Summer of the Big Bachi (30 page)

 

Once they reached Chochin’s, Mas took charge. “I’m suppose to meet him out back. You go in. Talk to the girls. You like girls, right?”

 

 

Yuki frowned, but stuffing his hands in Mari’s coat, he dutifully walked inside.

 

 

Mas felt his heart pound, hard enough so that it seemed to rattle against his ribs. Had Shuji Nakane tried to kill the mistress? Had he wanted to shut her up forever? And now, with Riki on his deathbed, would Mas be the only one standing?

 

 

Mas crossed the sidewalk into the small parking lot filled with Mercedes Benzes, Lincoln Continentals, and a few Lexuses. Chochin’s was busy this evening; who knew why? Mas checked his Casio watch, the band all worn out and tied together with twine. It was seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes early. Mas always liked to be early. When you were early, you were ready for the unexpected. Accidents, unforeseen events. You always had to be ready for something going wrong. Because it usually did.

 

 

Apparently, Shuji Nakane thought the same thing. He emerged from the side of a Dumpster with a black bag stuffed underneath his armpit. He was wearing the same tinted glasses and another turtleneck, this time black. “Arai-
san
. Good evening,” he said.

 

 

The second Nakane opened his mouth, Mas knew he was up to no good. He knew something; he had a secret winning hand, and Mas was sure to go down in flames. At this point there was no turning back. Mas had to just play along.

 

 

“Um,” Mas grunted. “Youzu here.”

 

 

“You said you had something important to tell me. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

 

 

Mas shifted his weight from one foot to another. The parking lot was dead quiet. The corner was isolated and away from traffic. “I saw Junko Kakita,” Mas finally said. “At the hospital.”

 

 

Shuji Nakane pressed his palms together and waited.

 

 

“She tellsu me all kinds of stories.”

 

 

“Oh, yes?” Nakane’s lenses were lighter in the darkness, but Mas still couldn’t see his eyes.

 

 

“She say that youzu visit her. Offer her lotsu of money. I figure she not right in the head,
desho
. Because why would you give her money?”

 

 

Nakane took the black bag from underneath his arm. “I’m tired of playing games, Arai-
san,
” he said, and then opened the bag. A light had turned on above the parking lot, but Mas still couldn’t see well. The contents was soon described to him. “Thirty thousand dollars,” said Nakane. “You can have it all, if you keep out of this.”

 

 

Mas almost laughed. He had never been offered so much cash before in his life. He had always wondered what he would have done if he’d hit it big in Vegas or the track, real big. Now would be the chance for him to find out. “Whatchu mean, ‘keep out’?”

 

 

“Nobody would listen to you, anyway. I’m just making this offer as a gesture. Gesture of kindness. Take it or leave it. I don’t care.”

 

 

Mas felt his stomach flip inside out. Kind of like the time he’d overheard Mari, fifteen years old, complain to Chizuko about not being able to afford ski trips like the other kids.
“Why don’t we have money?”
she had said.
“Why can’t Dad have a better job, and wear a suit and a tie?”

 

 

“Spoke to his wife and children. Told them that they were in line to inherit a prime piece of property worth ten million dollars.” Mas raised his eyebrows. Ten million? Yuki had told him three million.

 

 

“The boy lowballed it, didn’t he?” Nakane adjusted his glasses. “It’s just like him. He’s tricky. All he cares about is the money, Arai-
san
. Don’t be fooled by his so-called love for his grandmother. He doesn’t care about her. He’s even tried to replace her name with his on property titles.”

 

 

Mas tried not to let Nakane’s accusations get to him. But he had to admit that he was left with an aftertaste of doubt.

 

 

“Riki Kimura’s only got a few more weeks, days. He wasn’t much of a father, husband. Close to declaring bankruptcy, he is. It’s better this way. For his family and for you.”

 

 

It was completely out in the open now. Nakane knew, and was seeking to erase Riki Kimura for good.

 

 

Mas looked down at Nakane’s shoes. They didn’t have tassels, but they were indeed fancy like the ones he saw when his truck had been stolen. “Where’s my Ford?” Mas said. It was a shot in the dark.

 

 

Nakane didn’t respond to the question. “Here, take it.” He pushed the bag into Mas’s stomach. He walked toward a Lincoln Continental, got in, and drove away.

 

 

* * *

 

For a while, Mas knelt by the Dumpster, his hands around the leather bag holding thirty thousand dollars. Twenty-seven years ago, he could have bought the nursery outright, with money to spare. Twenty-seven years ago, he could have bought two houses the size of his Altadena place. Twenty-seven years ago, he could have found a doctor at the top of his field for Chizuko, at the first sign of stomach trouble.

 

 

Mas stuck his hand into the bag. They were crisp bills all bundled together like the ones the Las Vegas cashiers would present to those who won big.

 

 

He looked down at his watch. Close to eight-thirty. The boy would be coming out to the parking lot anytime now. He pushed up the lid of the Dumpster and pulled out dark trash bags. Half-eaten food spilled out, vegetable peelings, containers. A pink pastry box. Mas grabbed the box and dumped the leftovers. There was no time to waste. He threw the bundles of money into the box and folded in the lid. Ten million dollars, Nakane had said. Not three million. If the boy had his secrets, Mas would have his.

 

 

 

Mas waited for a good forty minutes, until nine-ten, when he figured he’d better go get the boy. There was no doubt that he had fallen under the spell of a bar hostess. Clutching his pink box, he opened the heavy door of Chochin’s and walked into a small reception area. Behind the reception desk was a glass case full of bottles of the finest liquor, all tagged with names written in Japanese. In the corner behind the door was a mound of salt to ward off the curse of women— and there was good reason to. A Japanese woman in a kimono emerged from a doorway covered by a silky cloth curtain. She was about forty, and her face was covered with white, floury makeup.

 

 

“Yes, how can I help you?” she said in Japanese. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by Mas’s appearance. In the background Mas could hear the beat of music that Mari used to listen to in the 1970s.

 

 

“Ah—” Mas tried to compose the words in his mouth.

 

 

“
Okyaku-san,
do you have a membership?” she asked in a singsong voice.

 

 

“No, just lookin’ for a friend. Young one, about twenty or so. Red hair.”

 

 

“Oh, yes,” the hostess replied immediately. She held back the silk curtain so Mas could enter the heart of Chochin’s. The room, about the size of Mas’s whole house, was awash in blue and loud American music. A ball covered with small mirrored squares hung from the ceiling, covering the guests with dots of blinding white light. Pitiful, Mas thought, looking at the red-faced middle-aged men sitting with young girls of all races about half their age. Finally the kimono-clad woman gestured to a booth in the corner, where Yuki sat. Next to him was the girl with the tadpole eyes. She had something glittery rubbed over her eyes and wore a halter top that revealed the pure whiteness of her arms and shoulders.

 

 

“Ojisan,”
the boy said as Mas approached. He was grinning from ear to ear. On the table was a bottle of Johnnie Walker with a tag, YUKIKAZU KIMURA, hanging from its neck.

 

 

Stupid, Mas thought. At least use a fake name. “We needsu to leave,” Mas said, ignoring their motions to sit with them.

 

 

“You get what you needed?” Yuki’s voice took a more serious tone, and Mas could have kicked him. Not here, he thought, not in front of the girl. But the hostess’s face was a complete blank; she was apparently well trained to look invisible during conversations between men. Mas could imagine all the business, both legitimate and illegitimate, that occurred within the four walls of Chochin’s. The girl didn’t even seem to acknowledge that she and Mas had met once before.

 

 

Mas tugged on Yuki’s T-shirt with his right hand, the pink box firmly in his left. “We needsu to get out of here,” he said in the boy’s ear. Yuki finally nodded and said his good-byes, slipping a twenty-dollar bill underneath the girl’s empty glass.

 

 

When they finally got back into the Jeep, Yuki showed Mas a square Polaroid photo. “A souvenir,” he said. He had had his picture taken with the hostess. “She was
kawaii
. Kind of quiet, though,” he said, throwing the photo in the glove compartment. Then he noticed the box on Mas’s lap.

 

 

Mas was careful to look away. “Got hungry. Went ova to that place across the street. Got some stuff for your grandma.”

 

 

That was enough for Yuki. “Where’s Nakane?” he asked.

 

 

The lies came easily to Mas’s lips. He was not ashamed. One after another, they dribbled out like rain.
Nakane didn’t seem to know about the mistress. He had given up and was planning to return to Japan. They didn’t have to worry about him anymore.

 

 

“He told you all that?” Yuki got back on the Santa Monica Freeway, this time going east.

 

 

“Yah.”

 

 

Yuki then hit the steering wheel and cursed.

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“Your jacket. I left it at the bar.” The boy was in his T-shirt, the tattoo poking out below his right sleeve.

 

 

“Don’t worry.” Mas held on to the pink box. “It was old. Just leave it there.”

 

 

 

As they approached McNally Street, Mas’s stomach turned. Parked in front of Mas’s house was a sheriff’s car with its blue lights flashing.

 

 

Mas and the boy were on the same wavelength.
“My obaachan,”
Yuki whispered, and Mas felt immediately ashamed. The boy obviously cared about Akemi. How could Mas have doubted him?

 

 

They ran into the house, fearing the worst. But there was Akemi, unhurt, standing there with two officers.

 

 

“What happened?” Yuki asked his grandmother, but before she could answer, the officers grabbed Yuki’s arms.

 

 

“We have to take you into custody,” said one of them, a tall black woman, fastening a handcuff around his wrist. Yuki started to resist, but Mas pressed his palm on the boy’s back. Don’t fight, he thought. You may think this is a land of black and
Nihonjin
TV newscasters, but it’s more complicated than that. Before anyone could say anything more, the other officer, a short
hakujin
man, answered their silent questions. “We’re charging him with murder,” he said, “in the death of Junko Kakita.” While murmuring something about rights and lawyers, they led Yuki out the screen door that Tug Yamada had fixed, down the driveway, and into the black-and-white squad car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN