Snakeskin Shamisen (6 page)

As he walked up the driveway, he was surprised to see an old gold Mercedes-Benz parked on the other side of their gate. The Parkers had just purchased that car when Mas had worked for them twenty years ago. Mas could tell that it was still in pristine condition; he didn’t think of the Parkers as being sentimental types, so he figured that they were rich tightwads. Hiroshima people, in fact, were known as tightwads themselves—whenever other Japanese spoke of their frugality, they balled one hand into a fist to represent how the Hiroshima folks would hold on to their money. Upon seeing the two-decade-old Benz, Mas thought the Parkers deserved a two-fist ranking.

Mas pushed back his Dodgers cap and rang the front doorbell. He felt quite pleased that he was at the front door instead of the back. He was no longer a hired hand; nobody could tell him where to stand.

He saw an eye through the little glass window in the door. “Who is it?” came a muffled female voice from the other side.

“Mas. Mas Arai. Gardener from long time ago.”

Locks were turned up and down the door, which finally swung open, revealing the trim figure of Mrs. Parker. Her hair was still dark brown, no doubt due to the help of a beauty parlor. She had a spray of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, which surprisingly made her more attractive than in her younger years. She seemed more lived in, comfortable with herself, like a well-maintained car seat in a classic automobile.

“Mas, how are you?” she said. “Edwin mentioned that he had seen you recently.”

“Good,” Mas lied. Good, bad, it really didn’t make a whole hell of a difference. “Mista, judge, here today?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. He’s gone golfing, his Sunday-morning ritual. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Mas blinked. He couldn’t come right out and ask, What was Judge Parker doing with a
shamisen
in Torrance? “My friend put on dat party in Hawaiian place,” Mas finally said. “Just checkin’ if judge didn’t leave anytin’ behind.”

“Oh, I heard about what happened at the restaurant. Terrible, wasn’t it. Edwin has already spoken to the police. Is that what you were concerned about, Mas?”

Mas was struck by how silly he was to have come to the Parkers. Of course the police had already gotten to the judge; he had been the highest-profile guest there. And why would Judge Parker be carrying around a
shamisen
, anyway? Before the party, he had probably never seen one before.
Bakatare
,
bakatare
, he cursed at himself. He was starting to feel angry that G. I. had put him in this position in the first place.

“Do you live in the same place? Can I have Edwin call you?”

“Ah, no.
Orai
,
orai
. No big deal.” Mas slid away from the door. “Sorry to bother.” He almost tripped down the porch stairs on his way out. He realized later, as he rubbed his bum knee, that he wouldn’t have almost fallen if he had just gone to the back door as usual.

M
as knew that he had to come clean to the girl PI when she came over that night. Juanita was less than pleased. “Why did you go there, Mr. Arai?” Juanita paced on the linoleum floor in Mas’s kitchen. It was close to eight, already pitch-black outside, and a breeze blew through old wind chimes Chizuko had bought in Solvang, causing them to tinkle like shards of broken glass.

“Dis lady saw a
hakujin
wiz a
shamisen
. So I go ova to ask,” Mas repeated.

Juanita opened her mouth so wide that Mas could see the filling on her back molar. She then snapped closed her mouth in defeat. “Edwin Parker,” she said after taking a deep breath. “The judge on the JABA board, right?”

JABA? Sounded like a children’s comic book character.

“You know, the Japanese American Bar Association.”

Mas remembered Judge Parker mentioning that group. “Yah, how come he wiz dat group?”

“You know, I asked G. I. the same question a while back. I guess Parker’s always felt close to the Japanese. Something about his old-time neighbors being Nisei. And, of course, he’s done a lot on behalf of redress.” Redress was shorthand for “redress and reparations” for those like Tug and Lil, who had been locked up during World War II without being charged with any crime. Tug spent a year in camp, before shipping out to fight for the same country that had imprisoned him.

“She couldn’t say one way or anotha who she saw.” Mas didn’t know how good Spoon’s eyes were. And she hadn’t even known what a
shamisen
was. “Could be some otha
hakujin
man. Maybe singer wiz
shamisen
group.”

“Well, I’ll check over the guest list. In the meantime, I’ll get a photo of Judge Parker—there must be something over the Internet. We can confirm if he’s the man your friend saw.”

Spoon’s not my friend, Mas wanted to say, but that was beside the point.

“Maybe she can at least verify that the
sanshin
she saw was the same one left by Randy’s body.”

All this detailed work was giving Mas a mean headache. He didn’t mind tending to an overgrown bush, but to have to keep returning to people and having them recount their observations was too
mendokusai
, too troublesome, for Mas to deal with. Juanita must have sensed his bad attitude, because she said, “Listen, Mr. Arai, if this is too much for you, you can back out at any time.”

Mas realized that was Juanita’s unspoken desire, but that just made him dig his heels in more. “No, I do it.”

“You have to be totally straight with me, even about the little things.” Again, just as Detective Alo had said, report on the details.

“
Orai
.”

“Promise?”

“Yah,” Mas said. Anything to keep the girl quiet.

Mas walked Juanita to her Toyota truck.

“Dunno too many women with picku-upu,” Mas couldn’t help but comment.

“Trucks are very handy—as you know, Mr. Arai. You can easily hide dead bodies back there.”

It was Mas’s turn to open his mouth. Juanita let out a long laugh that seemed to bounce off each metal garage door down the street. “You’re too easy,” she said, opening the driver’s-side door and getting in. She then proceeded to make a U-turn on McNally Street. Mas turned back to his house and then heard a loud boom, like the sound of a shotgun. It had only been the backfiring of an older German car, which was speeding down the street and now practically sitting on the Toyota’s tail at the stop sign. It was past twilight. Mas couldn’t tell if the car was gold or yellow, but it was definitely a Mercedes-Benz. They both made right turns, one after another, and Mas was worried. “Sonafugun,” he muttered. He went inside and found Juanita’s cell phone number on her no-nonsense business card.

“Mr. Arai,” she answered her phone, surprised. There was a lot of static on the line, and Mas could barely make out her voice. “Something wrong?”

“Where are you?”

“On Fair Oaks. Near Old Town. What’s up?” Old Town Pasadena was a tourist area full of lights and pedestrians. Juanita would be safe from there to the freeway.

“Some crazy driver back on McNally. Checkin’ youzu
orai
.”

“Just some impatient asshole. Lost him a few blocks ago. Why?”

Mas breathed easy. Why would a judge be following Juanita like a no-good spy? Didn’t make sense. “Nutin’. I talk to youzu tomorrow.”

Mas hung up the phone. Maybe he should have said something, but he felt like a fool. He didn’t want to be like a worrywart old woman, jumping at every backfiring car and concerned about whether young people were wearing a jacket on cool autumn nights. But then again, he had told Juanita that he would report everything, even the tiniest of the tiny. He glanced at his Casio watch, held around his wrist with twine. Only ten minutes had passed, and Mas had already broken his promise.

chapter three

The next day was Monday, the beginning of Mas’s workweek, if you could even call it work. He only had ten customers, or two customers a day. His first customer of the week was Mr. Patel, a skinny East Indian man who owned a chain of teriyaki bowl shops in San Gabriel Valley. At one time, after he bought out his partner’s share of the company, Mr. Patel had said that he wanted to rename his eateries “Mas’s,” but Mas told him that was a bad idea. “Think itsu Mexican food,” he told Mr. Patel. “People get confuse.” Mr. Patel backed down, deciding on the name “Crickets Teriyaki” instead. But he insisted on calling his star menu item—the jalapeño teriyaki bowl—Mas’s Special, because it had been Mas’s idea to combine the two flavors in the first place.

Mr. Patel had been married twice, and his grown children had left the house. These days, besides his restaurants, his children were his aging Shar-Pei dog (could an animal acquire more wrinkles?) and his collection of curved knives, displayed on the living room wall in his Arcadia home. Mas was staring at one now as Mr. Patel sat down to write him a check. He must have been staring at them too hard, because Mr. Patel commented, “You a fan, Mas?”

“Excuse?”

“Swords. The Japanese are the king of them. You must have some bit of samurai in you.”

Mas doubted that he had any drop of samurai blood. Neither did many of his Japanese friends, despite their claims to have a direct lineage to those Japanese warriors. Alas, most of their ancestors had been peasants stuck in the rice fields. But what was wrong with being a plain old farmer? Mas wondered. In some ways, it took more guts and strength to stand out in the humid heat, swatting away mosquitoes as you pulled out green rice stalks, than to wander along dusty roads, carrying around an oversized
katana
.

But with Randy’s death, swords were definitely on Mas’s mind lately.

“These are
kurki
, the weapons of the Gurka.” Mr. Patel pointed to his knife display. Noting Mas’s blank stare, he added, “The Gurka were warriors from Nepal who fought for the British in World War Two.”

Mr. Patel was an expert on sharp blades, so he might have some insight into the one that had killed Randy. “Knowsu someone killed with knife. Right through here.” Mas traced the side of his neck with his right hand, which still stunk of rose fertilizer.

“What kind of knife?”

“Ba-yo-net-o. Dunno who do it.”

“Hmm. If the victim was killed with a bayonet, they must have been fighting in close proximity.” Mr. Patel tore out his check from his checkbook. “Hand-to-hand combat—the ugliest kind of fighting.”

M
as left Mr. Patel’s with a dull pain in his stomach. Picturing dead bodies diminished Mas’s appetite, and he skipped lunch. By five in the evening, his stomach was jumping with hunger. But Monday was dinner-with-the-Yamadas night, so at least he would be ending his day with a home-cooked meal.

As he entered the Yamadas’ dining room, Mas was surprised to see four place settings, rather than the usual three. Stinky Yoshimoto, another Pasadena gardener, was sitting at the table. Mas didn’t know why Stinky had been invited. He didn’t travel in the same circles as the Yamadas. Neither did Mas, but their daughters, who had gone to the same preschool, would always tie them together. Those same daughters were now both in New York City: Mas’s Mari, a sometime filmmaker, wife of a giant
hakujin
gardener, and mother of three-year-old
warubozu
, little troublemaker; and Tug and Lil’s Joy, who didn’t seem to be bringing her parents much joy these days. Mas had heard various rumors about Joy from the Pasadena gardener grapevine, but they weren’t worth checking out with Mari. None of his business, thought Mas. Young people lived their lives as they saw fit. But he was still well aware of his own character weakness: although he didn’t like to spread gossip, at times he didn’t mind listening to it.

Stinky, on the other hand, bred and spread rumors like mosquitoes in standing water. Today, however, he seemed to lay low. Must be sick, thought Mas. And then, when Lil inquired when Stinky’s wife, Bette, would be returning from her trip to visit their daughters in Seattle, Mas put two and two together. Stinky, a bachelor for the week, was clearly the Yamadas’ charity case. Never mind that obviously Mas was too. It was always easier to see the true state of someone other than yourself.

“Sorry it’s just curry. Didn’t have much time to cook anything fancy today.” Lil Yamada brought out plates of sticky short-grain rice covered in a pool of yellow-brown sauce with lumps of vegetables and meat.

The familiar smell—musty like a garage after a rain, mixed in with exotic spices—made Mas’s mouth water. Chizuko had made curry, or
kare
rice, as the Japanese liked to call it, once a week from packaged blocks of curry shaped like mini gold bars. You broke each piece off like Hershey’s chocolate and tossed it into a saucepan of boiling water with cooked nuggets of chicken, sliced onion and carrots, and cubed potatoes. Occasionally Chizuko would add raisins, but as soon as she could talk, Mari had requested that the raisins be eliminated.

Stinky didn’t waste any time after he received his plate. He was raising a heaping tablespoon of curry to his mouth when Tug announced, “Let’s pray.” The spoon clattered to his plate and Stinky turned to Mas for guidance. It had taken Mas a while to get used to the Yamadas’ ritual of saying grace. Mas rubbed his hands on his jeans and then extended his left to Tug. Stinky slowly gave one of his hands to Lil, who smiled encouragingly at Mas to take his other one.

The last thing Mas wanted to do was hold Stinky’s hand. Stinky had a habit of going
shikko
without closing the bathroom door. Any other evidence of personal hygiene and decorum, such as the washing of one’s hands, was not apparent. But for the blessing of the curry, Mas reluctantly stretched his hand across the table and pinched the cuff of Stinky’s flannel shirt. Tug murmured something so softly that Mas couldn’t make out everything he said. Mas heard “Lord” and then “friends” and something about Jesus’ name. After he finished, Tug would usually squeeze Mas’s hand, and a faint electrical shock would go up to his elbow. Mas didn’t know if it was a result of a spiritual phenomenon or just static. This time, after “Amen,” Mas quickly withdrew both hands. No electrical shocks this time.

Lil passed a small bowl of
rakkyo
, the sweet and tart mini-onions, which she had chopped into slivers. Another bowl held bright-red ginger. Ever since Chizuko had died, Mas kept only a few condiments in the refrigerator—his trusty jalapeño peppers, pickled plums soaking in saltwater, and
takuan
, bright-yellow sliced radishes that stunk like tired feet released from sweaty socks (had to make sure that the lid was tight on that container). To have different types of pickles tonight made Mas happy. He didn’t exercise restraint and went ahead and piled two spoonfuls of
rakkyo
and ginger next to his rice.

“So go on, Mas. Tell us about Randy Yamashiro.” Tug was looking at Mas intently, and Mas recognized the shine in his friend’s eyes. That shine meant that Tug was ready for adventure beyond his three-bedroom, two-bathroom tract house. It also only meant trouble. Hadn’t Tug and Lil recently joined some senior citizens’ group where they could play bingo and sing birthday songs in honor of still being alive? Tug should concentrate his efforts on that, not living on the dark side.

“Tug, let him eat,” Lil said. She had just finished placing four glasses of ice water on the table.

Tug dutifully allowed Mas to take three bites, when he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Do the police have any suspects?”

Mas shook his head, not mentioning either G. I.’s or Jiro’s name. The police had questioned both of them, but didn’t have enough information to formally charge either man, according to Juanita. Both she and G. I. figured, based on the way Detective Alo was pursuing the investigation, that no prints had been found on the knife.

Mas had already told Tug about the bayonet. Tug had fought in World War II with the all-Nisei 442nd Regimental Combat Unit, leaving a piece of his finger behind on the front line of Europe. He said that it was a small price to pay, considering half of his buddies never made it back. Mas had been shocked that while these young men had been in battle, some of their parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles had still been held behind barbed wire. If the Japanese Americans had been so disloyal, why had Tug and his fellow Nisei soldiers been handed rifles, grenades, and machine guns and told to fight America’s enemy? Didn’t make sense.

Being a military man, Tug was familiar with weaponry from different eras. He even got out a heavy book on the military and flipped through illustrated pages. He pointed out photographs of bayonets, which just looked like larger versions of hunting knives to Mas, aside from a ring on the side that was supposed to snap onto the rifle.

“Well, Izu helpin’ dis girl. G. I.’s friend. She says sheezu some kind of PI.”

“Private investigator?” Lil pursed her lips. Lately she seemed more critical of any woman who pursued a career outside the home. “Does she have children?”

Mas hadn’t asked, but he figured she didn’t. “Not sure,” he said. “Gonna see her tomorrow. Dunno too much about her.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Tug asked, a white eyebrow arching above his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Lookin’ into…” Mas said, swallowing a potato, “
shamisen
.”

“
Sha-MI-sen
? You mean that Japanese bamboo flute?”

“Thatsu
shakuhachi
,” Mas corrected him. “
Shamisen
more like guitar. Three strings. A couple of guys doin’
shamisen
at G. I.’s party.”

“That’s right,” said Tug. “I remember seeing the instruments onstage. What does that have to do with Randy’s death?”

“Sumbody left a
shamisen
there. Wiz Randy’s body.”

“Strange,” Lil murmured, biting into one of her sliced
rakkyo
.

“So have the police looked into the
shamisen
players?”

Mas didn’t know. But he and Juanita were heading out to Gardena the next day to pay the musicians a visit.

“Spoon saw a
hakujin
guy wiz a
shamisen
.”

“
Hakujin
man?” Lil frowned. “Somebody at the party?”

At this point, Mas thought that he’d better not mention Judge Parker. No use stirring up the pot now. Juanita had said that they had to verify every detail before spitting out information.

“Is this
shamisen
anything special?” asked Tug. “I mean, is it like those one-of-a-kind fancy violins worth millions of dollars?” Tug’s mind seemed to be racing. Mas didn’t know whether to make it go faster or try to stop it entirely.

“Covered in snakeskin. From Okinawa,” Mas replied.

“There’s a lot of Okinawans at Keiro,” Lil offered. Every Thursday, Lil volunteered at Keiro, a Japanese nursing home in Los Angeles.
Keiro
meant respect for elders, which made Mas laugh. What person, either young or old, in America had respect for elders? Even Japan’s sense of
keiro
had been going downhill. Hadn’t Mas, in fact, heard of a story of a Japanese youth who had tied up his grandmother and stolen all of her money? Nonetheless, Mas had to admit that it was good that a place like Keiro existed in L.A. He couldn’t depend on his daughter to take care of him, and although he planned to spend his last days in his house on McNally Street, it was reassuring to know that there was a nursing home that served old-time comfort food like
okayu
, soft-rice porridge, and
okazu
, stewed bits of vegetable and meat.

“There’s a resident from Okinawa who is a hundred and six years old—they call her Gushi-mama,” said Lil.

“That’s her nickname, right? What’s it short for?” Tug asked.

“Gushiken, I think.”

The same as Juanita’s name. Mas didn’t know how many Gushikens were running around in L.A., but it couldn’t be that many.

“By the way, you know who just got checked in?”

Mas shook his head, ready to receive new gossip.

“Wishbone Tanaka.”

“Wishbone? Heezu too young to be in there.” Wishbone was barely even seventy, wasn’t he? Mas could see him in a retirement home, but a nursing home? It had been only four years ago that Wishbone was standing behind a counter at the lawn mower shop, a crooked grin on his pockmarked face.

“Got pneumonia, I guess. And then took a little spill and twisted his ankle. He was asking about you, Mas. You should visit him sometime.”

Throughout this whole discussion, Stinky had been stuffing spoonful after spoonful of curry into his mouth. Usually he would be the one volunteering the latest bad news about his best friend, Wishbone.

“You knowsu about dis, Stinky?”

“Yeah, yeah. Saw him a month ago.”

“In Keiro?” Lil frowned. She probably was wondering the same thing Mas was—where had he been since then?

“Yah, right in the beginning,” he mumbled, focusing his attention back on his food.