G.I. Hasuike was an attorney in Los Angeles with long black and gray hair that reached down to his waist. His hair was usually tied back in a rubber band; that’s why Mas hadn’t noticed its length the first time he had met him.
Since that time, they had shared enough beers and sake for Mas to learn that G.I. was short for George Iwao. He was a Sansei, a third-generation Japanese American, who ran around with a pack of friends from Boyle Heights, next door to East L.A. G.I. had fought in the Vietnam War, not because of any sense of duty, but because his friends had run out of soy sauce the night before their Army physical. They had a square gallon container of Kikkoman shoyu, which they took turns gulping (in between swigs of rum and whiskey and puffs of who-knows-what). G.I. unfortunately had too much rum and whiskey and not enough salt from the shoyu, so his blood pressure test came out free and clear to go shoot some other yellow men an ocean away.
G.I. specialized in spill-and-fall cases, but he was no stranger to criminal cases, either. He told Mas that he had witnessed dozens of men killed in the jungle, so what was dealing with a few murders in the streets of L.A.?
“Where are you calling from, Mas?”
Mas, clutching Mari’s cell phone, stood underneath a pine tree on the corner outside the hospital. A few pine needles fell on his shoulder as a lost bird moved on to a warmer location. “ New York,” he said.
“ New York? Damn, Mas. You sure get around these days. What’s goin’ on?”
Mas tried to explain the whole scenario, from the discovery of the body to Detective Ghigo’s questioning of Mari and Lloyd. “You knowzu any lawyers in New York?”
“Do they have any money? Criminal defense lawyers like to have their fee up front.”
Mas blinked. He pictured the underground apartment and pitiful television set. “No, no money.”
“May be hard,” said G.I. “But I do have a friend connected with the Asian Legal Defense Alliance. Her name’s Jeannie Yee. She’s young, but can kick anybody’s butt.”
Mas took down the name and phone number on the visitor’s sticker the hospital had given him.
After he got off the phone with G.I., Mas realized that he had forgotten to tell the lawyer that Lloyd was hakujin, not Asian. Either way, he still needed defense. And besides, wasn’t he a member of the family?
When Mas returned to the waiting room, Mari was talking to a young dark-skinned woman in a white lab coat. She resembled Mr. Patel, one of Mas’s customers in Arcadia who owned a small chain of teriyaki fast-food stands. “Thank you, Doctor, thank you,” Mari said as the physician headed for a door to the hidden heart of the hospital. Mas pulled out his visitor’s name tag, which had hairs of his wool sweater on the once-sticky side and the lawyer’s name and phone number on the other. “Youzu call dis Jeannie girl,” he told Mari. “She supposed to help you out. At least thatsu what my friend G. I. Hasuike says.”
Mari accepted the name tag and her cell phone. “Takeo’s fever has gone down. He’s going to stay overnight for some more tests, and they’re going to let me be with him.” She then shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I know Ghigo told you that you can’t leave New York, and you know what, I think that it’s good that you’ll be around. I’ve been fighting off this postpartum depression, you know, feeling bad after having a baby. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying or feeling anymore.”
Mas couldn’t remember if Chizuko had suffered from this postpartum sickness-it had been more than thirty years ago. But Mas was so relieved that his grandson was doing better that he began babbling promises, promises that later he wasn’t sure he could keep.
The first promise was that he would check on Lloyd. But it was now getting dark, and he had no idea how to get to this Seventy-seventh Precinct. Just the number-seventy-seven-scared him, because it meant there were at least seventy-six other precincts and who knows how many dozens more. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and thought about his alternatives. He could try one of those underground trains; he saw the stations here and there marked with red and green signs. But everyone was gasa-gasa; they probably wouldn’t have the time to hear the troubles of an old Kibei man. He thought about the neighbor, the middle-aged hakujin woman with the flowing sweater, but they had not formally met. And then there was the Korean shopkeeper, but Mas had already shared too much about himself in a short time. He couldn’t impose more, or his debt would be too great. Japanese straight from Japan always said, “ Osewa ni natta ”-“I have been in your debt”-but that usually applied to little things like being bought a meal or borrowing a cordless power drill, not going to a police station to rescue a son-in-law. In cases like this, it was best to lean on someone familiar, and tonight that person had to be Tug Yamada.
Mas first went back to the underground apartment to make good on his second promise to Mari-that he get something to eat. He was practically running on empty, fueled only by bread and Nescafé. He must have looked as tired as he felt, because Mari had commented that his face seemed pale and dragged down. Mas replied that it was the weather: how could a California man survive in thirty-degree temperatures? At least Mas was hot-blooded, and not a samugari like Chizuko, who had always complained when the house dipped below fifty-nine degrees.
The apartment smelled of the richness of Thai food and steamed rice, which seemed to almost lift the rooms above their subterranean level. Mas first called Tug at his daughter Joy’s house. No answer, but an answering machine with strange music and a female voice mewing like cat. Mas couldn’t believe that Joy would have such a message (what happened to a plain “Hello and leave your name and number”?), so he hung up and called a second time. What the hell-he left a message and hoped that somehow the human cat would deliver the message to his friend.
In the meantime, Mas began his mission of getting food into his stomach. He was grateful for Mari’s making of the rice. Their rice cooker wasn’t one of those high-tech, streamlined kind decorated with pink flowers or tiny elephants. Instead, it was the standard of the sixties and seventies, a white one with black handles that stuck out like ears. Mas put two scoops of rice on a plate and then foraged through the paper bags of take-out food. A strange stew of vegetables covered in a sweet-smelling sauce that was the color of yellow chalk. Chicken on skewers that reminded Mas of yakitori barbecued on hibachis at Japanese bars. And finally, thick rice noodles that were folded like pillows in brown gravy. Mas had never had Thai food before, but tonight he ate as if there were no other.
As he was chewing on the last chicken skewer, the phone rang. It was Tug, apologizing and telling him that he was without his rental car. Mas told him everything that had transpired: from Kazzy’s death to Takeo’s medical setback to the appearance of Detective Ghigo at the hospital. “Needsu to get to Seventy-seven police station; check on Lloyd,” Mas told Tug. They made plans to meet at the Atlantic Avenue subway station ticket booth in the northeast corner. Mas had no idea how he was going to get to the Atlantic Avenue station, much less any specific corner of it, at eight o’clock at night, no less. At this point, he would just have to go out there and try. “Snooze, you lose,” his former friend Wishbone Tanaka once told him regarding an opportunity to buy a nursery. At that time, Mas lost a business deal; but this time, he could lose much more.
Mas had put his old long underwear from his fishing and camping days on underneath his wool sweater and nylon jacket, but the blast of cold air still seemed to soak through the layers of clothing into his bones. He adjusted his Dodgers cap, but that was hardly any help in retaining warmth. At least it would disguise his age; he figured looking seventy years old would attract lazy thieves seeking an easy target.
On his subway map he had already traced the route of the green line with the edge of his dirty index finger. Unfortunately, the Atlantic Avenue stop was a good seven blocks away from the underground apartment. Seven blocks during a winter day in L.A. would be nothing, but this was New York City at night. Luckily the path was a straight one along Flatbush Avenue, so Mas figured that at least there was no danger of getting lost if he went in the right direction.
He traveled alongside the moving wall of cars until he came to a gated area next to a sporting goods store. The gate was open, and an overhead light from the side of the building shone on a man digging around a small pond. The Teddy Bear Garden that Tug had talked about, Mas remembered. Mas couldn’t help but walk a few steps into the dirt.
“Well, hello-” A balding hakujin man turned from his shoveling job. Mas noticed a flat of daffodils in square plastic planters. The man didn’t seem afraid that a stranger had invaded his space, and Mas wondered if the night gardener might be a little kuru-kuru-pa. “Got kind of behind from the rain last weekend,” the man said. “Wanted to at least get the daffodils going.”
From what Mas could tell, the garden would look pretty good in late spring. But right now, the bare trees and planted seedlings only held a promise of what could be.
“Are you interested in gardening?” the man asked.
Mas didn’t know how to answer. He had been doing it for more than forty years, but he honestly didn’t know how interested he was in it. “Izu a gardener,” he chose to respond. “In California.”
“Wonderful, that’s just wonderful.” The man went to a folding chair and pulled a piece of paper from a stack that was held in place by a round polished rock. “We’re having a barbecue here in a couple of weeks for anyone who wants to join us. We would love to have you.”
“Izu be out of here by then.” Mas glanced at the colored flyer, which was printed in English on one side and Spanish on the other.
The bald man looked sincerely disappointed. “That’s too bad,” he said. “But if you’re around, please come.”
As Mas left the gated garden, he just had to shake his head. He had had contact with plenty of strange hakujin in California, but the ones in Park Slope might even top them. He almost stopped by a wire garbage can to toss the flyer, but had second thoughts and stuffed it in his jeans pocket instead.
Mas should have been warned about the size of the Atlantic Avenue station by the long line of letters and numbers encased in circles and diamonds on the sign in front of the station’s stairs. There was an M, N, two Qs, R, W, 2, 5, and 4, their desired train line, in a green circle. As Mas descended the steps, he hung on to the metal railing, his left shoulder and elbow banging into passersby, plastic bags, and briefcases. The railing was cold and sticky, yet the last thing he wanted was to tumble down, break his neck, and be squashed by commuters.
When he got to the bottom of the cement stairs, Mas was hit with the sour and acidic smell of shikko and attempted to breathe out of his mouth. It was the same in every big city: secret corners always attracted secret behavior. He stumbled toward the open lobby, where men and women swiped cards alongside long machines and rushed in and out of turnstiles. How was Mas going to find Tug in the chaos?
Then Mas remembered the mention of the ticket booth. Sure enough, against the wall was a box the size of two phone booths. Inside was a black man dressed in a blue uniform. Mas shuddered to think about being trapped under the street in such a small space.
“Mas, old man.” A familiar voice called out to him. Tug walked through a revolving door made of metal posts like those found at the exit of Disneyland. “Thank God I found you. You’re kind of easy to miss.”
Tug, on the other hand, was not. His hair, which had a wave to it, was frizzier than usual. His white beard glowed underneath the fluorescent lights. Upon seeing his friend, Mas felt the knot in his stomach loosen. Tug was a few years older than Mas, but his mind was still sharp. Sometimes he forgot trivial details-the name of an old high school classmate, for example-but as an ex-government worker, Tug fully understood how to work the system. When their daughters were still young, the two families occasionally vacationed together. Those were the only times the Arais stayed at hotels fancier than Motel 6 or Travelodge. From Tug, Mas learned about AAA and the automobile club’s hotel rating system. Tug and Lil never laid their heads on a bed in a room ranked less than two diamonds, while Mas and Chizuko couldn’t even find their regular discount spots in the AAA book at all.
Tug was not a New York man, but he could navigate the city a hell of a lot better than Mas. “We’ve got to get you a MetroCard.” Tug headed for the ticket booth, pulling out his wallet from his front pocket. “This will last you the whole week.”
Before Mas could protest, Tug was at the window, placing a twenty-dollar bill through a hole in what looked like bulletproof glass. Why was everyone trying to make Mas commit to staying in the city longer?
Tug gave Mas a plastic ticket and gestured toward the fast-moving line of people going through turnstiles. “You place the ticket here,” said Tug, swiping the ticket in an opening like those for credit cards at grocery stores. He pushed his way forward through a turnstile. “You go now, Mas.”
Someone pushed Mas from behind, cursed, and then quickly moved to the next line. Mas felt his head grow hot as he carefully nudged the ticket through the slot and then awkwardly stepped forward, the metal post of the turnstile pressing against his lower ribs.
“You can use this card on all the other lines, Mas. You’ll find it quite handy.” Tug pushed Mas toward another section of the terminal, and Mas found himself descending stairs again.
Mas had seen images of modern subway stations on Japanese soap operas broadcast on Sunday nights in L.A., but he had never stepped foot in one. The trains back in Hiroshima, before the Bomb, were powered the old-fashioned way: with coal. L.A. had its own so-called train system, but no gardener would have any use for that. As for Mas, he had his beloved 1956 Ford truck, which was a lot lighter these days after having been ravaged by a thief and a looter. But it still managed to get the job done, which was more than he could say for some modern-day vans and pickup trucks.
The train platform was plain concrete, stained by layers of spilled food. Down below, on the tracks, were remnants of people’s lives. Dividing the “Manhattan-bound” passengers from the “Brooklyn-bound” were a few benches and advertisements about preventing disease. More people seemed to be on Tug and Mas’s side, and Mas figured out that the ride to the Seventy-seventh Precinct would not be a pleasant one. The train car going in the opposite direction came and went, and then finally one on their side rumbled through the connecting tunnel and screeched to a stop in front of the platform. The car was a magnet for the waiting passengers, who all moved to the edge of a yellow-painted line toward one of the series of doors. Tug guided him, and as the doors whooshed open, Mas felt the uncomfortable closeness of people on all sides of him. Travelers spilled out of the train car as if they had been released from a dam. Mas and Tug’s crowd, on the other hand, pushed forward, moving against the tide.
Once inside, Mas noticed that all the seats facing the center were occupied. Tug reached up for a metal bar parallel to the length of the car’s ceiling, while Mas had to grasp on to the only stationary thing that he could reach-a vertical pole like those in fire stations. The doors slid shut, the train jerked forward, and Mas felt his body sway back and forth like a dead perch on a fishing line.
As the doors opened and closed at the next station, the crowd changed slightly with the subtraction of some passengers and the addition of others. A teenager in a basketball jersey, with a boom box blasting rhythms, came and went, replaced by another young man in a black hat, short, scraggly beard, and a set of two long ringlets-Mari used to wear her hair in similar curlicues when she was young. A group of black women, all friends, stood in one corner, their voices dipping up and down in a cadence that Mas was unfamiliar with. Many of the passengers, from the boy in the knit cap to the old lady in loose panty hose, sat reading books. Chizuko would have been impressed with this, thought Mas, who was a little impressed himself.
At the next stop, a muffled voice came on over the intercom. Mas couldn’t make out any of it, but Tug nudged Mas and they were released into a station with a sign that read Crown Heights – Utica Avenue. They made their way from the belly of the station to street level. As Mas was met by the cutting coldness, he almost missed the pressing fever from the people of the train.
They walked north along a busy boulevard crowded with music shops, grocery stores, and restaurants smelling of burnt pineapple and other tropical fruits. At each intersection, Tug and Mas waited for the Walk sign while all the other pedestrians charged ahead. Even Tug got tired of them being the odd men out, and after looking both ways, they ran across the street against the red light with the rest of the crowd.
Finally they came to a two-story rectangular building that reminded Mas of the tight and simple structures in L.A. ’s Toy District, near Little Tokyo. It was made of bricks the hue of the yellow tiles in Mas’s bathroom back home. And like the bathroom, black dirt had accumulated in corners, proof of pollution, hard times, and neglect.
“C’mon, Mas,” said Tug. “That’s the police station.”
They went through the black metal doors and approached the counter, where a curly-haired woman stood behind a computer screen. Tug didn’t waste any time and made his plea. “I’m Tug Yamada, and this is my friend Mas Arai. Mas’s son-in-law is here, and we’d like to speak with him.”
“Name?”
“Lloyd Jensen.”
The woman left her post and then returned after a few minutes. “There’s no Lloyd Jensen here.”
Tug glanced over at Mas, who handed over Detective Ghigo’s business card. “How about Detective John Ghigo?”
The woman went to speak to someone else again. “Detective Ghigo is busy right now.”
Mas bit down on his dentures as Tug continued to prod in his steady, respectful way. That way not going to work here, thought Mas. Like crossing against a red light, you needed to forget about the rules, and barrel ahead.
The clerk told them to have a seat on some hard plastic chairs, but Mas opted to pace the linoleum floor instead. Displayed on the wall in a glass case were mug shots of criminals at large. No place for Lloyd and Mari, Mas said to himself. No, that was baka na hanashi. Stupid talk.
As he tried not to think about his son-in-law in jail, the metal doors opened, bringing in cold air and a heavy Latino man, who Mas overheard was a pickpocket victim. One after another they came, telling stories of missing Toyotas and broken noses. They were all given papers to fill out and sign. “Then come back here again,” instructed the clerk.
The pickpocket and car robbery victims had finished first; then a young Asian woman breezed in. Her hair was cut bluntly past her shoulders, as if it had been shorn by a pair of hedge clippers. She clutched a leather briefcase. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she called out to the clerk. “I’m here to see Lloyd Jensen. I’m his legal counsel.”
Her voice was deep and throaty like that of a woman who drank and smoked too much.
“Miss, I’m going to have to have you wait in line.” The rest of the victims nodded and hooted in agreement.
“No, I will not wait in line.” The girl then began to speak faster and faster, using words that Mas had never heard of. Her voice became even more guttural; she seemed to be transforming into an oni, one of those red demons with knobby horns in Japanese fairy tales.
Finally the clerk sighed. Apparently the attorney’s incantations had worked. “I’ll be right with you,” she said, leaving her post once again.
The attorney then turned around, and her black eyes met Mas’s. Her face immediately softened and looked nothing like a red oni that Mas imagined. Her skin was as smooth as mochi, pounded rice, and her eyes, although not that big, were bright. When she held out her hand to shake his, Mas couldn’t help but take a step back. “You must be G.I.’s friend,” she said. “I’m Jeannie Yee.”
Jeannie Yee was originally from Torrance, California, a suburb thirty miles south of downtown L.A. That’s where the well-to-do Japanese moved to in the 1970s after exhausting the charms of Gardena, the working-class town next door.
She was a hapa, too, half-Japanese and half-Chinese. Later she would joke that her Sansei mother had mixed sticky and long rice together, half and half, to appease both sides of the family. She had gone to UCLA for her BA, and then gone on to Columbia, Mari’s alma mater, for her law degree. Mas couldn’t imagine this young high-tone girl being connected with G. I. Hasuike in any way, but she explained that she had received a scholarship from his professional group, the Japanese American Bar Association, years ago. And although she had lived in New York City for seven years, her heart was still in L.A.
“Damn, I’ve got to get back. Can’t take this weather.” Jeannie had taken off her black overcoat, revealing a lavender suit the color of jacaranda blossoms. She tossed her coat over one of the chairs beside her.
Tug was the one to make most of the small talk with the girl lawyer. Her father was an engineer with the city of Los Angeles; Tug had been a county health inspector. They shared a world outside of Mas’s. The most Mas could do was pull her overcoat higher up on the chair so the bottom did not drag on the linoleum floor.
“So, your son-in-law, is he a hapa?” Jeannie finally asked Mas.
Mas shook his head. “Hunnerd percent hakujin. Dat mean you won’t help him?”
“Well, we don’t discriminate,” said Jeannie, “although we can’t take every case. But since you know G.I., I’ll take him on. We charge a sliding scale based on income.”
“Next-to-nuttin’ income, I think.”
“Well, then,” said Jeannie. “You’ve probably come to the right place.”
Finally, the clerk called Jeannie’s name and the lawyer was allowed through a door beside the counter.
“Cute girl,” Tug said after Jeannie had left. “Said she was named after that TV show in the sixties, remember, the one with the blond genie in the bottle.”
Mas, whose television tastes tended toward Westerns and detective stories, merely shrugged his shoulders and made himself comfortable in the seat Jeannie had abandoned. He folded his arms and closed his eyes. He couldn’t block out the noises and murmurs of crime and tragedy, but at least he could escape seeing it for a few moments.
Finally, Tug nudged his elbow. “They’re back,” he said.
Lloyd had been the first to appear from the door next to the counter. Remnants of a frown still remained on his forehead. He seemed so happy to see Mas that he almost bent down to hug him; he caught himself, however, and placed his hand on Mas’s shoulder instead. “Didn’t know you had connections with defense lawyers,” he said.
Mas bit down on his lower lip. This was one connection that he preferred not to have. But his need for criminal defense lawyers only seemed to deepen, as if he had stepped into a secret sinkhole that had no bottom.
The door banged open again. “Ghigo, I really expected better of you,” said the girl lawyer, whose overcoat was now folded over her arm.
Detective Ghigo was right behind her. “Jeannie, I’m telling you, we were just having a conversation.”
“Give me a break,” Jeannie snapped back. “You were trying to intimidate him. He has a right to representation.”
Even after he had stopped talking, the detective’s mouth was still open halfway. In Mas’s line of work, he had seen his share of stray dogs go after penned ones day after day. It was obvious that this stray, Detective Ghigo, had sniffed Jeannie before and wanted something more.
Mas stood next to Jeannie. “We gotsu to go,” he said. Tug nodded behind them in agreement.
“Mr. Arai.” Ghigo put on a fake smile. “Good to see you again.”
Mas grunted. He waited until Lloyd, Tug, and Jeannie were safely out the door before he turned to leave himself.
“Oh, Mr. Arai,” Ghigo called out, “about that flower-”
Mas stopped midstep and waited.
“Just got that lab result. The hair wasn’t human. Animal hair, most likely a deer’s. Don’t figure a deer shot a bullet through Mr. Ouchi’s head, do you?”