Blood Hina (11 page)

Even though Mas didn’t think Ike and Spoon were especially wealthy, anything compared to East L.A., where G.I. was from, had to be considered rich, he guessed. The two communities were separated by only a few miles, but it might as well have been two kingdoms for how the neighborhoods were different.

“So, this Dee is staying with Spoon?” G.I. asked.

Mas nodded.

“That’s tough,” commented Juanita. “I mean, I can see why Spoon would want to help her daughter out, but sometimes people in trouble need to hit rock bottom.”

Mas knew that those things were easy for Juanita to say, but hard to do. Wasn’t she herself living in the back house on her parents’ property? Juanita and her Peruvian immigrant parents were close, as close as an adult child and parents could be.

“Anotha thing kinda don’t make sense. The
hina
dolls. Spoon tell me they cost four hundred, but now it look like three thousand.”

“Three thousand?” G.I. opened his mouth wide, showing off the metal fillings on his molars.

“I thought Spoon didn’t have any money,” Juanita added.

“Yah, datsu what Haruo say. But she got one million from husband’s insurance policy. What happen to dat?”

“Four hundred.” G.I. ignored Mas’s question and
returned to the sum that Spoon reported to the police. “That’s interesting. You know four hundred is the limit between a felony and misdemeanor.”

So what, Spoon was trying to protect Haruo?

G.I. continued with his train of thought. “But how would Spoon know that? She doesn’t seem the type to be savvy about the judicial process. And it’s not like she’s ever been arrested before for grand theft.”

A face full of freckles surfaced in Mas’s mind. The Buckwheat Beauty. He could only imagine what trouble she had gotten into in the past.

“Haruo needsu your helpu,” said Mas regarding G.I.’s legal expertise.

G.I. rubbed his shaven head. “I offered it to him, or at least some good referrals of public defenders. He told me that it hadn’t gotten that far yet. But it definitely didn’t sound like he was planning to go to the police on his own. Why is he so reluctant? Usually Haruo is the first in line to talk to anyone.”

Before Mas could answer, he saw Juanita smiling at a figure walking toward them.

“Haruo,” she said. “So good to see you.”

Haruo, however, did not seem that happy to be there. His keloid scar, twisted like an old wisteria stem, was pulsating with anger. He didn’t acknowledge Juanita and G.I.; all his attention was on Mas. “Why you go—” he had to even pause to catch his breath. “Why you go—” he restarted, “ova to place where Spoon buy her dollsu without tellin’ me?”

Mas didn’t know what to say.

“The place in San Diego callsu her, wonderin’ why dis

Mas Arai askin’ all these questions.”

Juanita shifted uncomfortably in her seat and G.I. gazed down at the base of his soda can. Mas was being played as an interfering spy, and there was probably no convincing Haruo otherwise. But Mas had to at least try.

“Izu just tryin’ to helpu,” Mas attempted to say as confidently as possible. “Dunno whyzu Spoon so upset.”

“Well, sheezu mad. Sayin’ dis none of your bizness. Yell at me right in the middle of market. Youzu always say mind my bizness, but you don’t mind yours.”

Here you are, living at my place, eating all my instant ramen
, Mas wanted to shout but he bit his tongue. If he went there, there would be no turning back.

“Whyzu you go there and say nuttin’ to me?” Haruo repeated.

Because I don’t trust your former fiancée
, Mas said to himself.
And I don’t trust the daughter of your former fiancée
.

“I just wanna find out whatsu behind those dolls.”

“And whatchu say to her? I think youzu say sumptin mean, sumptin dat make her cry.”

At this point Mas was so frustrated that he didn’t show any restraint. “I tole her dat she shoulda say to you plain and square she don’t wanna get married.” As soon as Mas spoke those words, he regretted it, seeing Haruo almost shaking from the pain of it.

“Why don’t we eat?” Juanita said brightly, but both Mas and Haruo could tell her smile was pasted on just for show.

“Not hungry,” Haruo said.

“Me neither,” Mas said, his stomach growling.

“Izu gonna just wait outside,” Haruo said and turned
back toward the door.

“Wait,” Juanita called out, but even she was unable to stop him.

Mas shrugged his shoulders and got up. At least it would be a quiet ride home, he tried to tell himself, but it was a loud kind of silence that bothered Mas’s ears more than Haruo’s actual jabbering.

How come you bother my ex-fiancée?
the silence said.
Why you snooping around?

I’m just trying to help you out
, Mas said without words.
Don’t want you to be thrown in jail. Don’t want you getting into gambling again. I’ve had to pick you up time and time again. I’m through with that now
.

Of course, neither one of them verbalized their thoughts. Words required too much energy, and they also offered resolution. With silence, they could let their feud go on without an end. If Haruo wanted to play it that way, then Mas would abide.

Haruo finally ended his silent treatment at about ten o’clock. Three hours of silence was a record for him. “Izu gonna move out in a coupla days,” he announced.

How are you going to find the money for a deposit and decent place?
Mas wondered. But although Mas didn’t give Haruo any credit, he knew that his friend had a sprinkling of pride. It would be wrong to take that little of it away.

That night Mas sunk into a fitful sleep, waking up a couple times after some nightmares, including one starring a late
customer, Mrs. Zidle. She was crying at the doorway of her Southern-style white wood-framed house in Pasadena. She was making a harsh, choking sound, like a cat coughing up a hairball. Her papery cheeks were wet, and tears dripped down from her chin.

He got out of bed once at around four. He stumbled in the dark to get to the living room, and as he suspected, the couch that Haruo was using as his bed was empty. Haruo had found his own way to work, which was just fine with Mas.
None of my business, right? he
told himself. He collapsed back in bed and this time, really slept until he was awakened by the ringing of the phone. Digital clock: 9:29 a.m.

“Hallo,” Mas answered loudly, half looking forward to hanging up rudely on a telemarketer.

“Mas? It’s Genessee Howard.”

“Oh, hallo.” Mas sat up and patted down his hair, as if doing those things would make a better impression on someone on the other end of the line.

“What happened on Sunday?”

“Huh?”

“Haruo and Spoon’s wedding. I went to the Japanese garden and some people said the ceremony was canceled.”

“Haruo didn’t call you.” Mas was glad to silently curse Haruo. Genessee Howard should have been the first person on Haruo’s to-call list. At least it would have been on Mas’s.

“Oh, sorry. So sorry.” Mas tried the best he could to piece together what had transpired between Haruo and Spoon—without revealing anything too personal or criminal.

“I’m sad to hear about that. You figure that love the second time around would be a lot easier.”

Mas felt his cheeks grew cold. He didn’t have the nerve to respond.

Thankfully Genessee continued talking. “Well, now that I have you on the phone, I was wondering if you could come by my house sometime. I bought my son’s house in L.A., and it needs a lot of work. I know you’re just working part time, but I need some gardening advice.”

“I come right now.” Today Mas had only one customer, practically a mow and blow that he could do with his eyes closed.

“This morning? You’re not busy?”

“Not so much.” No sense in putting up a fake front. Besides it would be good to get away from the conflict with Haruo.

“Okay,” said Genessee. “Looking forward to seeing you.”

“Yah.”

Mas hung up the phone. He remembered holding Genessee’s hand when they were all over Mas’s friend Tug’s house. Tug was one of those true-blue Christians who said grace before a meal and wanted everyone to link hands around the table. Normally Mas wasn’t too crazy about holding someone else’s hand, but Genessee was an exception that he was more than willing to make.

When Mas had first met Genessee Howard, she was living smack-dab in the middle of the Japanese American community in a city called Torrance. An expert on Okinawan music, she was the one that Juanita Gushiken called to find
out about the history of the
shamisen
, a clue in the death of G.I.’s Vietnam veteran friend. Mas was first puzzled by her, then intrigued, and finally smitten. It was as if as the very best of Chizuko had been boiled down and re-formed in this sixtysomething woman.

Genessee now lived in an area called Mid-City, but for Mas, who traveled mostly around the San Gabriel Valley, it might as well have been the Midwest. It was Los Angeles, for sure, but within L.A., nestled beside landmarks like Hollywood, Silver Lake, Crenshaw, Gallegos Park, and Watts were lesser-known communities such as Hermon, Carthay, Chesterfield Square, and Harvard Heights. These were the places that if mentioned on the television news, would cause someone like Mas to scratch his head and say to himself, “Where’s that?”

Mid-City was in the middle of the line going from downtown Los Angeles to Santa Monica due west. It seemed like a good-enough neighborhood, neither very poor nor very rich. As Mas drove through the streets, he noticed that each house was unique and each lawn was well tended. One home was painted purple with dark succulents planted all over. A gargoyle statue sat on the edge of the roof. Another home, framed by a natural wood gateway, was dotted with brilliant wildflowers. The front yard was filled with sparkly broken granite rocks. Judging from the way the inhabitants decorated the exteriors of their homes, Mid-City attracted its share of
kawarimono
, eccentrics who didn’t toe the line. There was obviously nothing midway with Mid-City.

Mas turned the corner down Genessee’s street. There was a gardener’s truck parked across the street, and as Mas
passed by, he was surprised to see an elderly black gardener in a jumpsuit and pith helmet loading a lawnmower in the back of the cab. He was joined by two younger gardeners in the same color jumpsuit—perhaps the elder’s sons? Mas hadn’t seen a black gardener in L.A. since the fifties, and to see three of them at once was jarring indeed.

Genessee was waiting for him. Wearing an orange dress and yellow sweater, she sat on a bench on her porch and Mas couldn’t help but smile inside. Her hair was combed out in a small Afro, different than the last time he’d seen her. Her Asian eyes, bright behind her glasses, seemed aware of every movement on her quiet street.

“Hello,” she said as Mas parked the truck. He didn’t bother to lock it, because what was worth taking? Anyway, he wanted to leave his key, the screwdriver, on the front seat. He wanted to try something new and look dignified for once.

Mas started to nod his head as a greeting, but Genessee wouldn’t have it. She walked up to him and hugged him briefly. Mas stiffened as he felt her shoulder blades against his palms.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yah,” Mas said. It had actually been around seven months, but who was counting?

“You look well.”

Mas nodded. “Same to you.”

Genessee smiled, her cheeks full of air, as if she was trying to swallow a laugh, and Mas wondered why. “Would you like to see my new backyard?” she finally asked.

Mas followed her down a narrow walkway and into a small yard. He was prepared to see something flat, as was
typical of the backyards he saw in the congested Westside. But instead he encountered two twin dirt mounds.

“My grandson created that when he was into motocross racing. Before that, my son dug up the backyard to create a lagoon. But now I want to make this space just for me. I’m thinking of maybe a koi pond.”

Mas chose to keep his thoughts to himself until he at least heard the woman out. Everyone in California seemed koi crazy, but they never thought about the downsides.

“When I last visited my relatives in Okinawa, they had this marvelous koi pond in the middle of their house. Well, it wasn’t literally in the middle of their house, but the house wrapped around it.”