The next morning, the sheriffs deputies were at the door again. Akemi called G. I., who came within twenty minutes in the same wrinkled outfit he had been wearing the night before.
Mas, Akemi, and G. I. stood on the withered lawn, the dandelions brushing their ankles, and watched through the open door as the deputies proceeded to dismantle everything from the couch pillows to frozen vegetable packs in the freezer.
Whatsu they lookin for? Mas asked G. I.
Any kind of evidence. The money. Dried drool left a mark like a snails trail down his chin.
Money?
Yeah, the authorities have information that the dead woman had thirty grand in cash. And now its gone.
Mass chest began to thump hard. The money. Where was it? Had Yuki brought that pink box in? It didnt make sense. Or maybe some of the neighborhood kids.
In fact, a whole line of them sat on their bikes by the street as the police searched. Mas approached them, forgetting that he was still in his pajama bottoms and slippers. You kidsu not come ova here last night?
The boys, all around eight, looked at one another blankly.
You dont play with dis car, huh? Mas pointed to Yukis rented Jeep.
No, uh-uh, the tallest one said. He was wearing a black and red tank top with the number 32.
Mas studied their faces. Their skin, ranging in color from toffee to black-blue, was smooth and unblemished, like perfect plums.
You pushin drugs, mister? number 32 said. Thats what my mama says.
On any other day, Mas would have shooed the kids away, but this day was anything but ordinary.
Another one piped up. Hey, mister, was that kid livin here some kind of gangster or sumptin?
Mas gave up and joined G. I. and Akemi on the lawn. Those kids were no help. They saw only what was right in front of them, when the truth was buried somewhere deeper.
As soon as the police left, G. I. and Akemi headed for the courthouse. Mas stayed home and surveyed the damage. It was bad. Clothing and fishing poles spilled out of closets. Soup cans and ramen packages lay on the floor. The air conditioner in the living room had been taken apart.
Mas went into his room. The mattress had been overturned, and even the coffee can in the closet had been dumped, leaving a pile of change and a few balled-up dollars.
That damn Shuji Nakane. That guy was the one who had set up Yuki. But what could Mas say to Akemi and G. I.? That he had accepted hush money?
Within an hour, the house still looked pretty much the same. All Mas was able to do was put the mattress back on the bed frame and then lie on top of it.
Thats the way Tug found him when he came over that afternoon. Heard about the trouble. Tug stood in the doorway of Mass bedroom.
Mas didnt bother to get up. Yah, everybody round here, I guess.
Tug stepped over some overturned bowling trophies and sat down at the desk in the corner. There were too many things to be fixed. Besides, Tug didnt seem like he was in any mood to be putting things back together.
Heezu innocent, Mas said.
Tug picked up a pen and tried to balance it on the side of his index finger. He did this for about fifteen minutes straight without saying a word. Finally, he got up. Justice will prevail. The truth will come out.
Mas nodded. That was precisely what he was afraid of.
It was already one oclock, and no sign of either G. I. or Akemi. Mas had finished cleaning up as much as he could, and couldnt just sit around watching TV talk shows with crazy people yelling at one another. He had to do something. He walked outside and pulled at some dandelions. Studying the Jeep in the driveway, Mas got an idea. Why not? Rather than waste time, he might as well make some money.
Like a wartime medic, he patched what equipment he could from the garage. He still had a push mower, what the old-timers called a Pennsylvania, all rusty and blades dull. A rake with some missing teeth. A pair of hedge clippers with a busted handle. They werent his finest, but good enough.
Today was Thursday, so it was the East Indian family in Arcadia. Arcadia was a wealthy city with a good supply of cash flowing from its racetrack and a large shopping center off Huntington Drive. There was plenty of new blood pumping in the residential neighborhoods, too, people who built mini-castles on sites that once held 1970s ranch-style homes. Mass customers, the Patels, were among them.
Mr. Patel owned a small chain of chicken-bowl fast food eateries throughout San Gabriel Valley. He even sometimes asked Mas for advice. This too sweet, you think? he said, spooning some teriyaki sauce onto some rice.
It was Mas who had told Mr. Patel that he should have a spicy-bowl alternative. Chili powda, he told him. Maybe jalapeńo peppa on side. Ps Spicy Bowl was a hit. As a token of thanks, Mr. Patel had given him a case of Ps Teriyaki Sauce. The unopened box was now collecting dust beside Mass washer and dryer.
As Mas began to unload the Jeep, he was surprised to see Mr. Patel in the doorway of his house. Hey, Arai, how are you doing? He waved and walked toward Mas. He was wearing bright blue Bermuda shorts with a pink polo shirt.
Betta, Mas said.
Those substitutes you had were a little overeager with the clippers.
Oh, yah. Must have been Stinky, thought Mas. He wasnt a detail man, and was notorious for cutting bushes down to their bare leaves. Mas kept unloading the Jeep. The push mower, the rake, the hedge clippers. Ugly, broken-down tools.
Mr. Patel picked up on it right away. Hey, whats all this? he said.
Izu robbed. My truck gone. Have to do best with whatsu I gotsu.
Thats what I like about you, Mas. You dont cry when life throws you a curve. You get back in the saddle. I wish my partner could learn a thing or two from you.
Partner?
Yeah, silent partner, I guess you call him. Well, things have been a little rough with the restaurant business. Now he says he wants his investment back. Wants me to sell half the restaurants.
Mas frowned.
Were in litigation. Hell of a world, huh? Mr. Patel hiked up his Bermuda shorts on his scrawny body. Youre in a good situation; youre a one-man show. Partners, they can turn on you at any time. And when moneys involved, watch out. Money can destroy a friendship. Just then the Patels shar-pei, a wrinkled caterpillar on legs, ran out the front door. Max Mr. Patel called out. Damn dog, he muttered, and excused himself before running down the street.
The Patels was a straightforward job. Prune hedges, which today, due to Stinkys buzz cut style, required little effort. Cut grass. Tend rosebushes. In less than an hour, Mas was finished. The sweat stung his eyes, and he felt good. He wasnt ready for the grave yet.
It was rush hour, and time to take a shower, rest his feet, and watch the horse race broadcast. Yet Mas was heading toward Sawtelle on the Santa Monica Freeway. That was as smart as driving through Pasadena during the Rose Parade. Mas knew better, but he had little choice. To free the boy, Mas had to do his share. While G. I. tackled the courts, Mas needed to be in the field and come up with evidence.
He finally arrived in Sawtelle two hours later, his back sopping wet with sweat. He drove straight into the parking lot and was surprised that it was empty, aside from a twenty-year-old Toyota Cressida. Was Chochins closed?
A Mexican man was in the back, throwing full trash bags into the rubbish bin.
Not open? Mas asked.
The man shook his head.
No inglés,
he said.
Mas tried to muster up all the Spanish he had learned in a city college class. He tried various versions but wasnt getting very far.
La Migra,
the man finally said.
Girl,
de dónde
? Mas tried again. His tongue seemed awkward as he tried to form words that sounded more Japanese than anything else. The man squinted and looked confused. Finally Mas returned to the Jeep and rummaged through the glove compartment. There was the Polaroid, the one with Yuki and the girl with the tadpole eyes.
Mas pointed to the girl and then himself. Papa.
Mi hija.
The man must have had a daughter, too, because his face lit up in recognition.
Uno minuto.
He went back into Chochins and then came out with a pink bag. On the handle was a tag, RUMI KATO, and an address in Gardena.
Driving from Sawtelle to Gardena meant traveling on the 405 again. It was slow, and the setting sun blinded his right eye. But Mas was patient. He knew what had to be done.
Gardena was a cigarette burn below downtown Los Angeles. At one time, Mas knew, the Japanese had multiplied in Gardena like mold on month-old leftovers. Now most of them, or least their children, had moved south to cozy neighborhoods next to clean shopping centers and sanitized parks. The older and poorer ones had stayed behind, like passengers on a run-down boat. But the food was still good and cheap, and old gamblers still frequented local coffee shops. In other words, it was Mass kind of town.
Finding Rumi Katos apartment was no problem. Finding Rumi Kato, though, wasnt quite as simple. The apartment was in a cul-de-sac, a stones throw from a large Asian grocery store that had changed hands at least two times within the last five years. It was a typical Gardena apartment about seven units, with an upstairs and downstairs. Two sets of hedges were pruned Japanese-style, like floating orbs in the sky. A
