Snakeskin Shamisen (3 page)

Mas narrowed his eyes. Didn’t look Japanese, but then who said he had to be? Mas remembered that the photographer’s byline in
The Rafu Shimpo
had a Latino name. They were all touched by Latinos in California and the rest of the Southwest. Since Mas had worked the lettuce and tomato harvesting circuit when he first returned to the U.S., he should have been used to the mix of cultures, but it always seemed to catch him off guard.

“Sure, sure,” G. I. responded, but the rest of the group weren’t as eager.

“And the musicians in the back—” The photographer addressed the two men who had begun setting up sheets of music on stands. They must have been a father-and-son team; they had the same long, sad-dog faces, except the older one’s hair was a brilliant silver as bright as a full moon. They both wore matching black kimono and
hakama
, long, flowing pants. They waved their hands in front of their faces, a sign that they wanted to refrain from the photo opportunity.

The group pushed Mas, the shortest in the bunch, forward. Then Mas felt someone new at his side. The freckle-faced man, Jiro. From the corner of his eye, Mas spied Juanita rolling her eyes. She didn’t think much of G. I. and Randy’s Vietnam War comrade; that was clear. G. I. whispered something in her ear—maybe telling her to behave?

“Say cheese,” said the photographer, and Mas mouthed “Chee-su” as the flash went off. He didn’t think he was smiling; he might have been clenching his teeth, in fact.

The father-and-son musician team waited patiently as the group dispersed to make room for their performance. Mas headed for the bar. The televised football game had finished, and all bar stools were open now. “Sapporo,” he told the bartender, and the beer bottle was twisted open, letting out a mist like the smoke from a lit cigarette. The bottle was nice and cold, and Mas enjoyed letting the bitterness dance on his tongue. This party was not half-bad, he thought to himself.

Another man in his seventies perched on a stool beside Mas. He hunched over as if he didn’t want anyone to see his face. He, too, had heavy bags under his eyes—didn’t anyone sleep at night anymore? Mas wondered. The man ordered sake on the rocks and barely acknowledged Mas, which was fine with him.

An emcee was saying something, and then the music began. The two men sat in chairs, their
shamisen
in their laps, while a Japanese woman and a
hakujin
man dressed in a short kimono jacket called a
happi
coat stood in front of a microphone. Mas didn’t know that much about traditional music. Chizuko had gone through a phase of studying
shigin
, Japanese poetry set to music. Most people would think the combination of poetry and music would be relaxing, but
shigin
was anything but. When Chizuko sang, she sounded like she was about to give birth, only this baby would never come out. The shrieking and deep guttural groans continued for months, until Chizuko tired of her classes and, thankfully, joined a needlework group instead.

The
shamisen
tune here was livelier, happy almost. It was definitely singsong, with the melody traveling back and forth over the same notes. Mas watched as the two men guided large, flat picks over the strings and sang of islands and old kingdoms. The woman and the man yapped into the microphone, strong bursts of energy that startled even the most drunk and tired of guests.

Some people were standing and clapping their hands, but Mas sensed great sadness in the song. The man next to him had already gone through two more glasses of iced sake, and Mas himself gulped down one beer and asked for another. After the third one, the music was still going and Mas needed to go to the restroom. The bartender pointed toward the back of the room and Mas slipped off the bar stool to find relief.

As he walked down a narrow corridor, he heard yelling, and not of a musical kind. It was coming from the door marked
KANE
, men’s room. A group of people were starting to gather at the open door, and again Mas found himself pushed to the front.

G. I. had Randy in a headlock, pressing the top of his head against the hand-drying machine.

“Dammit.” Randy shook G. I. off his body like a dog freeing himself of raindrops. “You don’t get it, G. I. Never did.”

“Listen, wasn’t this party for me? You’ve won half a million dollars, man. Be happy for once.”

Randy sneered, and for a moment Mas thought that he was going to do something violent, like throw the trash can against the mirror. But he instead tucked his head down and barreled through the crowd. The room was dead quiet. Everyone felt so self-conscious that no looks or words were exchanged. G. I. walked out, and the rest of the crowd slowly followed. Except for Mas. Filled with three Sapporos, he still had to use the bathroom. As he walked toward the stalls, he noticed a figure cowering in the first stall, the door ajar. It was Jiro, his Hawaiian shirt ripped and the freckles on his face smeared with tears.

M
as had had enough excitement and decided to go straight home without saying good-bye to either G. I. or Randy. The incident in the bathroom had put a damper on the festivities; the feelings of embarrassment seemed to soak throughout the banquet hall. The fake palm fronds began to look wilted up on the wooden beams, and the entertainment had changed to karaoke. An oblivious singer was swinging his hips to the words “I did it my way,” convincing Mas more than ever that it was time to leave.

There was plain
haji
, or shame, that people carried with them like heavy stones. And then there was
haji kaita
, when you made a fool of yourself. A good number of the guests had watched G. I. and Randy make fools out of themselves. Old friends, both over fifty years old, they had no business fighting with each other like boys in a schoolyard. After Mas saw Jiro in the bathroom, the freckle-faced man, too, had scurried away in shame. Too bad, too bad, thought Mas. There was no reason for such a celebration to end on this sour note.

Mas took out the screwdriver from his pocket even before leaving the restaurant. Ready for his clean getaway, he shoved open the back door, only to bump squarely into the young hostess, Tiffany, who was coming back into the restaurant. The screwdriver dropped and rolled down the concrete edge of the parking lot. Tiffany bent down to retrieve it. She had a fat bag around her shoulder; she must have been done for the day and realized that she had forgotten something back in the restaurant. She handed the screwdriver to Mas, scrunching her nose in curiosity.

Mas didn’t feel like he needed to explain. It was no crime to carry a screwdriver. “Sank you,” he said quickly, and headed for his truck. Most of the Toyotas and Infinitis had left, and even though it was early, around five, there was a strange emptiness in the air. The traffic from the nearby boulevard droned like rushing water, but there were no other signs of life—no stray crows or lost seagulls on the telephone wire above. Mas jammed the screwdriver into the lock, swung open the door, and pulled himself into the Ford. It was definitely time to get out of Torrance.

As Mas drove north on the Harbor Freeway, he thought about Jiro hiding in the corner of the bathroom. Had something happened between him and G. I.? Or maybe the argument had started with Randy. These men weren’t such close friends; or perhaps they were too close. Sometimes knowing too much about somebody could lead to trouble, Mas knew firsthand. As the traffic started moving, Mas relaxed a little, and stretched out his neck, hearing his bones crack. He didn’t have to solve anybody’s problems, he reminded himself. His mission today had been to show his face and wish G. I. well, and he not only had done that but had even stayed for a couple of extra hours. His debt to G. I. wasn’t paid off, but at least it’d gone down a couple of notches.

Mas took the Pasadena Freeway until it ended and merged into Arroyo Parkway. Within fifteen minutes, he was pulling the Ford into his cracked driveway. He retrieved his mail—all bills and slick advertisements—from his battered, graffiti-tagged mailbox and went inside. He was too full to eat a real meal, so instead he sucked on a Tootsie Roll while opening envelopes and writing checks. By the time he was on his fifth Tootsie Roll, he had finished his bills and returned to his easy chair. Sleep soon followed until he was awakened by the ringing of the phone.

“Hallo?”

“Is this Mr. Arai?”

Mas’s ears perked up. A young woman calling him “Mr. Arai” meant only two things—a telephone solicitor or bad news. He sensed it was the latter when the caller identified herself. “It’s Juanita. Juanita Gushiken, G. I.’s girlfriend. The police want you back here at the restaurant. Something’s happened.”

chapter two

Juanita had specifically asked Mas to bring over his screwdriver. Mas couldn’t imagine why anyone, much less the police, would know or care about the screwdriver he used to lock the door of his Ford pickup. Juanita wouldn’t explain what was going on over the phone. “I can’t talk anymore,” she said. “Just get over here, please.”

Mas called Haruo but just got his answering machine. Next he tried Tug and Lil Yamada’s house.

“Hello.” A male voice, low and distinguished.

“Tug. Itsu Mas.”

“Mas, we missed you today. It was quite a spread. Haruo mentioned that you’d be coming, so we were expecting to see you.”

“Yah, yah.” Mas could only take so much Japanese guilt right now. “Went ova late. Did you hear about some kind of trouble ova there?”

“Trouble? No. After we left? What happened?”

Tug wasn’t accepting the boredom of retirement well, and Mas quickly realized that his phone call was throwing more fuel onto Tug’s simmering fire.

“Itsu
orai
, Tug. I take care. I see youzu later.”

“Monday night, right? Dinner at our house. Give us a full report.”

Mas grunted. He hoped the news was the type that could be shared at the Yamada dinner table.

As he drove back to Torrance, Mas’s head began to pound. He didn’t know if those three Sapporo beers were finally kicking in. More likely, it was
shinpai
, worry that something had gone terribly wrong at G. I.’s party.

Once he arrived at the intersection half a block away from the restaurant, Mas saw that it was much worse than he expected. Parked police cars lined the boulevard, their red lights blinking like bloodshot demon eyes. He passed the restaurant and contemplated driving back home.

But he remembered the urgency of Juanita’s voice. He had to follow through, whatever the situation was. He parked in a deserted bank lot three doors down. He cradled his screwdriver in his windbreaker pocket and didn’t bother to lock the door. A
dorobo
would be crazy to steal something with the blinking police cars a few feet away. Before Mas reached the Mahalo’s door, he noticed a
CLOSED
sign in the front window.

A young Asian man with a shaven head was walking from the restaurant toward his friends standing on the sidewalk.

“What’s happening?” they asked.

“Somebody got killed in there.”

“For reals?” “Dang.” “What else is open?” They hopped into a car stopped at the curb and took off.

Mas wished his reaction could be so carefree. Who had been killed at Mahalo? Surely not G. I.? Was that why Juanita had called, instead of G. I.? Mas fingered the screwdriver in his pocket and wished this whole business were over. It was one thing for old men to die, but someone in their fifties? G. I. was still in his prime. He could still become a father, albeit an old one. He could still make a bundle of money and maybe help a few more people in the meantime.

Mas tried the front door, and it opened in spite of the
CLOSED
sign. But instead of some smiling teenagers in fake leis, two grim-faced uniformed police officers greeted him.

“I gotsu go in. My friend, G. I. Hasuike. His girlfriend call me,” Mas told them.

One of the officers spoke into the other’s ear. Out of the corner of his eye, Mas spied the hostess, Tiffany, pointing toward him. When Mas turned his head to get a better look, she lowered her head. “That’s him,” Mas heard her say to someone facing her. He was a large man, well over six feet tall. His shirt, blazer, and slacks were all the same tan color; he was as monochrome as a dog biscuit. He looked a little Asian, but not quite. He had dark, wavy hair and big round eyes that seemed to register everything in front of him, like the lens of a camera. Mas thought his roots must be in some Pacific island, a place where they needed their men to be fierce, at least on the outside. He told the hostess something that Mas couldn’t hear. She wiped her eyes with a tissue and retreated into the back room while the tan man approached Mas.

“Hello, I’m Detective Alo with the Torrance Police Department.” The man’s voice was nothing like his body. It was thin and reedy, like the sound of an amateur blowing into a bamboo flute for the first time.

He told Mas to sit down in the next room, which turned out to be another bar for the restaurant guests. In a few minutes, Alo reappeared with a long, skinny notebook in his hand. He sat across from Mas at a table decorated with a hibiscus centerpiece.

“So you were here for the party?”

Mas nodded.

“How do you know Mr. Hasuike?”

Mas didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t know how much he had to go into the legal assistance his friends and own daughter had required. He chose, instead, to give a shortcut description. “Friend.”

“And Randy Yamashiro?”

“See him for the first time. G. I.’s friend,” Mas said, and then wondered if he had said too much.

“You mean Mr. Hasuike.”

Mas nodded. “George Iwao, I thinksu.” He felt sweat drip down his face. Haven’t done anything wrong, he reminded himself.

“I understand that you brought a screwdriver here to the restaurant.”

Mas placed the screwdriver on the table.

“My picku-upu key don’t work too good. Have to use dis now.”

“What kind of pickup do you have?”

“Ninteen fifty-six Ford.”

“One of those moldy green ones?”

Mas didn’t appreciate his truck being called moldy, but this was no time to be a stickler about car colors. “Yah.”

“You a gardener?”

Mas nodded.

“We had a neighbor with one of those. I grew up in the South Bay.”

Mas knew that the detective was trying to win him over with small talk, but Mas wasn’t a small talk kind of man. “Whatsu happen? G. I.
orai
?” Mas’s directness surprised even himself.

“Your friend is fine. But your friend’s friend is not. Randy Yamashiro was killed this evening in the parking lot.”

Mas’s jaw became slack. He couldn’t believe it. Randy Yamashiro had been breathing, standing in front of him, that very day.

“Tonight. About six o’clock. Were you still here at the party, Mr. Arai?”

Mas shook his head. “I go home already.”

“We heard there was a bit of an altercation in the bathroom after five
P.M
. A couple guests mentioned a man fitting your description in the crowd.”

How many people looked like him? Mas thought. His looks were a dime a dozen.

“You know, altercation. Fighto.” Alo was trying his best to make some kind of connection with Mas. But “fighto” was an expression that fans used at Tokyo Giant baseball games, not in reference to a bathroom brawl.

“Izu there, but nutin’ much. Those guys just playin’ around, not serious.”

“Does G. I. often get into physical fights?”

Mas shook his head. G. I. was into battling people in court, not on the street.

Detective Alo must have sensed that Mas was holding back. “Mr. Arai, do you understand that you need to tell us the truth. Everything, you understand? Even the smallest detail can help us. Something that you don’t think is important may really mean a lot.”

Mas stared at the leaves of the fake hibiscus flower. Someone had worked hard to make it look real. There were even plastic artificial raindrops stuck onto the petals.

“Again, Mr. Arai, can you tell us anything about that argument in the bathroom?”

“Anotha guy,” Mas began, feeling like he was ratting someone out. He explained that Jiro had been in the bathroom too.

“Are you saying that he was involved in the altercation?”

Mas shrugged his shoulders. He had walked right into the middle of the scuffle; he had no idea what had really been going on. If the police wanted details, they would have to go straight to the horses’ mouths, G. I. and Jiro.

Before Detective Alo could squeeze Mas for more information, a uniformed officer leaned down and whispered something in Alo’s ear.

“Okay, well, I might need to interview you again, Mr. Arai. Here’s my card.”

Accepting the embossed business card, Mas breathed easy. “I go home now.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, Mr. Arai.” The detective brought out a handkerchief and dropped the screwdriver into a plastic bag.

As Mas pushed the chair back to leave, he found that his legs had become as soft and weak as a cooked
udon
noodle. News of Randy Yamashiro’s death had affected him more than he realized. Where was G. I.? Mas could only imagine G. I.’s torment. G. I. and Randy had been close friends. And to have their last interaction be a fight—it was terrible to close the door on a friendship forever that way.

Mas stumbled through the restaurant and back into the waiting area and almost bumped into a man sitting by the hostess station. “Excuse—” Mas said, only to find it was Jiro, now wearing green scrubs, the kind that Mas’s doctor customer wore when he went to work. Jiro didn’t bother to say hello, and Mas didn’t either. Jiro’s face, especially around his eyes, was all red and swollen. When some Japanese cried, the skin above their eyes folded up into double or even triple eyelids. Jiro had at least quadruple. His grief was deep—that much was obvious—and it would have been an insult for Mas, a virtual stranger, to say anything. Besides, had Mas in fact betrayed him to Detective Alo? Mas bowed his head and kept it lowered until he pushed open the restaurant door and entered the coolness of the October night.

Mas thought that he had made his escape, but there was Juanita on the sidewalk, talking to the Latino photographer who had taken their photo during the party. He was nodding his head as if he had agreed to something he was already regretting.

“Tonight, okay, Mario?” Juanita was saying.

“Yeah, my editor will be calling you too. First thing Monday morning.” Straightening his vest, the photographer then headed toward the line of police cars.

After the session with the Torrance PD, Mas was not in the mood to rehash tonight’s events, especially with a PI. He tried to get back to his Ford without being seen, but it wasn’t one of those nights.

“Mr. Arai,” he heard Juanita call to him. He stopped in his tracks and cringed before turning around.

“Hallo.”

Juanita’s eyelids hadn’t swollen like Jiro’s, but her eyes were shiny and wet. “Thanks so much for coming.”

“G. I. ova here?”

“He had to go to his house with the police. Randy’s stuff is there. Oh my God, did they tell you? It’s so awful.” Juanita pressed a hand down on her right temple. “What was that about your screwdriver? You know, never mind. Listen, I know it’s late and you’re tired. But can you come to G. I.’s for a little bit right now?”

No, Mas said silently.

“G. I. wants to talk with you.”

“I gotsu go home.”

“Please, please. He’s come through for you when you needed help, right?”

Chikusho
, Mas cursed in his mind. This Juanita girl must have a big dose of Japanese in her; she understood the power of reciprocity. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Apparently it was Mas’s turn to engage in some back scratching. “Just few minutes,” Mas said, knowing that he would end up being there for at least a couple of hours. He hoped his debt to G. I. would finally be paid off in this one trip tonight.

“I’ll see you back at the house, then.” She waved and went back into the restaurant. Was it her turn to be interviewed by Detective Alo? Mas wondered.

A yellow taxi then pulled up to the curb a few feet away from Mas. It was unusual to see taxis in L.A. People liked to drive themselves places; that’s how cars like the Ford became good friends rather than just transportation. People spent more time alone with their cars than with their wives, husbands, or children.

A Sansei man with a sturdy build much like Randy’s got out of the backseat. Mas passed the taxi but was close enough to hear the man say to the driver, “Hey, give me a break, eh? My brother just got killed. I’m sure the police will cover the ride.”

Mas felt his head spin as he trudged on the sidewalk along the busy boulevard. Too much chaos, too many people. He turned into the bank parking lot. His Ford was the lone vehicle in the lot. He had almost reached the driver’s-side door when he heard faint noises coming from down the connecting alley. Mas crept beside the bank building and snuck a look around the corner.

Two police officers aimed bright flashlights into an open rubbish bin. A third person beamed a light on the other side of the alley.

“Hey, I got something over here,” one of the two by the rubbish bin said.

“Whadjya find?” the officer next to him, a woman, asked.

The man, who was a good foot taller than Mas, dipped his gloved hand into the bin to retrieve his find. The police-woman followed his actions with her flashlight. In her partner’s gloved hand was a long knife as big as a dead trout.

“Jackpot. What’s that, blood?” she said.

The third one joined them beside the rubbish bin. “That looks like a bayonet. That’s the kind we used in ’Nam.”

“Great. I guess we’ll get home early tonight.” The first officer placed the knife in a plastic bag, and the three of them walked north toward the restaurant parking lot.