Snakeskin Shamisen (21 page)

Mas had trouble following Olivia, but he understood the gist of her comments: that more than one person had wanted this Agent Metcalf dead. And judging from her comments, Mas figured she had not yet heard about Metcalf’s bones being unearthed from downtown L.A.

“There was something else,” Olivia added. “Wasn’t there an informant?”

“Man from Sanjo-
san
’s band.”

“I remember Edwin talking about this case.”

Edwin?

Olivia blushed the slightest shade of pink. “I was seeing Edwin Parker at that time. We dated for a few months until I broke it off. I was very cruel, actually. I told him that he was more enamored with my father than me. I’m still embarrassed when I see Edwin and his wife at social functions.”

Olivia crossed her legs, and Mas noticed they were still slim, with only a faint web of varicose veins visible underneath her nylons. “But I remember hearing about this informant. Unreliable, to say the least. I think that he certainly had other motives in cooperating with immigration services. Some of these informants lied. Some were even planted by the INS. It’s amazing what some people are willing to do if the price is high enough.”

The lawyer’s daughter then spent a few minutes reading notes on her index cards. “The informant had made an appointment with my father after the deportee’s death. But he then canceled; never gave a reason why.”

Mas looked down at his watch. If he wanted to make a stop before the concert, he would have to leave now. “I gotsu to go. Sank you very much.”

“You didn’t touch your tea.” Olivia Feinstein looked disappointed. Unfortunately, Mas had spent his life disappointing women; one more wasn’t going to make a whole lot of difference.

M
as went back to the beginning. Where it all started. Mahalo, the Hawaiian restaurant in Torrance.

The hostess—could it be Tiffany?—greeted Mas with a menu in her hand. “Aloha! How many in your party?”

Mas rechecked her name badge. These pretty young girls all looked alike. But sure enough, the badge read
TIFFANY
. “Youzu the one at G. I.’s party.”

“Excuse me?”

“The day the man killed.”

Tiffany finally recognized Mas. Her face turned pale in spite of her tan. She looked nervous. “You were the guy outside with the screwdriver. What do you want?” she asked.

A family walked in, and Tiffany took a few steps toward these real customers and then stopped, glancing nervously back at Mas. She was rescued by a young man who had also worked that night at the party, the one whose short black hair was gelled up like porcupine quills. His name was apparently
JOSH
.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“The day Randy Yamashiro killed, you have Okinawa band. Whysu you use dat band?”

The young man frowned. “May I ask why you need that information?”

“Just needsu to know why youzu pick them.”

“The restaurant had nothing to do with it.”

“Youzu sure?”

Josh must have been eager to get rid of Mas, because he finally said, “Look, I’m the one who took the phone call. I remember because it was at the last minute—the night before the event. The guy planning the party—the one who was killed—told us that we had to book that band, that Kinji and Son.”

“Kinjo.”

“Yeah, Kinjo and Son. I told him that I couldn’t promise him anything—not enough advance notice—but he said that he would pay extra. Even double their usual fee. I didn’t understand why it was so important, but we did it. You know—the customer is always right.”

Josh then turned his attention to another couple who was waiting to be seated. He obviously didn’t want to waste any more time with Mas, which was fine, because he was late to the concert.

The Okinawa Association parking lot was full, so Mas parked two blocks away. He didn’t know which building to enter, so he first went into the newer one, glossy with a mirrored outside, but the glass door only led to a spiral staircase to the second floor and a long hallway leading to offices. No sign of a concert there. It was also dead quiet, aside from the hum of the air conditioner.

The door to the second was locked, but a door to the third was held open with a metal chair. It went right into a heavy-duty steel kitchen with a professional-looking stove and a springy rubber floor mat. A couple of Japanese women were by the sink, their hands wet and their hair freshly coiffed and sprayed. Seeing Mas, they smiled and nodded as if they knew him. Mas pressed his lips together, managing the best grin he could.

Hearing the music coming from the other side of the kitchen, Mas knew that he was at the right place. He walked into a large hall, which was filled with at least two hundred people seated at long tables assembled in rows in front of a wooden platform. Three
sanshin
players, all middle-aged women in orange and yellow kimonos, stood behind microphones, singing. Each one of them had a black cone-shaped wig attached to the top of her head.

One of the women from the kitchen pushed Mas toward a side counter that was filled with food. She held out a paper plate and motioned for him to serve himself. He was a stranger, yet she wanted to feed him. This much kindness made Mas suspicious, but not suspicious enough to refuse the food.

The line of dishes represented a typical Japanese American potluck, including the Okinawan
dango
, which Chizuko herself used to make on special occasions, dozens of fried round donuts in different trays and pans. Someone had placed the
dango
in a round bowl; they resembled the backs of sparrows huddled together in a nest.

Less familiar to Mas were the trays full of cut-up pork and
goya
, bitter melon. Chizuko had had an Okinawan hair-dresser who always gave her bagfuls of
goya
. It was a funny-looking melon, green, bumpy, and long like a cucumber—like something you might find in the toy section of a pet store or perhaps on another planet. But sliced and cooked, the
goya
, which was a brilliant yellow inside, with orange seeds, was pretty, the outside ridged like the petals of a flower. Here the
goya
and pork were stewed together. Mas was in the mood for bitter, so he scooped up a huge spoonful and placed it next to his Okinawan
dango
, macaroni salad, and Spam
musubi
.

The women were still singing, so Mas remained standing on the side.

“Please sit.” One of the ladies from the kitchen gestured toward the long tables. But most of the seats were filled.

Mas opted to wait rather than disturb people during the musicians’ performance. After ten minutes, he felt the bottom of his paper plate grow soggy and heard his stomach grumble. The song finally ended, releasing Mas to make his move.

As he went down the first row, he was surprised to see Gushi-mama there in a wheelchair, her pigeon-faced roommate beside her. And then, next to her, another familiar face. The professor, Genessee Howard.

“This seat’s open, Mas.” She gestured to an empty seat beside her.

Mas hesitated and remained standing. “I dunno youzu gonna be here,” he said.

“I always come to the concerts. I’m an adviser for the association.”

“You knowsu Gushi-mama?”

“Oh, we’re great friends. After my husband died, Gushi-mama was the one who brought
maze-gohan
to my house every week. That’s when she was living on her own.”

Gushi-mama’s dried-out mane was tamed inside a knit hat, and her mouth was filled with a set of perfect teeth. She was looking good. “My
maze-gohan
the best, you know,” she said, peering at his plate to see if he had any of the rice-mixed-with-red-bean dish. “None of this stuff any good.”

Mas didn’t know how to respond. If he agreed, he would be insulting the hands that had made the
ogochiso
, the feast before them. If he disagreed, he would be denigrating Gushi-mama’s culinary expertise. He must have had a funny expression, because Gushi-mama then commented to Genessee, “This man,
omoshiroi
.”

Omoshiroi
. The word could mean “interesting.” But also “peculiar.” She then clarified, “He looks like nobody special, but he has a head for things. Smarter than he looks.”

If Gushi-mama hadn’t been recovering from a lack of food and fluids in her body, Mas would have had some choice words to throw her way. But he refrained.

“Yes,” Genessee said. “I figured that out the first time I saw him.”

“
So
,” agreed Gushi-mama’s roommate.

Embarrassed by his all-female fan club, Mas almost dropped his plate of bitter melon onto the floor.

“Sit, sit.” Genessee pulled at the sleeve of the Hawaiian shirt. Mas finally acquiesced and claimed the folding chair next to her.

An emcee in a suit and tie spoke into the microphone. “More food left, everyone.” He then added, “No
enryo
,” before introducing the next performers.

Enryo
was the standard Japanese response to any social situation, large or small. Mas and Chizuko would tell Mari not to beg for soft drinks at a friend’s house and, in fact, to refuse it when it was first offered. (It could, however, be accepted upon the second offer, and a definite yes by the third.) And of course, no one took the last bit of anything on a plate at a Chinese restaurant. It didn’t make sense, really, for that final piece of sweet-and-sour pork or chicken chow mein to end up in the trash rather than someone’s stomach, but that’s how things were done. Most
hakujin
wouldn’t be able to survive living this way; they would probably scream and
monku
until the system was changed. But then that’s how the Japanese American had survived this long under bad circumstances. You pushed aside your own wants for the larger good, which in most cases meant some type of unity. Of course, sometimes fights would break out, and people would go off on their own—only to start up another new group. And so the process went on and on. No wonder there were thousands of groups within the Japanese American community.

Mas began eating as a new group positioned themselves on the platform. As he ate and listened, he kept one eye on the door. He hadn’t seen Kinjo, Alan, or Halbertson yet—not to mention either G. I. or Juanita.

The emcee returned to the microphone. “Next is Kinjo and Son Band,” he said. The audience clapped.

From the kitchen entrance came Kinjo, Alan, Halbertson, the woman with the skunk stripe in her hair, and the young man with the tortured push-lawn-mower hair.

The music was more of the same, but it was good nonetheless. Mas had to disagree with Gushi-mama on this—Kinjo was a good
sanshin
player. Maybe not quite good enough for him to have his nose in the air, but enjoyable nonetheless.

In the middle of the third song, two new guests entered the hall. One was Detective Alo, whose immense size attracted half of the crowd’s attention. The other half seemed more interested in his companion, a squat, balding Japanese man wearing a dark, expensive suit revealing his high position.

Genessee whispered in Mas’s ear, “Why is Detective Alo with the representative from Okinawa?”

Mas almost cracked a smile. G. I. was to be commended. He had worked his persuasive magic in getting the men to a concert on a Saturday afternoon. Genessee was not a woman who wasted any time. She rose and made her way toward the two men. Whatthehell, thought Mas. Isn’t this why I took the trouble to come here in the first place? He got up and joined Genessee by the door.

Alo was in a deep conversation with the suited Japanese man, bending down to his height and periodically pointing to Halbertson and then Kinjo. The singing duo were in trouble and they knew it. Kinjo’s voice went flat, while his
hakujin
sidekick looked like he had caught a bad case of the stomach flu. They stopped performing after the third song, prompting hard looks from Alan and the other members of the band. Both Kinjo and Halbertson bowed and quickly left the stage, looking for an alternate door besides the one in the kitchen. There wasn’t any.

“Going somewhere?” Detective Alo blocked the exit.

Kinjo hugged his
sanshin
to his chest, while Halbertson’s once-perky white mustache dipped down.

“You know that musical instrument that you claim is yours, Mr. Kinjo? Well, we’ve discovered that it was stolen from the prefecture of Okinawa. And the musical score hidden inside—it happens to be a national treasure, missing since World War Two.” Alo gestured toward his balding companion. “This is Mr. Oyadomori, a representative from the Okinawan government. He’d like to discuss how exactly you got your hands on those two items.”

By this time, the audience was no longer following the next musical act but the more interesting sideshow that Alo was providing.

“
Soto
,
soto
.” Kinjo wanted to take his private business outside, away from the curious looks of the Okinawa Association members. “Go outside.”

Leaving behind Alan and Halbertson, Kinjo deftly darted behind Alo and headed toward the wide openness of the parking lot. Only he didn’t stop once he was outside. He was moving toward the street.

A black car swung into the lot, preventing his escape. The driver’s door opened and Agent Lee, impeccably dressed and groomed as usual, slowly emerged from the car.

“Hello, Mr. Kinjo,” he said. It was obvious that the two had met before.

Kinjo blinked furiously—a mouse caught by two, no, three cats. His legs must have been shaking, because his kimono-covered body bobbed back and forth.

Alan, seeing his father in trouble, ran to his defense. “What’s going on here?” he said, standing beside Kinjo. “Nothing is going to happen without our lawyer present.”

“No, no. Too
takai
, expensive. Pay too much already.” Kinjo hung his head. He was giving up.

Mas saw Detective Alo approach Agent Lee. They were also clearly familiar with each other, because they were soon having their own argument about who should be questioning Kinjo first, and where.

“This is a murder case; I think this takes precedence over something that happened fifty years ago,” Alo said in his breathless voice, but a little louder than usual.