Blood Hina (9 page)

“Well, then who did? No locks were broken. Somebody most likely got in with a key. Haruo has one.”

And you do too
, Mas thought, staring into the Buckwheat Beauty’s eyes. They were bloodshot and even tinged with yellow. These were a sick woman’s eyes, an addict’s eyes.

Before they could continue their verbal sparring, a
woman wheeling pots of hydrangea required them to move, effectively breaking up Mas and Dee like a referee in a boxing match. Dee went into her corner and made her getaway with her carts of pompons.
Good riddance
, he thought.
Run away, run away, Buckwheat Beauty
.

Mas searched for Haruo, but Taxie was the only one manning Freeway Flowers. He was talking to a man in a button-down shirt and slacks. A leather case for his cell phone hung from his belt like a holster.

“Where’s Haruo?”

“Went to get some coffee. Hey, Mas, I want to introduce you to somebody. Felipe Rodriguez, he owns the Rose Emporium down there. This is Mas Arai, you know, the one that Haruo always talks about.”

“So you are that Mas?” Felipe’s eyes grew big. His voice sounded heavy, and Mas could tell his native country was somewhere south of California. “Mas, Mas, Mas. More, more, more, yes, in my language?” He laughed, but Mas didn’t understand what the man found funny.

“You have some time? Come, come see my flowers.”

Mas had seen a lifetime’s worth of flowers and had no desire to see more. But this Felipe was hard to refuse, so he agreed to stop by the Rose Emporium after he had a private word with Taxie.

“Police gonna call you to talk to Haruo,” Mas whispered in his ear.

Taxie’s mouth fell open. “Didn’t know it was so serious. Weren’t they only dolls that were taken?”

Mas nodded. “But these no regula dollsu. Worth three thousand dolla.”

Taxie looked as shocked as Mas. “And they suspect Haruo?”

“Thanks to Dee Hayakawa. She tellsu police to watch out for him.”

Taxie wrapped some gerber daisies in newspaper. “I don’t know why she’s been against Haruo ever since she came back to work here. Seems like she’s jealous of him, like he was taking her mother away from her.”

“Anyway, Haruo scared to talk to them right now. Cantcha send him down somewhere to clean out storage or sumptin? At least until everytin’ calm?”

Taxie looked conflicted. “Easter’s coming up pretty soon, so I’ll need him on the floor. But I’ll see what I can do.”

Two middle-aged women in T-shirts stood in front of Freeway Flowers carrying five bunches of dripping bouquets. Mas knew this was his signal to leave and excused himself to take a tour of Rose Emporium.

Felipe Rodriguez’s space was the size of three stalls. If the man’s worth was based on the sheer number of his flowers, his bank account must be bursting at the seams.

“I opened up my business here in the eighties,” Felipe explained. “Importing from Latin America. Colombia. It was when the United States gave Colombia money to grow flowers instead of drugs. One old-timer—I think he had spent some time in Japan—he called it.…” Felipe rested his hand on his belt. “What’s the Japanese word for flowers, again?”

“Hana.”

“Yes, he called it the Hana War. That the American flower growers were being attacked by Latin America. And then Southeast Asia. Imports were taking over. People here
didn’t want to let me into the flower market. Some folks like Taxie and others welcomed me. They knew Latin America was the future. In my country, flowers grow like weeds. You don’t need fancy lighting equipment or expensive greenhouses. The climate is perfect. The flowers just grow under the sun. Beautiful.”

Mas toured the flowers with his eyes. The stems were long and upright, the flower petals tight and unblemished. They were indeed impressive. Except for one thing—they didn’t smell, perhaps due to strong chemicals used overseas. Mas preferred the gangly, insect-bitten roses, full of thorns, that weighed heavy on bushes in his customers’ yards. In spite of their visual imperfection, they were full with scent.

“I’ve gotten used to Japanese Americans. One thing I know at least from the guys here is they don’t B.S. They don’t like me, they don’t deal with me. They like me, they give me free food.”

Haruo poked his head in the stall. “Been lookin’ for me?”

“Haruo, I’ve been talking to your friend,” Felipe said.

Haruo smiled. “Hallo, Felipe,” he said, then turning his attention back to Mas.
“So-ka
, forgot to tellsu you, but G.I. and Juanita want to eat dinner early wiz us ova at Juanita’s place. Taxie gonna drop me off. You can come,
desho?

Before Mas could answer, someone else called out his name.

“Hey, Mas, whatchu doing here?” Casey Nakayama was originally from Hawaii, and one side of his lip was always swollen and limp as if a dentist had shot it up with too much novocaine. He was tall and shuffled when he walked. He had been working for a flower grower for over forty years,
and even though he was semi-retired, he kept coming to the market. Subterranean life suited him, Mas guessed.

“Had to drive Haruo ova. Heezu livin’ wiz me.” Mas turned to where Haruo was standing, but he had mysteriously disappeared.

“What about a round of liar’s poker? A bunch of us play on our break at ten in the supply department.”

Liar’s poker wasn’t played with cards but with the serial numbers on dollar bills. It was kid’s stuff, but it was an opportunity to dig out what was really going on behind the scenes. Gambling, even liar’s poker, often brought out the truth in Mas’s circles. So he agreed.

Promptly at ten, Mas went into a separate room called the supply department. Up front was a display of florists’ tape, Styrofoam cylinders and cones of different sizes, plastic and glass vases, metal wire, and baskets.

“Glad you were able to make it,” Casey said, his fingers wrapped around an unlit cigarette. There was no smoking in the flower market, but having tobacco close by comforted any addict. Mas followed Casey past the cabinets to a storage area filled with giant boxes that could easily hold a body of a man Mas’s size. Casey gestured toward a folding table and chairs next to the door. Mas sat down.

“Neva knew about this place back here,” Mas said.

“Well, it’s either here or the dungeon.”

Mas scrunched up his nose.

“The dungeon’s over by the coffeehouse. Secret little room where the rats live. We chose here instead.” He explained that the police had been making their rounds in the market, so there was reason to be careful. He eased
himself into a seat across from Mas. “Noticed you were talkin’ to the Hayakawa girl.”

Mas nodded.

“She’s trouble. Always has been. Spoon’s been crying her eyes out over that one.”

At that point, two men appeared from behind some boxes. Casey made the introductions: the short man from El Salvador was named Roberto, and he’d just started working there, and the
hakujin
man, Pete, was a veteran. “We call him Pico,” explained Casey. “And Roberto doesn’t speak much English.”

Mas hated silly nicknames, especially those that made no sense. A white man named Pico? Okay, he’d go along, because he didn’t have much of a choice. Roberto and Pico claimed the two other seats.

“Haruo want in?” Pico asked. Even though the hair on his head was graying, his five o’clock shadow was the color of old pennies.

“He quit gambling, remember?” Casey said.

“Oh, yeah, I re-mem-ber.” Pico drew out his syllables like stretching taffy, and Mas grew suspicious. What did Pico know? Was that behind Haruo’s sudden disappearing act—that he feared his dubious gambling associations may be revealed by Casey?

“Everyone ready?” Casey asked. They nodded simultaneously and pulled out dollar bills from their wallets. Mas had to pull out his glasses to read the number on his bill. It was in green ink on the side of George Washington’s face: 65994144. A pair of nines and three fours. In front of his number was the letter L.

Roberto had the lowest letter, G, so he started things off. After reminding everyone that 1 was an ace and 0 was a 10, he said,
“Tres
sixes.”

“Three eights,” said Casey.

“Four twos,” said Pico.

Whatthehell, Mas thought. Liar’s poker was all about lying. “Four threes.”

Roberto paused for a second, a second too long from Mas’s taste.
“Cuatro cuatros.”

Casey had picked up on Roberto’s hesitation. “Challenge,” he said.

“Challenge,” said Pico.

“Challenge,” Mas echoed.

Roberto cursed in Spanish and showed his bill. Only one four.

They found another bill in their wallets and started the betting all over again.

“That’s too bad about Haruo and Spoon, huh?” said Casey.

“What do you mean?” Pico seemed curious.

“They split up.”

“No kiddin’.”

“Yah, Mas will tell you all about it. You were supposed to be the best man, right?”

Mas shrugged his shoulders. “Yah, suppose to be. But some trouble.” The minute Mas mentioned “trouble,” he regretted it. In a pool of sharks, “trouble” was fresh blood.

“What kind of trouble, anyhow?” asked Pico. “Heard that Haruo stole something of Spoon’s to feed his gambling addiction.”

“Haruo didn’t steal nuttin’. Just some dolls gone missin’.”

“Dolls?” Pico asked.

“Doesn’t seem worth calling off a wedding for dolls.”

“Those special Japanese dollsu. Hina dollsu.”

“Sounds like collector’s items,” said Casey.

“Yah, police may be comin’ by. If you see them, let Taxie know,
orai?”

“Police,” Casey murmured. He was clutching his dollar bill so hard that it was starting to crinkle on one side.

“Those dollsu belong to Spoon’s husband. The first one, I meansu.”

The storage room grew quiet, and Mas felt the oppressiveness of the stacks of boxes surrounding them.

“Casey doesn’t like talking about Ike Hayakawa and especially the de Groots.”

Mas lowered his dollar bill. What was Pico saying?

“Shaddap, Pico.” Casey’s lisp seemed to become more evident under stress.

“Well, ever since Geoff de Groot tossed you out of his father’s funeral.”

“Shaddap, Pico!”

Pico seemed wounded by Casey’s sharp tongue and pulled his dollar bills from the table. “Gotta go back to work,” he announced and left the supply department. Roberto followed a few moments later.

Casey, however, stayed behind. Kicking the concrete floor with his size-ten feet, he cursed. “That damn Pico. Always flapping his trap.”

Mas remained seated, tracing a torn section of the card table’s vinyl top with a dirty fingernail.

“I wasn’t the one who did anything wrong. It was Jorg and Ike.”

Mas leaned back in his chair until he felt the edge of a box press against his head.

“Cocaine,” whispered Casey. “That’s why Jorg and Ike got killed. It was a Mexican mob hit. Jorg was running around with a lot of money. Stone-cold cash. I saw it with my own eyes. I was helping Jorg and his son Geoff unload his truck of some birds-of-paradise and a bag fell out onto the floor. Stacks of new twenties. Jorg made some excuse, that he hadn’t been able to make a run to the bank, but I didn’t believe him. When those two got killed in Hanley, I knew the truth. It was no accident.”

Mas slowly blew out some air from his cheeks.

“I didn’t tell the police. I didn’t tell the insurance companies. I kept my mouth shut. But because Geoff knows that I know, he’s punished me all these years.”

“Insurance?”

“You didn’t hear? Those guys each bought one-million-dollar life insurance policies on themselves. What flower grower’s going to do that? Spoon breaking off the engagement with Haruo is the best thing to happen to him, believe me. The Hayakawas and de Groots are bad news, I’m telling you. I know Haruo is your friend, so you should tell him to thank his lucky stars that the wedding got called off.” With that, Casey stomped out of the storage room with his meager winnings.

Mas also claimed his dollar bills on the table. If Casey’s intent was to scare Mas, he’d succeeded. Television shows and movies domesticated the Italian mob and even Japanese
gangsters, but Mas knew the reality was very different.

He did not have straight-out dealings with the
yakuza
in Japan, but he had plenty of contact with the
chinpira
, lowlife gangsters who multiplied like mold after World War Two. They were the masters of the black market, two-bit gambling,
hiropon
, and alcohol made from weak gasoline.

These
chinpira
had entrapped a young girl Mas had met after the war, an orphan who had lost her parents in the bombing, sending her into a life of prostitution. These gangsters weren’t that scary, but they were fierce enough to send not a few innocents down a path of destruction.

The problem with gangsters was that they were close to impossible to exterminate. You tried to crush one, and four emerged in his place. If Ike and Jorg were playing around with the Mexican Mafia, it was no surprise that they got burned and burned for good. Mas would have to watch himself or else his own fingers would get singed.