Snakeskin Shamisen (19 page)

“No, from my tree. Take some.” Haruo handed a bagful to Wishbone. With Wishbone’s hands full of persimmon, Sanjo thought it was an opportune time to make a run for it. He headed for the door, but Wishbone expertly caught the leg of his pants with a crutch. Sanjo fell forward and instinctively tucked his head, turning an ugly yet complete somersault on Haruo’s carpet. Mas’s hunch had been right. The man had gone through some martial arts training.

“You
orai
?” Haruo asked, helping the man to his feet and into a chair. “Whatchu doin’, Wishbone?” Haruo had finally realized that something was amiss.

Wishbone didn’t answer. He disappeared into the next room in an attempt to turn Haruo’s tiny kitchen into an interrogation room. With one sweep of his crutch, Wishbone cleared the card table of all condiments—soy sauce packages from the local Chinese restaurant, ketchup and mustard packages, salt and pepper shakers. He lifted Haruo’s high-powered flashlight on the floor and duct-taped it to the side of his five-foot refrigerator as a spotlight.

“Here, you, Saito, Sanjo—whoever the hell you are—come over here.” Wishbone finally directed Sanjo to sit down at the kitchen table.

Haruo walked into the kitchen and stared at his condiments strewn on the floor. “Whatchu doin’?” he repeated.

“Have to question our man here.”

“What kinds of questions?”

Mas finally had to step in when Wishbone tried to duct-tape the man’s wrists together. “Listen, Haruo, call G. I., will youzu?”

Thankfully, G. I. was home and available. While they waited for him to arrive, Haruo poured each of them a glass of 7-Up with ice.

“You from here?” he asked the stranger. By this time, Sanjo seemed totally deflated.

“Don’t bother asking, Haruo,” said Wishbone. “I’ll get the truth out of him.”

“You knowsu, I don’t think I wanna have sumptin’ like dis go on my house,” Haruo said. Mas was familiar with this tone of voice. Haruo was setting his “boundaries,” which Mas previously had connected with property lines, not invisible ones regarding what you want and do not want to do.

“Well, it’s too late, Haruo. We’re in, and we’re not going to leave.”

Just in the nick of time, G. I. appeared at the security gate. “What’s going on in here?”

Wishbone commanded G. I.’s attention, admitting everything, from first meeting Sanjo at a friend’s house, to the hatching of the stock market scam, to the scene at the credit union.

“He’s been calling himself Saito, but other people know him from way back as Sanjo.”

G. I. rolled up his long sleeves and leaned toward the man sitting at the card table. “What’s your real name? Sanjo?”

“
Hai
, Sanjo.” There was no doubt that Sanjo’s English was poor. It was a wonder that he and Wishbone, whose Japanese was equally bad, could have communicated enough to hatch a scam.

“Mas or Haruo, one of you, get in here,” G. I. said.

Haruo pushed Mas into the kitchen.

“Find out who he is—”

“
Namae
. Whatchu name?”

“Saito.”

“That’s not his real name,” Wishbone interjected.

“Real name.
Honto no namae
,” Mas demanded.

The man grimaced as if he were holding something bitter in his mouth. “Sanjo. Anmen Sanjo.”

“Live in Rosu, L.A.?”

“Don’t live nowhere special,” he said. “Just go from town to town.”

“Ask him what he did with the rest of the money. We should have thirty grand more,” Wishbone spouted out.

“
Okane
. Where’s the rest of the
okane
?”

“All gone. I sent to Okinawa.”

“Sonofabitch,” Wishbone cursed.

Mas had his own line of questions. “How are you connected to Isokichi Sanjo?”

Anmen abruptly looked up, and Mas noticed that whites of his eyes looked yellowish. “My
niisan
.”

“Do you know Randy Yamashiro?”

“My nephew. I know that he’s dead. That’s why I haven’t left. I need to get the one who did it.”

“You did it, you double-crossing Jap!”

“Wishbone,
yakamashii
.” Mas tried to shut Wishbone up. G. I., meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, listening intently to Haruo’s shotgun interpretation. With Haruo continuing to whisper in G. I.’s ear, Mas asked, “Why you call Randy?”

Sanjo bent his head down. “I saw the article about him winning the money. I knew who he was. Thought maybe he could help me out.”

“By taking his money?”

“The money’s not for me. Anyway, I met with him on a Friday, found out he was
kichigai
. Like his head was on fire. He asked me how I could leave the family, abandon them. How I could cause so much trouble?” Anmen looked down at his hands. “Finally, I told him the truth.”

Everyone, even Wishbone, stayed quiet. All that they could hear was the hum of the old refrigerator and the ticking of the cheap clock mounted within the stove.

“That I wasn’t his father, I’m his uncle. That his father was dead. He wouldn’t believe me at first, but I told him the year that he had died. The same year that his mother had taken him and his brother to Hawaii.”

“Youzu the one at coroner-
san
’s.”

Anmen nodded. “I was worried. I went to see Isokichi after he was arrested, and the INS office told me that Isokichi was no longer in the building. The agent who had arrested him was also gone. I knew something had happened. If they had released him, he would have gone straight home. But we had heard nothing. So I went to the Japanese hospital, every place I could think of. When he didn’t turn up there, I knew that he might be dead.

“I heard about the Japanese man working at the coroner’s office. It had been big news. Just like first Japanese teacher, first Japanese department store worker. It was in the
Rafu
, first Japanese working in the coroner’s office.

“So I went there at night. Saw his body. Who could have done this to Isokichi? That INS agent, Metcalf?” Anmen spat on Haruo’s floor. “He was a terrible man, coarse, with a bad mouth. I was at the house when Metcalf and another agent came to arrest Isokichi. Actually, we were in the middle of a fight.”

“
Kenka
?”

Anmen grunted. “It was
baka
. It was about the
sanshin
. Isokichi found out the
sanshin
was special. That there was a special hiding place inside for the
kunkunshi
. He told Kinjo that it belonged to the Okinawan government. And then he stole it.”

“Kinjo’s
sanshin
.”

Anmen nodded.

“Kinjo was always bragging that the
sanshin
had belonged to a court musician who’d performed for an Okinawan king. That his
sanshin
was better than anybody else’s. I was sick of it. I was glad that Isokichi took it. Kinjo was so angry; he said that he’d get us. Then, two days later, the immigration officers came to our door.”

After a few minutes of listening to Haruo’s translation, G. I. spoke up. “You told this to Randy?”

Anmen said in English, “Yes.” He let out a deep breath and then resumed speaking in Japanese. “Through the Okinawa Club, I was able to contact those
hakujin
lawyers who were trying to help the Japanese.”

“Edwin Parker?”

“He and an older attorney, Delman-
san
. Delman was famous, a good man. But he was involved in too many cases, so he had to pull out. Too bad, because I didn’t trust Parker.”

“Why?” Mas asked.

“Too young. Too green. Barely graduated from law school. He was one of these types who was just figuring what kind of man he was. He wanted to be an Isaac Delman, but without going through any suffering that made your insides strong. He wanted the title and fame without the work. So I asked him to stop being Isokichi’s lawyer.”

So, Mas thought. That was the real reason Parker had been released.

“After I saw Isokichi’s body, I went back to his wife. Told her that she needed to get out of L.A.—fast. Change her name, go back to her folks in Hawaii. For the good of her boys.

“I left town, too, for a while. But not until I saw Metcalf. I needed to see him, face-to-face. Or maybe I needed him to see me. I packed a baseball bat in my cloth
sanshin
case. What was I going to do with that bat once I saw Metcalf? Self-defense, that’s what I called it. My brother couldn’t do it, so I would do it for him. I waited for him at the INS office, but he never showed up. The police declared him officially missing. I figured that he was on the run, and the INS and police were covering it all up.”

Mas remembered how the police told Hajime Kaku, the coroner’s clerk, to keep silent about the G-man he’d encountered.

“So I changed my name too. Didn’t need the government keeping tabs on me. But I kept track of my sister-in-law and nephews. Whenever I came into L.A., I would try to look up Agent Metcalf. But nothing. I’m sure the government placed him in another town with another identity.”

Anmen’s hunch was proven wrong, with the recent discovery of Metcalf’s bones. Like Isokichi, he had met an untimely fate. But the question remained, were the deaths related?

G. I. got up from the floor and asked more questions, but Anmen was less coherent, was obviously getting tired.

“I want my money,” Wishbone broke in.

“Ah, yes, the money. Where is it?” G. I. asked.

Anmen glanced at G. I. and removed an envelope from his shirt pocket. “I don’t have anywhere to go.
Okane nai
.” No money.

“You’re staying with me,” said G. I., pulling the envelope from Anmen’s hands. “And you, too, Mas. I’ll need your translation services.”

“I want my money,” Wishbone repeated.

“I think that we need to find out who’s owed what. And as the cofounder of this ‘deal,’ Wishbone, you will be compensated last. You need to pay back your other investors first. We’ll see what’s left.”

Wishbone was looking mighty defeated now. “I want my money,” he whimpered.

A
fter the hour of going back and forth in Japanese, English, and a mishmash of both, everyone was ready to collapse. None of them, except G. I., was the type who could sit through such focused talking. Gossip was one thing. At Wishbone’s former lawn mower shop, rumors had flown hard and fast. But it wasn’t like you really had to pay attention; you could just reach out for the bits that caught your fancy, like canned goods on a grocery store shelf.

G. I. suggested that they get ready to leave, and Mas thought that suggestion had come an hour too late. Haruo, of course, handed Mas another bag of persimmons; it was no use refusing it. What about my boundary? Mas thought, but with Haruo, boundaries were actually crossed all the time.

Outside they heard the slam of cars doors and voices of women and teenage boys. “Spoon’s here.” Haruo smiled, sliding a comb down his hair.

It was an army of people. Spoon with three women, most likely her daughters. Two of them resembled Spoon, skinny on top, with a wide behind. The third one was thin, with a sprinkle of freckles, not as intense as Jiro’s, but more like chocolate dust on top of a hot drink. Two gangly teenagers stood behind by the van.

“You have guests,” said Spoon.

“We’re just leaving,” G. I. explained. They had decided that Mas would move his truck to Haruo’s and then drive Sanjo’s rental car to G. I.’s. G. I. offered to drop Mas back at his truck, but Mas opted to walk.

Mas was introduced to the three daughters and watched as the two boys, probably fourteen and sixteen, awkwardly greeted Haruo.

“Hey, Uncle Haruo,” they said. Mas was surprised at how Spoon’s grandchildren addressed a non–blood relative. Mas wondered what kind of relationship he could cultivate with his own grandson, living so far away.

“I gotsu get goin’ to G. I.’s,” Mas said, excusing himself.

“
Orai
, Mas, I be seein’ you, soon. Just park the truck in the driveway,” Haruo called out, but by the time Mas looked back, his friend’s attention had been captured by the two teenagers.

Mas walked down the street. The sun was setting, and a grayness was spreading over the sky. Boys kicked a soccer ball in the street, calling out in Spanish and English. Mothers sat on stoops, taking breathers before dinner, the last peace of mind before sunset.

A
s it turned out, Mas was the first to arrive back at G. I.’s place. The rental car was a disaster, and he couldn’t wait to be rid of it. Mas parked the car outside on the curb. A few minutes later, G. I. and Anmen pulled into the driveway toward G. I.’s one-car garage in the back. G. I. opened the door, a large bag smelling of garlic in his hands. “Cuban chicken,” he said.

Once he was inside, Anmen’s eyes didn’t seem to register the mess in G. I.’s living room. Like a dog sniffing out a buried bone, he immediately found the
shamisen
hiding in the corner by the bookshelf in the living room.

“Ah,
sanshin
. You play?” G. I. apparently went up several notches in Anmen’s estimation.

“No, that’s Juanita’s grandfather’s. She wanted to show me what an intact
shamisen
—I mean
sanshin
—looked like.”

G. I. pulled out three Styrofoam containers from his paper bag. Mas opened his container, revealing a chicken leg, roasted brown and simmering in garlic juice, yellow rice, and fried bananas, which G. I. called plantains. And a small container of crushed garlic, more
ninniku
. G. I. turned on the television, which was a relief. No talking; instead, they ate silently while watching car crashes and gang shootings mixed with segments on pig beauty contests and football games.

G. I. then excused himself to take a shower and make phone calls. Anmen circled the living room a couple of times—searching for what, Mas didn’t know.

Finally, he stopped at G. I.’s bookcase and picked up a framed photograph. “This man, who is he?” he asked Mas, who was dozing off.

Mas wiped his eyes. There were three men on a fishing trip, and Anmen was pointing to the one on the right. “Thatsu Jiro.”

“Jiro?”

“G. I. and Randy’s
tomodachi
. From Vietnam. They callsu him Kermit.”