Mas moistened his lips. You knowsu Yuki Kimura? You knowsu where he stays?
That young guy with red hair? asked the black man.
Mas nodded.
Three doors down.
The lights in the hallway seemed to have been burnt out. So much darkness inside, while sun beat down on the sidewalk below. Finally reaching room 7, Mas rapped at the door softly.
No response.
Kimura, he said, now knocking harder.
Either the boy wanted to avoid any visitors or he had left the hotel.
Somebodys in there, the black man reported from the end of the hall.
Mas could wait no longer. He twisted the door open, and saw a body covered with a blanket. Kimura-
kun,
he said louder.
The body moved and then turned toward him. The hair, instead of red and spiky, was wavy and dark brown. The face, instead of tanned, was round and pale, with freckles. The eyes were familiar. Mas had seen those eyes before.
Yes, the woman said, sitting up. What is it?
Mas blinked hard. She first looked like any Japanese woman in her seventies. But as soon as she spoke, Mas could instantly see the remnants of the past. Akemi Haneda.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Are you looking for my grandson? she said, now in Japanese.
Mas felt like his whole body was shaking, as if his bones were connected only by a skinny string. But when he looked down, his arms, legs, and feet were perfectly still.
Akemi stood up. Her hair was a rich shade of brown, like good soil, instead of speckled gray and white. The face was made-up, even in this hole of a hotel room. The clothing comfortable, yet well made, with fine stitching. She even smelled sweet. It was obvious. Sometime during the past fifty years, Akemi Haneda had become a high-tone woman.
Ah, mistake. Wrong room. He retreated back into the darkened hallway. He passed the two men, still sitting on the stairs, and then finally stumbled into the street. How could Yuki just leave his grandmother alone in such a place?
Mas bought a Coke from the video store next door to buy some time. He waited thirty minutes and then an hour. Soon he couldnt stand it anymore and went back upstairs. He knocked on Yukis room, first a couple of times, and then one more round.
Who is it?
Mas coughed, and then it came out, clear and loud: Masao, Masao Arai.
It was quiet for a full minute. The door creaked open enough for Akemis eyes to study Mas. I knew a Masao Arai once, she said.
Mas nodded. Izu that one, Akemi-
san
. After Mas spoke her name, Akemi finally opened the door wider. Excuse the room, she said, and then gestured toward the bed. Here, please sit down.
Mas felt his knees grow weak and complied. The bed was mushy like mashed potatoes. The bedspread reeked of something old and unwashed. Why were they staying in such a no-good place?
Akemi eased herself into a rickety chair next to the bed. Her feet dangled; Mas noticed that her stockinged feet were not flattened down with hammer toes and blemished corns. She had obviously not spent her life toiling in fields or other peoples homes. Akemi smiled so wide that Mas could see the gold on her molars. I frightened you, it seems like. I guess you couldnt recognize me like this.
Your eyes. Your eyes are the same. They were large for a Japanese, double-lidded, and lined with long eyelashes. Only the lashes werent as full as they used to be, and the eye color seemed a little dull, but it was indeed the eyes of Joji Hanedas older sister.
Masao Arai, its really you. Yuki mentioned that he had met you. Its so good to see you.
It was apparent that the boy had said nothing about blaming Mas for sending him to the mistress.
You look the same, Masao-
san
. Little gray hair, a little more weight. But its definitely you.
Mas didnt know whether to speak English or Japanese. He couldnt stay with one language, and did what he always did, mixed it all up. So,
ne,
itsu been long time, Akemi-
san
.
What happened to you? We left Hiroshima for a couple of years right after the war. I never was clear on where you were.
America. Came in 1947. Been here ever since.
And youve never gone back?
Mas shook his head. Neva.
Just like me and America. Until now.
It was strange to be just talking to Akemi, answering normal questions with normal answers, when nothing was normal at all. Akemi should not be alive. But here she was, unblemished, unscarred, perfect.
So you know my grandson
Yuki, yah, met him at the medical exams.
Didnt mention anything specific to me. But then, he hasnt explained much of anything since picking me up from the airport. Akemi pressed down on the side of her eye with her fingers, which were bent like old nails. Maybe you know what kind of trouble is Yuki in?
Trouble?
Well, I know hes supposed to stay in Los Angeles for some reason. Hes had trouble with women before. Is it about that?
Mas pulled at his pockets. So Akemi hadnt heard? Mas didnt know how much to reveal. Riki Kimura. The mistress. Shuji Nakane.
Yuki didnt tell me much at the airport. He doesnt want me to worry, but I can handle it. You know, Masao-
san
. You know how much I can take.
Mas gritted down on his dentures. Akemi hadnt changed. Even back then she hadnt minced words. Being marooned in Japan for half a century hadnt softened her one bit.
You know that we Hanedas are a stubborn people. He tries to hide the worst from me, but I wont give up.
Mas remained silent. We Hanedas, she had said. Nothing about Kimuras.
Mas felt his body go limp. Itsu a girl, he finally said. Girl from a hostess bar. Sheezu hurt bad, Akemi-
san
.
Akemis face fell. Outside the grimy window, Mas could see a homeless man digging through the trash. What connection did they have?
No connection. Little, at least. Mas failed to mention that he had been the one who had sent the grandson over to North Hollywood. Just wrong place, wrong time.
So Yukis a suspect.
Mas nodded. I guess so. But no arrest. Yet.
Yet. Akemi seemed to take in that word like the edge of a razor blade.
Dis guy I knowsu gotsu him a lawyer. Im sure heezu gonna be
orai
. The girl gonna wake up and clear him.
Akemi quickly got up from her chair and adjusted her hair in the mirror. She picked up a pocketbook from the corner. You ready? she asked.
Huh? Mas remained sunken on the mashed-potato bed.
Take me to the lawyer.
After making a call to Tanakas, Mas learned that the attorney was based in downtown L.A., in the center of skyscrapers and gridlock. The attorneys name was G. I. Hasuike, which didnt make a good first impression on Akemi. G. I. what kind of name is that? she said, still clutching her pocketbook.
They parked in an underground lot on Wilshire Boulevard. It was one of those that were dark and made of cement yet still charged as much as a hotel room.
G. I. Hasuike, Attorney-at-Law, was on the eleventh floor. The building was not shiny and modern like the other ones on the block. It was blocky and square, with corners that collected dust and dirt. A simple brown door, processed wood, held G. I. Hasuikes shingle. The second T in ATTORNEY was missing, spelling AT ORNEY. At least thats what Akemi pointed out.
The receptionist at the front desk was Sansei, about Maris age. She was heavy and breathed hard even though she was sitting like a stone Buddha. Her desk was empty, aside from a telephone, memo pad, and a skinny water bottle. Do you have an appointment? she asked.
Im here from Japan. Akemi spoke like a TV newscaster, and Mas was surprised. Her English was perfect, as if she had never left Los Angeles. This is regarding my grandson, Yukikazu Kimura. I need to speak to Mr. G. I.
Well, hes with a client now. And hell be taking a deposition in an hour.
Im sure he can fit us in. Well wait.
The receptionist looked annoyed but didnt move from her chair. She lifted the phone receiver, pressed a button, and spoke a few sentences before looking up at Akemi. Have a seat.
After about ten minutes, a man on crutches emerged from one of the back offices and exited through the front door. The Buddha woman then nodded. You can go in now.
Mas pictured the lawyer, G. I., as being large, bigger than life. But the man in front of them was reed thin, almost emaciated. He must have been in his late forties, yet there was a fresh crop of pimples around his chin. His hair was thin and he wore thick glasses. Files and papers littered his office. Bright-colored posters with Asians holding rifles and picket signs decorated his humble square space.
G. I. removed a mountain of files from one of the chairs in front of his desk and gestured to both of them. Please, he said, sit down. So, what can I do for you?
Akemi, in her precise, clipped English, explained that she was Yukikazu Kimuras grandmother. She had just arrived from Hiroshima and naturally was concerned about Yukis case. I want to know, Akemi said. What are his chances of going to jail?
Little, Mrs.
Kimura.
Mas stayed quiet. He would have to ask Akemi about her last name later.
G. I. twirled the middle of a pencil around his index finger. He was there. Thats been established.
Otha people there, too, Mas blurted out.
Yes, we realize that. G. I. seemed surprised to hear from Mas. Miss Kakita, shall I say, has had an active social life. We are investigating different pieces of evidence in the apartment.
No doubt Nakanes business card, thought Mas.
