Snakeskin Shamisen Read online

  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.

  G. I. lived in a place called Culver City. Culver City was old, at least for Southern California, and a lot of its streets tangled up in knots like the roots of a tree smashed into a pot that was too small. Luckily, G. I.’s house, a fourplex, was off a large boulevard called Pico, and even if Mas hadn’t known where it was, he would have as soon as he spied a black-and-white police car parked on the street.

  The unit’s light was on, and Mas could see G. I.’s gangly silhouette through the glass door. G. I. lived upstairs, but he had his own downstairs door, which opened onto a set of stairs that in turn led visitors to his small one-bedroom unit. G. I. owned the whole fourplex, and the rent he collected from his tenants apparently came in handy between the infrequent checks from bureaucratic insurance companies and clients on the run.

  Even before Mas had parked the Ford, he saw G. I. come outside behind two police officers who were carrying some kind of rectangular box. It turned out to be a black nylon suitcase opened to reveal T-shirts, folded jeans, and tube socks. One of the T-shirts on top had a design of a rainbow-colored snow cone.

  Mas waited in the driveway for the officers to pass him
by. G. I. brought up the rear. He looked much paler than a few hours earlier. His eyes were bloodshot, like two little red umeboshi, pickled plums, on his white, ashen face.

  “Mas,” he practically whispered. “Thanks for coming all this way. I’ll be free in a minute.”

  The officers placed the suitcase in the trunk of their car. They were having a few more private words with G. I. when Juanita arrived in a red Toyota pickup truck with a white cab over the bed. After parking the truck, she joined G. I. and the officers for a moment and then approached Mas. “You want to come in?” she asked.

  “Izu wait out here for G. I.”

  “I’ll be up there,” she replied, and headed up the walkway toward the fourplex.

  Mas got out of his truck and made it to the unit’s concrete steps and sat down. He ached for a cigarette and massaged the back of his neck. How could he possibly help? Law and order was G. I.’s world, not Mas’s.

  The police car finally left with the suitcase, and Mas noticed a few of the neighbors peeking out their windows. Many a story would be woven in the neighborhood tonight. But that was the least of G. I.’s worries.

  His friend was now approaching, worn-out rubber zori on his bare feet. The slippers slapped against the walkway, making a noise slightly irritating and lonely at the same time.

  “So sorry.” Mas rose, keeping his arms to his sides.

  “It’s been a nightmare, Mas.”

  G. I. ushered Mas up the stairs, which were littered with brown accordion files and other legal-looking papers. G. I. had his share of brains, guts, and heart, but no housekeeping skills. Mas shuddered as he passed by a litter box that obviously had not been cleaned out for a couple of weeks. Since G. I. had a girlfriend now, Mas half-expected his apartment to be neater, but it was actually filled with two times the mess. A top-of-the-line bicycle, resting upside down on its handlebars and rear frame, was in the middle of the hardwood floor. A backpack leaned against the hallway wall, and circles of bright yellow and red rope had been left in corners of the living room. What kind of woman was this Juanita Gushiken? Mas wondered. G. I. didn’t seem the outdoor type, although Mas knew that he was coordinated enough to tie himself into knots doing a thing called yoga.