Summer of the Big Bachi (17 page)

 

 

It was as if that passion were being transferred from Tug to Mas. “Youzu betta go now,” he told Riki. “I not gonna keep quiet. I warnin’ you. And I knowsu you behind my truck gettin’ stolen.”

 

 

“What? Your stinkin’ Ford? You still have that old relic? Why wouldsu anyone want that piece of trash?”

 

 

By this time, all the pai gow and blackjack tables were silent and everyone in the room seemed to focus on Mas and Riki. Even Yuki, his notebook limp in his right hand, wasn’t able to write anything down.

 

 

“I not scared of youzu.” As the words left his mouth, Mas was surprised that they were indeed true.

 

 

Riki edged closer to Mas. “But you should be, Mas. This your summer of the big
bachi
.”

 

 

“Anytin’ youzu do won’t hurt me.”

 

 

“Yah, maybe not youzu, but how about people around you?”

 

 

Before Mas could fully understand the weight of his nemesis’s threat, Riki swung his beer bottle, aiming for Tug’s white head as if it were a pińata. The glass broke, and the beer sloshed onto the green felt and then the linoleum. Tug dropped to the ground.

 

 

“You—” Mas lunged at Riki, his hands pulling at his knit shirt and then wrapping around his neck. The scar felt rubbery, the worn tread of a tire. Riki wheezed and then laughed. The whole room seemed to shake and moan. In a matter of seconds, the table was overturned, poker chips of red, blue, and yellow cascading onto the linoleum. Fists pounded faces; chairs burst against walls. Mas lost his grip on Riki and was shoved to and fro, and then, from the edge of his eye, saw a shadow descending. As he turned to face it, he saw a line of stained teeth before he was finally thrown to the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

A few seconds later, Mas was shaking himself off the floor. His whole body smarted bad, but he was able to make out a familiar voice yelling, “Police, police.” It was Haruo at his finest.

 

 

The room magically cleared. The door flung open, and men were streaming down the stairs. Mas looked across the linoleum floor, past poker chips and flattened cigarette butts, to see Tug’s sprawled body. He was out cold.

 

 

Later, in the hospital waiting room, Mas got the rest of the story from Wishbone, who seemed especially despondent. Mas didn’t know if it was because the police were now investigating the card game or because Wishbone had lost a small fortune in the scuffle. “I didn’t see much blood,” Wishbone said. “Actually, I think if it weren’t for some quick thinking from that Japanese kid, Tug would really be in trouble.”

 

 

“Japanese kid?”

 

 

“You know, that reporter. Right after Tug went down, the kid dumped the poker table on its side. Shielded Tug from those SOBs. They were drunk out of their mind, anyhows. Got tired of pounding the table.” Wishbone pulled at a whisker on his pockmarked face and then took a look at Mas’s head. “You okay?”

 

 

“Yah,” Mas lied. He didn’t mention Riki, but Wishbone must have read his mind.

 

 

“And Haneda—” Wishbone shook his head. “Well, nobody can find him. He disappeared, along with a big chunk of change. Never should have gotten involved with him. Never should have.”

 

 

 

M
as felt like he was stuck in that emergency waiting room for hours. It smelled bad and sour, like
shikko,
but something else, too. It was familiar, almost like burnt rubber. Within the next couple of hours, he pieced together that there had been a fire over in a factory near the garment district. A bunch of women had been rolled in on stretchers from a string of ambulances. As they were wheeled through the emergency room, Mas could see only their dark hair matted together like scouring pads Chizuko used on dirty dishes.

 

 

Tug was still behind the metal doors, and so was Haruo. Wishbone told Mas that he should get checked out, too, but what for? Getting pushed around was no big deal for a gardener like Mas. One time, when he was trimming an overgrown oak tree, he accidentally disturbed a wasp nest. He was off of that ladder in five seconds flat, traveling headfirst. Chizuko said that it was good that he was
ganko,
that his head was as hard as a bowling ball.

 

 

This time Mas felt a little woozy, he had to admit. The various languages spoken around him seemed to merge into one endless prattle. He sank deeper into the black padded chair. He ached for a cigarette but remembered that he had left his last carton of Marlboros in the truck, now gone.

 

 

What was taking so long? Haruo had a simple cut on the cheek that could be remedied with a couple of Band-Aids. But Tug. That beer bottle had hit him hard. Mas should have known better and kept him safe at home with Lil and his red tool kit.

 

 

“Can’t stand dis no more.” Mas finally got up, leaving the melted ice bag on the chair. He couldn’t wait for Wishbone, who had gone to ask the nurse for an update. Mas needed to find out for himself what was going on.

 

 

Mas went through the double doors, which swished open when he stepped onto the rubber mat. There were cloth curtains dividing the wide room like horse stalls. Nurses and doctors in green, white, and pink gowns walked back and forth with IV bottles and charts. On one side, two police officers in black passed by, their leather holsters and belts squeaking with each step.

 

 

The smell coated the entire room. Mas felt sick to his stomach, but continued to look through the curtains for either Tug or Haruo. He tried to breathe out of his mouth, but the stink was still there, soaking into his pores.

 

 

Then there were the moans. They were at first soft, like dry whispers, and then began to grow louder and deeper. They were coming from a curtain on the left side. Mas tried to look away, but wasn’t fast enough. The woman was one of the factory fire victims. Her whole body was raw and blistered like boiled shrimp, while her eyes were sucked into her swollen face.

 

 

Mas took a few steps back, banging into a metal tray of syringes and bandages. The policemen with the squeaky holsters turned around and stared.

 

 

“Mas.” It was a familiar voice. Haruo was sitting on one of the beds, a piece of blue string hanging from his cheek. Stand-ing next to him was the boy, the red badger.

 

 

“Mas,” Haruo repeated. “You
orai
?”

 

 

Mas tried to say something, but his mouth was raw.

 

 

“Crazy, huh, Mas? I’m glad you
orai
. Tug’s still gettin’ checked out. Dis young guy saved his life.”

 

 

Mas grunted. Against the white curtain, Yuki seemed taller and thinner than at the poker game. He was in his black T-shirt, with only a white swatch, a hospital guest sticker, over his heart.

 

 

 

Leaving Haruo in the emergency room, Mas and Yuki went outside for a smoke. In the hospital, Mas had lost track of time. It was four in the morning, and a reassuring hush lay over the small bungalows and palm trees in the distance. Yuki took a package of cigarettes from his backpack and offered one to Mas.

 

 

Mas was ready to refuse, especially anything coming from a package named Mild Seven. But a Japanese cigarette was still a cigarette. “You turn up everywhere,” Mas said, accepting the offer.

 

 

Yuki lit his cigarette with a silver lighter, while Mas had his Bic.

 

 

“You follow me,” Mas stated more than asked.

 

 

“Actually, it was luck,” Yuki said after inhaling.

 

 

“Whatsu that?”

 

 

“Luck,” Yuki repeated. “I did follow you and Yamada-
san,
but I had already heard about the card game from people at the Empress Hotel.”

 

 

“Empress?” It was a fleabag hotel on the second floor of the chop suey house that had since closed down. “Whatchu doin’ at Empress?”

 

 

“Stayin’ there.”

 

 

Mas was surprised. “I thought you Japanese guys stay in fancy places.”

 

 

“Maybe I’m not just an average Japanese guy.”

 

 

Mas had to agree with that. They smoked silently for a few minutes, until Yuki finally spoke up. “I lied to you.”

 

 

Yes, that much was for sure, Mas thought to himself.

 

 

“Back at the exams. I said I was looking for Riki Kimura.”

 

 

Mas stood still, listening to some sparrows chirp in a nearby bush.

 

 

“It’s not him. Not really. I’m actually investigating someone else. Joji Haneda.”

 

 

Mas blew out a stream of smoke.

 

 

“What’s your connection?” Yuki asked. “Why is he so mad at you?”

 

 

“What’s yours?” Mas replied. He wasn’t going to offer anything, at least not without getting more. An alley cat poked its nose into the bush, sending the sparrows away to rest on some telephone lines.

 

 

“It’s related to a piece of land,” Yuki explained, “where my grandmother lives.”

 

 

So, thought Mas, this all has to do with land, which meant money.

 

 

“It’s not my property but my grandmother’s,” Yuki clarified. “It’s where her family house is— just on the outskirts of town. My grandmother inherited it because her older brother, Joji, was dead. Or at least we all thought that he had died. It’s not a big piece of land or anything, but it’s the location. There’s a new set of mansions they’re developing. Sort of retirement mansions.”

 

 

Mas hadn’t been back to Japan in forty years, but he had watched enough Japanese soap operas to know their version of mansions was like those two-bedroom condominiums sprouting all around Pasadena.