Gasa-Gasa Girl (26 page)

Tug then turned the corner, a cotton ball taped to the inside of his forearm.

“Uncle Tug, were you with Takeo?” asked Mari.

“Looking good. That’s what I told the doctor.”

“Yeah, Dr. Bhalla has been a godsend. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Bhalla? No, this was a big, tall man. Couldn’t really see his face, covered up with a mask. He had a scar on his forehead.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he was with Takeo when I walked in.”

“Lloyd?”

“No, no sign of Lloyd,” said Tug. “Come to think of it, that struck me as kind of strange.”

B
ig and tall, with a scar on his forehead. Could only be one man. Larry Pauley.

Mari took off first, splashing her coffee onto the floor and wall. Her thin legs churned forward, her feet working so fast that her tennis shoes hardly touched the squares of linoleum floor. Mas followed through the maze of hallways and heavy unlocked doors. Women and men in pastel gowns holding clipboards watched them go—most likely not knowing if they should help or stop them.

They stormed through a wing of small rooms with large windows. Even though the door was closed, Mas could hear Takeo bawling. What did they say about parents and grandparents: that your ears became so in tune with your baby’s cry that you could hear it when others couldn’t. Takeo was lying on a high bed with metal sides, his face scrunched up and puckered like a pickled plum. Tubes were hanging loose, and the blood from the bag was dripping onto the floor. Multiple alarms sounded off in the room—some as soft as the beeping from a microwave, others as loud as the warning noise from a work vehicle backing up. Nurses and doctors crashed in, surrounding Takeo and eventually pushing Mari out of the way.

No sign of the giant gardener. Mas then spotted that the door of the bathroom was cracked open, not by a doorstop but by a size-eleven shoe, toe up. Sure enough, it was Lloyd—still breathing, but out cold on the tile floor.

W
ith Mari and the team of doctors aiding Takeo and Lloyd, Mas ran out into the hallway of the neonatal ward. An old man, perhaps another grandfather of a broken child, was looking down the hall toward a stairway door that was swinging shut. Mas caught the door and entered the stripped-down stairway. He heard the echo of footsteps banging against metal stairs. Down, down. Mas followed the echo, his knees aching, his heels smarting, lungs low on air, until he landed up in the fancy, hotel-like lobby. Was it the tail of a white lab coat disappearing out the automatic doors?

Mas ran outside and then across the street. He wasn’t quite sure if he was heading in the right direction. But then there was the white medical jacket, crumpled on the sidewalk next to the entrance of a Chinese restaurant. Mas knew enough not to touch the jacket. He went through the restaurant, a fancy kind with tablecloths and cloth napkins. As he stared into the faces of the diners, their backs stiffened. They probably thought that he was an aging busboy reporting for the swing swift or perhaps a senile old man who had lost his way.

M
as returned to Takeo’s room, only to see his grandson cast on open seas, surrounded by doctors and nurses, their gowns the color of green toothpaste and after-dinner mints. “
Gambare, gambare,
” Mas murmured. Don’t give up. Don’t sink. Mari was constantly trying to swim toward Takeo, but the waves prevented her from moving forward. Lloyd, unconscious, was taken away on a gurney. And again, Mari was too far, her loved one unreachable. She looked as though she were underwater, and even to Mas, sounds were distorted, movements in slow motion. Before she collapsed, Tug, the tall angel, grabbed her arm, while Mas, the father, grabbed the other.

M
ari rested on a couch in the waiting room, a cold pack on her forehead, while Mas and Tug spoke in the hallway.

“Couldn’t catch him. No good knees anymore,” said Mas, dejected.

Tug handed him a paper cup filled with water. “Drink this, and take a few deep breaths.”

Mas kept on wheezing, and Tug theorized that perhaps decades of smoking were finally taking their toll on his health. If Mas weren’t so worn-out, he would have snapped at his friend. He didn’t need useless health advice when his daughter had almost passed out, his grandson and son-in-law attacked. Lloyd was now conscious but being X-rayed to make sure that his brains weren’t scrambled from the blow to his head.

Both Detective Ghigo and Jeannie Yee were now on the scene. Ghigo said that they had an APB out for a dark-haired man named Larry Pauley. But hair could be colored and IDs falsified; Mas knew that much. And besides, had Larry been behind the shooting of Kazzy Ouchi? His style seemed more rough-and-tumble, while Kazzy’s murder had been more calculated, with an attention to details.

Mas and Tug made their way to the waiting area. Jeannie paced the linoleum floor, her heels clicking,
kachi-kachi
, like the red and blue castanets that children pressed together while dancing in circles at the summer Obon festival at the Pasadena Buddhist Church. Instead of a shimmering waterfall, Jeannie’s hair was uncharacteristically mussed up, a blue jay’s nest. Funny that both she and Ghigo would show up at the hospital together, thought Mas.

“We’ll pick him up,” said Ghigo. “He had a large amount of money recently transferred to his personal account. He and Penn Anderson were using the Ouchi Foundation to embezzle money from Waxley Enterprises. Using their own business contacts as vendors, overpaying them, and pocketing the extra.”

“The police traced the anonymous calls back to Penn,” explained Jeannie. “He had a voice-altering device. He’s been feeding all this information about Mari and Lloyd to divert attention from the missing money. He made such a production of hiding his identity that it seemed obvious that he was hiding something. I guess that it didn’t hurt that he had been double-crossed by Larry. He’s admitted the embezzling, and is willing to testify against Larry. He just doesn’t want to be associated with any murders or attempted murders; he’s said that’s all Larry’s doing.”

“I need to see my son.” Mari removed the ice pack from her head and tried to lift herself up from the couch.

“You hear docta; Takeo
orai
,” Mas said. “Sleepin’ now. Needsu his sleep.” Ghigo had ordered two police officers to keep watch in front of Takeo’s room.

“Yes, Mari. You need to rest a little. They could get you a hospital bed.” Tug placed his huge hands on the top of the couch.

Mari shook her head. “I can go over to Lloyd’s room and keep him company.” Lloyd had a mild concussion. He’d been knocked out by a fire extinguisher. He hadn’t seen his assailant, unfortunately, but several security cameras got pictures of Larry—his mouth covered with a mask, but that medical jacket, soaked in the scent of a designer cologne, had plenty of dark hairs. Good thing that Mas had pointed it out to the police.

“Maybe, Dad, you can get a few things for me from home?”

Mas nodded.

As Ghigo and Jeannie moved over to have a private discussion by a magazine rack, Tug clapped his hands together. “Well, good thing, Mas, the mystery’s solved. It looks like that Larry Pauley killed Mr. Ouchi.”

But Mas wasn’t in a celebratory mood. He was far away, looking beyond Tug, toward the darkness of the street through the hospital windows.

I
t was past midnight before Mas reached the underground apartment, but people—some alone with their heads down, others in pairs making loud noises—were still walking the streets. You could never feel lonely in New York City, thought Mas, wondering if that was one of its main charms.

After he entered the apartment, he turned on the lamp. White papers littered the front of the fireplace.
Dorobo
, thief, thought Mas. He slowly retrieved them, realizing as he did that they were actually a product of the fax machine. With the help of his reading glasses, Mas arranged them in order. The first page stated, FAX COVER SHEET/Kinko’s. Kinko? Sounded like a strange Japanese name. But then Mas remembered that name on storefronts all throughout Los Angeles. A chain of photocopy services.

Underneath Kinko’s was another name: Haruo Mukai. So Haruo had come through again.

There were three additional pages. All were from Asa Sumi’s journal, although the script looked a little different. Instead of the neat hatch marks that could have been made by the end of a sharp knife, the handwriting was rushed, fluid like running water. The entry was dated February 20, 1931.
Yesterday was my last day at the Waxley House,
it began.
Even to think of it now, tears are running down my face. The morning began as usual, preparing fresh bread, jam, and fruit for breakfast. But no one came down. I wondered what was wrong, and then I heard Ouchi-san call my name.
Mas kept reading, sometimes unable to make out certain words, but continuing, knowing that something important was contained in there. He read the entry five or six times to let its weight settle in his gut.

Kazzy hadn’t been killed to cover a man’s greed, but a daughter’s scorn.

chapter thirteen

Mas didn’t sleep at all that night. He was a walking mummy, stumbling on the sidewalks of Park Slope, leaning against trees, watching a man wash his Pontiac at three o’clock in the morning. Everyone here was alive, completely engaged with what they were doing, whether it be corner-store workers setting out the new newspapers for the day, or people drinking coffee and long Mexican sugared donuts. He figured that the energy of the streets could help him think. To take pieces of paper, casual conversations, and chases—both physical and mental—and somehow pull them together into something that made sense.

Mas then knew that he needed to see the pond again. He walked more purposefully, ignoring the weight and weaknesses of his legs. A gray fog covered the top of the Waxley House, erasing the existence of the watchful rooftop dragons. He figured that the house would be empty. He entered the back through the side gate, hearing the woeful barking of a dog a few houses east.

The past few days of both sun and coolness had done wonders for the garden. The cherry blossoms were ready to pop open, and the long, skinny blades of the silver grass was fluffed out like a bouffant hairstyle. Mas greeted all the plants silently in his mind. You needed to talk to plants, but you didn’t have to do it out loud like Becca.

Mas finally scooted down into the belly of the pond on his
oshiri
. The concrete was cold and wet from the morning dew, and Mas knew that it would take some time before his jeans dried completely. Mas crawled on his hands and knees to the spot. The carved message, left for who? Kazzy, the son? Or perhaps someone like Mas, a fellow gardener whose gaze stayed on small things, perhaps because that was all he was allowed to see. What had Kazzy’s father used? The end of a stick? The end of a rake? Either way, the strokes were sure and strong.
. Child. And
. To live. CHILD LIVES. CHILD LIVES. Jinx Watanabe said that Kazzy’s sibling had died in birth with his mother. But Kazzy’s father knew different. So did the housekeeper, Asa Sumi. A baby had been born. A baby with pale skin. A baby girl, according to Asa’s diary.

Mas didn’t know if it was the result of a love affair, but he doubted it.

“Fixing something?” Mas knew who it was even before he looked up to see the varicose-veined legs of Miss Waxley. She was holding a small gun; how did a genteel woman like Miss Waxley know how to shoot? wondered Mas.

Mas raised his arms, like he had seen done in so many cowboy and detective movies. It was such a natural response.
I surrender. I give up.
But Mas knew that Miss Waxley would not honor his defeat without payment. The shot, he imagined, might go through his heart, or perhaps his head, like Kazzy.

They both knew the truth, so there was no use in Mas saying it out loud. But Mas did have one question. “Youzu old like me. Whatsu the use? You gotsu no kids.”

“How can you say that? This is my life. The only life that I’ve ever known. All these years, I’ve wondered why my mother didn’t show more love to me. I had always blamed it on her sickness, but then Kazzy comes to me, saying that he has proof that we are half brother and sister. The same mother. The Irish maid.

“I told him that he was wrong. What’s this proof he has? And then he gives me a translation of the journal. That the Japanese housekeeper assisted in my birth. That she thought it unusual that the baby looked so white, with golden wisps of hair.”

Kazzy must have sensed that there had been something mysterious about his father’s death. They would probably never know what really happened. Mas suspected that Henry Waxley had played some sort of role in Hirokazu Ouchi’s early demise, just as Elk Mamiya had hypothesized.

“I couldn’t let him tarnish my father’s reputation,” Miss Waxley continued. “My family’s reputation. He told me that he needed to tell his children, his grandchildren. That his own father had left this message, and to honor his father, he needed to let everyone know the truth.”

“Whatchu father did can’t hurt you, Miss Waxley. Thatsu his business, not yours.”

“You should have left it alone, Mr. Arai. Just let it stay buried. But I saw you that day at the garden, looking at the writing in the pond. You were slowly putting two and two together.”

The gun in Miss Waxley’s hand shook—from either nerves or the old lady’s weak muscles. “But the journal’s gone, you see. Destroyed. Burnt to a crisp.”

What about the copies? Mas thought. Then he realized that Miss Waxley wasn’t operating out of logic, but of desperation. “Youzu wrote those notes. To Becca and Phillip. And Anna Grady. From K-
san
.” It was so clear to Mas.

Miss Waxley nodded. “I was in the house when that gardenia was delivered. I saw it as my chance, my chance to get Kazzy alone. To stage his suicide. So easy. But then you came along, ruining my plans.

“I knew that it was a matter of time before you came here again. You couldn’t let the poor plants alone, could you?” Her eyes shifted to the message on the concrete floor of the pond. “I hate this garden. What’s written there, for everyone to see. My father’s company has poured money into restoring this place. But Kazzy didn’t care. He was going to keep going, whether I liked it or not. My life is mine; it’s not for public display.”

Mas didn’t doubt that Miss Waxley was prepared to kill him. She hadn’t just killed Kazzy, but must have also ordered poor Seiko’s death in Fort Lee. And Mas was next on the list. He wished that he had hung on to Mari back in the hospital, like her ragamuffin friends. But she knew that Mas cared, didn’t she? Flew all the way to New York? Gave blood for the grandson? Mas kept his arms outstretched like the man on the cross. His fingers trembled, and he didn’t know if it was from holding his arms up so long or straight-out fear. He knew that he should keep his eyes wide open, remembering his last moments clearly, the still cherry blossom branches, the clumps of silver grass, the grayness covering the sky like a blanket. But he closed his eyes, picturing his daughter holding his grandson.

A pop burned in Mas’s ear, and then a smell ten times stronger than burning incense. Mas opened his eyes and Miss Waxley was screaming, tumbling toward him like a crazy bird trying to land. Mas rolled to his left, and Miss Waxley fell headlong on the concrete bottom, the gun clattering nearby. Mas looked up and saw the outline of his daughter standing at the rim of the pond. “You okay, Dad?” she asked.

Mas felt his chest, his shoulders, even his head. There was no blood, no holes, no missing parts. He was completely intact, whole.