
.

“Sleep in my room tonight. My bed is big enough.”

Mas frowned.
What kind of offer was the boy making?

“Don't be
baka
. I'm not saying anything untoward. I just don't want to worry about you driving home in that old car.”

Huh!
That old car had been safely transporting them all around town. But Mas didn't have the energy to argue. Frankly, just thinking about collapsing into a bed with a fresh set of sheets was too enticing.

The next morning, Mas woke uncertain of where he was. The plump pillow with its starchy case felt unfamiliar under his head. And there were no layered smells of the past: the hint of the Shiseido toner that Chizuko applied on her face every night before going to bed, the ancient mothballs from her underwear drawer that he still hadn't cleaned out, and the medicated Salonpas patches from when his back gave out a couple of years ago. Instead he smelled nothing,
or at least it seemed like nothing. Maybe a nothing that was trying too hard.

He opened his eyes to a harsh light coming from the large window that faced north. And the sound of tapping buttons. It was Yuki sitting in front of Itai's laptop at the desk at the Miyako Hotel. His hair was frizzled and tangled; Mas's probably wasn't much better. The reporter squinted at the screen through his black plastic glasses. His dedicated concentration made him seem, Mas had to admit, halfway intelligent.

Mas pulled himself up on the firm mattress and rolled to his feet on the padded carpet. After going
shi-shi
, he washed his hands and reluctantly studied his face in the bathroom mirror. With a shadow of black and gray whiskers and bags under his eyes, he definitely looked like shit.

“You have to look at this,” Yuki said from his seat at the desk when Mas returned to the main room.

Mas stretched his back until he heard his spine popping, releasing a night's worth of tension. He slowly made his way to the desk.

“I was looking through Itai-
san
's web browser, and I came across this,” Yuki said, turning the laptop toward Mas.

The screen was filled with Japanese words.

“Can't see dat,” Mas commented, making a half-hearted effort to search for his glasses.

“I'll read it to you,” Yuki said. He began reciting a string of hate, all aimed toward the Koreans and some people called the
Zainichi
.

Sickened, Mas read over Yuki's shoulder. “
Zai-nichi
.”
Living in Japan
. He had heard that term before but wasn't sure what it exactly meant.

“That means Koreans living in Japan. Goes back to when Korea was under Japanese rule in the 1900s. They came to work—sometimes even forced to work—in Japan during World War II. Afterwards, most went back to Korea, since they didn't have many rights in Japan. Some of the ones who stayed, their children or grandchildren, went on to become citizens, but others continue to live in Japan as permanent residents. It's not like America, where you're automatically a citizen if you're born in the US. To become a Japanese citizen, you have to pretty much erase your cultural background.”

Mas had never given much thought to minorities in Japan. When he was there, it seemed like every face was like his. But now with young people like Soji Zahed, Japan was changing, just like in America. And like in America, some people didn't seem happy about it.

“Whozu writin' dat kind of stuff?”

“Well, that's the whole thing. It's anonymous. It's like graffiti you'd find on the walls of a public toilet. We don't know for sure. Maybe some teenagers who are too afraid to deal with the real world. Unemployed men and women. And, of course, the right-wingers who believe that Japan somehow needs to be protected from outsiders.”

These were only words, right?
Mas thought.
Anyone could say something
.
It didn't mean that they would actually do something.

“Anyway, I'm looking at the walls of this web toilet, and
guess what I find?”

Mas was afraid to even think about it.

“A thread on Itai-
san
.”

Mas had no idea what Yuki was talking about, so he waited for the boy to elaborate. He resumed reading from the computer screen: “Our liberal enemy has been eliminated. The liar, Tomo Itai, has died in Los Angeles.”

Mas couldn't believe what he was hearing. How did these numbskulls know that Itai was dead? As far as he knew, it hadn't been reported in either the local papers or the Japanese ones. Itai did write about famous people, but that didn't mean that he was famous himself.

“This lover of the Korean and
Zainichi
fell to his death at a baseball stadium in Los Angeles. His face covered in vomit.”

Mas's jaw grew slack.
How the hell did this writer know such details? He could only have known because he was there.

“And that's not all. Someone else wrote, ‘Cyanide poisoning is the proper demise for someone who poisons Japan.' It's dated Friday, 7 p.m., Pacific time.”

“That's about the time we found how Itai was killed,” Mas said in Japanese.

Yuki nodded. “It has to be someone who's here in Los Angeles, who's either reporting on the baseball games or….”

Mas could finish the sentence in his mind.
Or killed him
.

Someone pounded on the door and Mas practically jumped. Yuki cautiously rose from his seat and approached the door.

He looked through the peephole and cringed.

“Let me in, Yuki. I know you're in there.” Amika spoke in her native Japanese. “I'm not going to leave until you let me in.”

Yuki sighed and opened the door.

Amika walked in, wearing black slacks and a filmy white blouse that tied in a bow around her neck. She looked sweet, almost like a gift, until she opened her mouth. “Were you the one telling the police that I had it out for Itai?”

“I didn't say a word.”

She pulled out a swivel chair by the desk and planted herself in it, crossing her legs like she meant business. “Look, I did hate Itai, because he's a story-stealing weasel.” Mas wondered how that was going to prove her innocence. “But I didn't want him to die. The police couldn't figure out how I could have obtained cyanide, so they had to let me go. I had to account for every minute that I've been here. They've been interviewing all my colleagues. Even the cameraman! I told them that they're barking up the wrong tree. Wasting precious investigative time. And they don't have anything. Now they're talking about suicide.”

“Suicide?” Now Yuki was interested in what Amika was saying. “Itai-
san
would be the last person who would commit suicide.”

“I know that. You know that. But I think these American detectives have been watching
Shogun
or too many samurai movies. I'm surprised that they haven't spoken to you yet.”

“I did talk with them at Dodger Stadium. But I didn't
mention you. They wanted to know if Itai-
san
had enemies. Too many to name, I told them. Just read his past articles. But then, of course, they can't. It's all in Japanese.”

“I thought they had an Asian task force or something. You know, from back in the days of the Miura incident.” Amika registered Yuki's blank look. “You know about the Miura incident, right?”

“Of course,” Yuki said, not so definitively.

“Don't lie. Oh my gosh.”

Even Mas knew about the Miura incident. Anyone who had been around in L.A. in the 1980s did. A Japanese businessman, Miura, and his wife were shot in a robbery in a parking lot not far from the Bonaventure Hotel, and she died. Los Angeles was dangerous, full of unsavory minorities—that was the message that the anguished, wounded husband had told the newspapers, both here and in Japan. As it turned out, Miura had planned the whole thing to collect a handsome insurance settlement. He'd been able to evade American prosecution for decades, until recently.

“He killed himself in jail here in L.A. last year,” Yuki spouted out, the gears in his brain finally working. “He wrote on his blog that he was going to Saipan from Japan, and the American authorities caught him there.” He exhaled as if he'd achieved a physical feat.

“Not bad, not bad.” Amika pulled a piece of lint off of her skirt.

“Why are you really here? It's not only to test me about crimes committed before I was born.”

“I want to know how Mrs. Kim is doing. Jin-Won won't
answer my calls.”

“Probably because you're on Neko's blacklist.”

Amika's face fell slightly, but she quickly lifted her chin as if she was lifting her spirits. “Why? I haven't done anything against her. And what does Neko have to do with Jin-Won, anyway?” she asked coyly.

Don't you know?
Mas thought.

Yuki hesitated, too. “Just that the word gets around to the players and coaches.”

“You should talk. The media pool doesn't think much of you, I can tell you that.”

Yuki's eyes flashed, and Mas felt bad for the boy.

“I know that
Nippon Series
didn't really send you here. That you bothered them for press credentials, but they refused to pay your expenses. This little trip is all self-financed on your credit card, and you're almost maxed out.”

Yuki lowered his head. Then it must be true. No wonder the boy had called on Mas to drive and translate. It wasn't a matter of trust, but a matter of cash. Come to think of it, he'd yet to see a dime for his work.

He had to give the boy credit, however. He continued to stand his ground. “Being a freelancer is legitimate,” he said.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Amika recrossed her legs. “So, anyway, how is Mrs. Kim doing? I saw you two walking into the hospital.”

“What, have you been following me? And after these insults, you think that I'll even answer?”

“Listen, grow up. We're both adults. If you want to be a
real reporter, act like one. You share some information with me, and I'll give you a lead.”

“What possible lead could I get from you?”

“I'll share if you do.”

Don't do it,
Mas said to himself. But Amika was too powerful a force.

“They found no sign of cyanide in her system, okay? She's holding steady.”

“Thank you.”

Yuki crossed his arms. “Okay, so what's your lead?”

“Do you want to write this down?”

Yuki tapped his head. “I can remember.”

Amika shrugged her shoulders and began: “Before he left for Los Angeles, Itai met with the baseball commissioner in Tokyo. Had some secret meetings.”

“About what?”

“I'm not sure, but the commissioner was very upset. Knowing Itai, he probably came up with some dirt about the league.”

“That's it?”

“Well, if I knew more, I would have reported it already.”

“Hmmm. There was that lost
Gurippu
document,” Yuki murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

“What's that?”

“Ah, nothing.” Yuki picked up his phone from the desk. “Sorry, but we have a morning appointment.”

Amika crinkled her nose. She didn't seem to believe Yuki but reluctantly moved toward the door. She still wanted to have the last word. “Listen, we can help each other out, you
know. Like this.”

“Yes, yes.” Yuki pushed his glasses atop his head as if he didn't want to see her anymore.

Once the heavy hotel door had closed, Mas held out his hands. “Well?”

“It's hard to know if I can trust her.”

“Why youzu tell her about Missus Kim?”

“So she'd leave her alone. And stop following us. As long as she doesn't think there's a story, we'll be okay.”

“Why youzu enemies, anyhowsu?”

“I wouldn't say enemies, per se.” Yuki hesitated for a moment. “Well, to be perfectly honest, Itai-
san
probably did wrong her.”

“What youzu mean?”

“Based on what Neko has said, Amika was the one who found out that Mrs. Kim was an
ianfu
. But for some reason, she hasn't reported it. Her employer is more conservative. They don't typically cover stories like that.”

“Thatsu not Itai's problem.”

“True, but I think he did steal the story from her. He's drinking buddies with one of the cameramen who works on her show. I was actually with them at a bar back in Tokyo, and the cameraman mentioned that he'd finished a shoot with Amika and Neko's parents in Yokohama. He probably told Itai what happened. And from there, Itai must have appropriated the information as his own.”

Mas knew what it was like to have your customers stolen right from under your nose. No wonder Amika had an axe to grind against Itai and
Nippon Series
.

Mas wanted to cleanse himself of the dirtiness that he'd just heard. “I take shower,” he announced.

Yuki gestured toward a bag from their shopping expedition in Little Tokyo the other day. “Go ahead. Feel free to wear what you need.”

Inside was a package with white Jockey underwear and a couple of T-shirts. One shirt had a heart over a skeleton, while the other was a Dodgers one with the latest Japanese import, Kuroda, on the back. Mas chose Kuroda, who'd been a former player with the Hiroshima Carp.

Once under the spray of the showerhead, Mas thought about baseball in America, with its string of scandals and controversies. Mas had been among those who swore off baseball for a season in 1995 after the millionaire players returned from going on strike. Wasn't baseball about the fans? Didn't these
senshu
realize that without the fans, there'd be no outlandish salaries in the first place?