Snakeskin Shamisen (15 page)

“Let’s see.” Genessee rubbed the backs of her ears as if that move would help her think. “This letter mentions his defense attorney, Isaac Delman. A very well-respected civil rights lawyer. Helped a lot of people placed on blacklists during the McCarthy era.”

Mas had never heard of him.

“He died about a decade ago. His daughter Olivia is still alive. She’s on a few boards at UCLA. I’ve met her a couple of times.”

Genessee flipped through different pages of the correspondence. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I guess Delman backed out and another lawyer filled in. Edwin Parker.”

“Paa-kaa?” Mas’s voice came out high, like the cawing of a crow.

“Edwin Parker,” Genessee repeated. “Sounds familiar. Isn’t there an Edwin Parker who’s a county judge?”

M
as gave the professor a fake excuse to cut their meeting short. Genessee made some copies of the letter before they left. She lingered by the sign-out sheet at the front counter and finally joined Mas outside.

“Well, I figured out who at least two of the three other people looking at the Americans to Protect Immigrants Committee files were. That agent you mentioned, Buchanan Lee? And a reporter for the
Times
—Manuel Spicer.”

Mas didn’t know which one surprised him more—the government agent who had been tailing him and Juanita, or this new name, Spicer. But reporters were always sniffing around in dark corners. Who knew what other stories were buried in those files?

Mas knew what he had to do. There was no reason to involve the professor further. She had done enough. She was a woman with a lot to lose: a good job, a title, a
hyoban
. According to Gushi-mama, Mas’s
hyoban
was dirt anyway. To hell with being a
kurogo
; Mas had to play it his way: straight.

Mas knew where Judge Parker worked. Years ago, he had been called to jury duty and in spite of Chizuko clearly having written
DOES NOT SPEAK ENGLISH
on his jury response form, he had received instructions that he needed to call a number during a certain week in the summer. Chizuko indeed called for him, and, of course, his assigned number was selected. He would have to go in. “Tell them that you cannot speak
Eigo,
” Chizuko said, handing him a note on which she had typed:
TO

WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: MASAO ARAI DOES NOT SPEAK ENGLISH.

On the day he was scheduled to appear for jury duty, he parked in a three-story parking lot across the street from the Music Center, walked four long blocks, and, after passing through a metal detector, waited with another group of people to go on the elevator. As he’d walked down one of the long corridors, he’d seen a familiar name on a plaque outside a courtroom:
JUDGE EDWIN PARKER
. His first instinct had been to hide; he didn’t know exactly why, because the doors were closed. But he did move across to the other side of the hall, protected by lines of taller people.

Mas’s name was not called the whole day as he waited in a large room with year-old magazines and a television whose sound was muted. He had thrown away Chizuko’s note, anyhow. Despite what she thought, he wasn’t a child. He could speak and understand enough English, probably better than most, he thought. People usually just listened for words, while Mas knew that you needed to listen to the spaces in between the words.

Mas headed to the courthouse now, locking his door with another screwdriver that he had fished out of his toolbox. He had only one hour to make his point or else face a sixty-dollar fine. He would keep it short. As soon as he stood before Judge Parker, he would know. Parker wouldn’t have to even say a word; Mas was sure he could read his face.

But Mas didn’t count on being foiled at the door. He walked through the metal detector, only to have it buzz, causing the uniformed officers to straighten up after an apparently uneventful morning. One of them took him aside, waved a wand around his body, and then stopped at his jeans pocket. Sonafugun. The screwdriver. The officer with the wand made Mas lift his arms higher and patted the sides of his body. The man wasted no time in extracting the screwdriver; the next move was by the officer sitting on a stool by the metal detector. He removed a walkie-talkie from his belt and cupped it to his mouth. Mas couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying—all he knew was that it wasn’t good.

A mustachioed man in a suit and tie and plastic-laminated badge crossed the lobby and spoke to the officer with the wand. He kept his eyes on Mas at all times. What did he think? That Mas at age seventy-two would make a run for it?

The man in the suit finally approached Mas. “You can’t bring something like this into the courtroom,” he said, holding up the screwdriver.

A new officer had joined him. A burly-looking one the size of a giant refrigerator.

“Itsu my key. Open car door,” Mas tried to explain. His voice was high-pitched, and in the cavernous lobby, it sounded tinny and cheap.

The officers exchanged glances.

“What’s the nature of your business here?” the man in the suit asked. Mas tried to make out the name on his badge. The photo was old—in it, he had the same mustache, but was wearing a fat tie and glasses with thick plastic frames.

“Judge Edwin Parker.”

“Judge Parker? What business do you have with him?”

Mas didn’t know what to say now. So he said a half-truth, half-lie. “Gardener. Izu Parker’s gardener.” So what if he was off by a couple of decades.

The faces of the men instantly softened, relaxed. It was an identity that they could believe. And only a gardener could be
baka
enough to try to bring a screwdriver into a criminal courts building.

“Parker behind on his gardening bill?” the officer with the wand asked. He smiled widely, as if he wasn’t really expecting an answer. The man in the suit whispered something in the seated officer’s ear, who began talking into his walkie-talkie again. Mas had to stand on the side for ten minutes until a familiar person appeared. Judge Parker, in a suit, without his robe.

“Hello, Mas,” he said. The judge then addressed the officers. “It’s all right. I’ve recessed early anyway. He can come on up.”

“You can get your key on the way out.” The officer smiled again, waving Mas’s old screwdriver.

Mas awkwardly followed the judge to a set of closed elevators, joining a crowd of men in ties and women in nylon stockings and dresses, carrying either briefcases or carryout food. Mas said nothing. There was no sense in either of them attempting small talk.

They rode an elevator to the fourth floor. It was the same courtroom that Mas had passed before, only this time they went through a small door next to the double doors, down a narrow hallway, and finally into Judge Parker’s private chambers. Papers and accordion files were neatly arranged on his desk. A black robe hung from a wooden hanger on the edge of a bookcase. Freshly dusted photos of the judge, Mrs. Parker, their children (who had grown up so much that Mas barely recognized them) were on display on his desk. Mas was surprised to also see on his wall a framed illustration of the ten camps that had once held Issei and Nisei. He had never pegged Parker as having been a lover of Japanese America, but if he really thought about it, some kind of connection was there. After all, Judge Parker had represented Sanjo and was on the board of the Japanese American Bar Association.

The judge sat in a black padded leather chair. “What are you doing here, Mas?” he asked.

“Needsu to talk to you. About Isokichi Sanjo.”

“Sit down.” Judge Parker gestured toward a wooden chair on the other side of his desk. Mas did as he was told. His feet could barely touch the floor, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was Judge Parker’s way of making him feel like a child.

“I was his attorney. Yes,” Parker said.

“You knowsu Randy Yamashiro, his son?”

“Yes, well, at least that’s what Randy told me.”

“He say?”

“He called me on the Friday before the party. He wanted to talk to me.”

“How—”

“I’m not sure how he found out that I had been his father’s attorney. He wouldn’t say. I think that all of this was new to him, that he needed to absorb everything as soon as he could. It was unbelievable—he hadn’t even known that his father had a different last name. I told him all that I could. That his father had been a target of political propaganda. He was no more a threat to American security than I was. He hadn’t even been an official member of the Communist Party; he had just gone to one meeting. And most of those people were there because they were antifascist, more than anything else.”

Mas couldn’t follow all that the judge was saying, but got the impression that Sanjo was innocent, at least of being a threat to national security.

“So whysu he end up dead?”

Parker shook his head. “Yes, that was tragic. But there was nothing I could have done. I was out of the picture by then. Mr. Sanjo had terminated my services.”

“Fire? Makes no sense.”

“His brother Anmen was behind it, I believe. A week later, the coroner’s office contacted me to identify the body. The whole family, including the brother, had moved without telling anyone their whereabouts. I did think Isokichi’s death was suspicious. The INS agent who had arrested him previously, Henry Metcalf, was missing. Quite a coincidence, I thought.”

And yet you did nothing. Mas’s eyes must have betrayed his thoughts, because the judge sighed and stroked his lined forehead. “I had other cases, Mas. I didn’t have time to run around playing Hardy Boys.”

Mas didn’t quite understand Parker’s reference to the Hardy Boys, but felt the
hiniku
, sarcastic jab. Mas obviously did have time to waste, because here he was, playing around and asking questions. All this didn’t explain how the
shamisen
had gotten into Randy’s possession. “Youzu bring the
shamisen
to party.”

Parker nodded. “I had hung on to it all these years. The police released Sanjo’s possessions to me after he was cremated. I was hoping that I could return it to his family someday, and Randy asked for it.”

“He knowsu about
shamisen
?”

“Yes, again, I’m not sure how. But I assured him that I would get it to him as soon as possible. And then he proposed that I bring it to G. I.’s party. I didn’t mention all this to you, Mas, because I thought that it was none of your business.”

Fair enough. Mas could accept that. “Somebody else’s
shamisen
.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that. It had been in Isokichi’s possession when he was arrested.”

“Yamashiro found dead with
shamisen
.”

Judge Parker’s body stiffened as if he were posing for an official photograph in the
Los Angeles Times
. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with Mr. Yamashiro’s death. I barely knew him. But I must say that I was surprised to see Mr. Kinjo performing at G. I.’s party.”

“You knowsu?”

“Well, not personally. But I remember him well. He was the one who informed on Mr. Sanjo fifty years ago.”

chapter nine

Mas kept thinking about what Judge Parker had said: Kinjo sensei had been the informant who had led to Isokichi Sanjo’s arrest. Kinjo, who had denied that he knew Randy Yamashiro. Kinjo, who had been at the Hawaiian restaurant the day Randy had been killed.

Mas was so jumpy that he almost ran over a Chinese woman at the crosswalk on Hill Street in Chinatown. She had been pulling a metal handcart full of green vegetables from the local farmers market. Mas was late to brake, causing the woman to run, her cart overturning and releasing about half a dozen bok choy onto the street, a tumble of edible bowling pins.

The handcart of food reminded Mas of dim sum. Dim sum, with its steaming-hot round tins transported in carts pushed by uniformed women, was high-pressure dining. In dim sum, you had to make a snap decision right then and there. Yes, pork shumai. Yes, taro cake. Yes, egg custard tart. If you didn’t respond fast enough, the cart would pass you over, leaving a wash of regret in your stomach. In honor of snap decisions, Mas made one in the Ford. For his own peace of mind, he needed to find out the truth. And he didn’t want to burden Juanita with the latest information until he had turned over all the bowls in the shell game. So, instead of north, he found himself going south: back to the house of the
shamisen
sensei.

K
injo sensei’s street was full of cars; Mas had to drive two blocks away to find a parking space. He noticed a familiar car, a dusty old Cressida—a dime a dozen, Mas thought to himself. Something was going on in the neighborhood, and Mas quickly discovered that it was happening at Kinjo’s house. The security gate and door were closed, but Mas heard music coming from the back. He walked around the back of the house, where windows revealed a bunch of black and white heads. Once Mas stood on his tiptoes, he saw what the crowd was there for: six
shamisen
players, including Kinjo and his son. Mas had seen this before—Mari’s tiresome piano recitals, where one child after another banged on the keys, producing a sound that could be called anything but music.

He couldn’t just charge in there and confront Kinjo. He had no choice but to wait. He leaned against the corner of the outside wall and wished that he had a cigarette to pass the time. He didn’t want to smoke it, just finger it, hold it, smell it. Even the dead man, Randy, had understood Mas’s compulsion. Hadn’t he had an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth during the party?

Standing out there alone in the driveway, Mas couldn’t help but listen to the music. Before, he had been definitely a
shakuhachi
man more than anything else. The sound of the bamboo flute was a searing wind that blew in and out the cracks of his heart. It was as if his own breath were going into the
shakuhachi
, leaving behind a hollow husk, his pitiful body. The
shamisen
was different. The twang of the instrument first bit into the back of his jaw like ice on a filling. But then the notes quickly wove a pattern that moved from his head to the pit of his stomach. The
shamisen
music made his insides dance. Even listening to Kinjo and company’s music now, in spite of the anger he felt toward the
shamisen
instructor, Mas felt like his soul was elevating and almost leaving his body.

After a couple of songs, the music stopped and Mas heard clapping. The black and white heads were moving; people were getting up from their folding chairs. There must have been some food, because people were gravitating to a corner like summer flies to a picnic table.

Mas contemplated his next move. He still might have to wait some more for the crowd to thin out. He raised his heels again, and he was surprised at what he saw: Jiro, in green scrubs again, talking to Kinjo. What did those two have to say to each other? They didn’t travel in the same circles, with the exception of that tragic day at Mahalo. Mas was looking around the corner to the back stairs when the door opened, revealing a Nisei couple accompanied by the skinny Santa Claus man Mas had seen here last time, when Kinjo had been giving lessons. Now the man wore black pants and a turtleneck.

The three must have just wanted fresh air or quiet, because they didn’t come down the stairs; they stayed on the top step, balancing paper plates on the wooden handrail. The couple spent a good five minutes oohing and aahing over how impressed they were by Santa Claus’s performance. Mas grimaced. It was like those Japanese straight from Japan who were impressed by a
hakujin
saying
konnichiwa
instead of hello. It wasn’t rocket science or brain surgery.

The couple addressed the man as Mr. Halbertson. Mas closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on their conversation as hard as he could.

Mr. Halbertson was telling them that he had fought in Okinawa during World War II. The three of them were eating some kind of cake, and the man paused to swallow. “It was a nasty time, but I just fell in love with the Islands. And the
sanshin
, of course.”

The couple again oohed and aahed in affirmation. They were doing the classic
aizuchi
—literally “hammering togetherness”—which in Japanese was
hai
, “yes,” or
sodesuka
, “is that so?” These Nisei, on the other hand, did their
aizuchi
in the form of saying “really” and “that’s right.” It didn’t mean that the listener was agreeing, only that he or she was actively hearing. So Mas hoped Mr. Halbertson wasn’t under the delusion that he had a real fan club in the couple.

“How long have you been playing?” the Nisei woman asked.

“Not that long, in fact. About three years.”

“But you do it so well. Will you be performing this Saturday at the Okinawan Association?”

Mas couldn’t hear Mr. Halbertson’s response. It must have been yes, because the wife said, “Oh, I’m so looking forward to it. We could listen to the
sanshin
every day. It’s medicine for us. I think that’s the secret to the Uchinanchu living so long. Has nothing to do with eating pork and vegetables.”

“How did you meet Kinjo sensei?” the husband interjected. Mas could have pounded the man’s back right then and there—that was the exact question he wanted answered.

Mr. Halbertson hesitated—maybe just a couple of beats, but enough so that Mas knew that he was considering feeding them a lie. “Arkansas,” he finally said. “I worked a stint in the Jerome camp after I came home early from the war. I was recovering from a minor injury—I’m the type that needs to keep busy.”

“Oh,” the couple said in unison, probably mulling over how they felt. Jerome brought back memories of incarceration. Mr. Halbertson didn’t seem like a teacher or social worker type. Mas could easily picture him as a scrawny, beardless Santa Claus hefting a rifle in a guard tower.

There was a lull in their conversation. Mas then heard some voices out front, the jangle of keys, and the opening and closing of car doors. Before Mas could duck behind a car or garbage can, he was staring at the pure-white crown of Kinjo sensei, who apparently had come out to move his car. “
A-ra
—you again. What are you doing here? This is a private event,” Kinjo said in Japanese. Instead of the worn fleece vest and patched pants, Kinjo sensei was wearing a turquoise kimono.

“Izu come to talk. About the dead man.”

“I told you everything I know. Nothing. Just that the
sanshin
is mine. My son is hiring a lawyer to get it back from the police.”

“Maybe Judge Parker will helpsu.”

Kinjo’s face suddenly lost all expression. His eyes darted back and forth as if he could find the answer in the bushes or his pine tree. His savior came in the form of his son, dressed in a black kimono-style top and
hakama
, the same clothing he’d had on at the Hawaiian restaurant. He squeezed in between two cars to get closer to Mas.

“This is private property. You need to leave now, or I’ll call the police,” said Alan. Long gone was his ingratiating smile, perhaps reserved for women like Juanita.

“Judge Parker, rememba him?” Mas repeated to Kinjo.

Kinjo’s eyes took on a strange color, like that of a diseased animal.

“Who’s Judge Parker?” Alan asked.

“Parker knowsu Kinjo real good. And Kinjo
tomodachi
of Randy Yamashiro’s father.”

Randy’s name sparked interest in the faces of both Kinjo and Alan. Mas didn’t keep them waiting. “Isokichi Sanjo.”

“Sanjo no friend of mine.”

“Dad—you don’t need to say anything.” The ever-faithful son again.

“Youzu in same band.”

“He’s a
dorobo
,” Kinjo spouted. “A thief.”

Mr. Halbertson emerged from the back of the house. “Don’t tell him a thing, Kinjo.” His tone of voice surprised Mas. It was authoritative and demanding. No way to talk to one’s sensei.

He then called out to no one in particular—the Nisei couple, perhaps—“Call the police.”

Mas felt a sense of calm wash over him. Maybe it had been the music that made him feel stronger. He wasn’t going to leave unless Kinjo explained what exactly he had done to Sanjo in the fifties.

Mas decided, as Tug would say, to go for broke. He thought of the worst thing a man could call another man—a dog, an informant, a back stabber. “You
inu
,” Mas stated.

“Who are you calling
inu
?”

“You tellsu INS dat Sanjo
aka
. I knowsu. Judge Parker tell me.”

“Sanjo was
aka
. I saw him myself at that meeting.”

“Then youzu
aka
too. Whysu you at the meeting in the first place?”

Kinjo’s face looked frozen again, as if he were stuck in the past and couldn’t move forward.

“You make deal with government,
desho
? You finger Sanjo, and then you free.” Mas kept going. “But Sanjo neva come back after they get him. He found dead at coroner’s. And now his son dead too.”

The backyard had gotten stone quiet; even the birds seemed to know that they shouldn’t hang around anymore. The Nisei remained silent on the steps, still holding on to their empty paper plates. Mas didn’t know if they had heeded Mr. Halbertson’s demand to call the police. The couple had been joined by at least half a dozen other guests who were all the type to slow for auto accidents—not to help but just to survey the damage.

The son, meanwhile, had also gotten as still as a statue. Mas could see a couple of veins were distended on his forehead, and his hands were shaking. Pure rage, Mas first thought, but then quickly realized that Alan was actually scared out of his mind.

Mas figured that if the police had been called, they were going to take their time. A crazy old Japanese man crashing a
shamisen
concert obviously wasn’t a big priority. Still, Mas knew that he shouldn’t push his luck, and he left, walking two blocks down and finding refuge back in his Ford.

He hadn’t even started the engine when a car pulled up next to him. It was the Cressida, the passenger window wide open. Jiro was in the driver’s seat, a mean scowl on the frog face of his. “What the hell are you trying to do, old man?”

Mas could ask Jiro the same question. “Youzu big fan of
shamisen
?” he said sarcastically.

“This isn’t a joke. It’s no game. Randy’s dead, and you have to honor that. Honor his memory.”

“G. I. tryin’ to findsu his killer.” That in itself seemed pretty honoring.

“He needs to be at peace now. He can’t be, with all of you running around.”

Mas would usually be the first to agree with that philosophy. But something still didn’t sit right with him. Why was Jiro talking to Kinjo? “Why, then, youzu runnin’ to Kinjo?”

“Just go back to your plants, Mas. You don’t know what’s going on.” Jiro revved his engine and sped forward down the residential street. Then what was going on, and how was Jiro involved?

As Mas turned the truck’s ignition, he was surprised to see that his hands were trembling. What had possessed him to stand up to the
shamisen
instructor, and do it in front of an audience, anyway? Perhaps, ironically, it had been the effect of Kinjo’s music, music that he had inhaled, absorbed into his blood and bones. He thought more about Jiro’s accusations. Was he in a sense dishonoring Randy’s memory by looking into his family’s past? Mas cringed to think about strangers investigating his own legacy after he died.

Confused, Mas needed an emotional release. No tobacco—that was his vow after his grandson had recovered from a serious case of jaundice. So instead, it would have to be alcohol. He didn’t know if Peruvian beer would be any good, but he was willing to give it a try.

It wasn’t that hard to trace Antonio’s. The main hub of Juanita’s family restaurant chain was on the second-busiest street running east and west in Hollywood, north from Sunset Boulevard. It was in a mini-mall, next to a Spanish-speaking podiatrist’s office, rental mailboxes, and a Laundromat. The parking lot was full, but on Mas’s third circle, he was finally able to find a spot next to a beat-up Nissan sedan and an abandoned laundry cart.

Like Juanita, the restaurant was nothing fancy, but up-front and full of color. There were posters of Peru—yes, even Machu Picchu—on the walls, weavings of dancing men in costume, a mirrored wall to make the space look double its size, and a large menu above a register. A sign by the door stated
SEAT