The miso ramen, looking as limp as the sweaty chef, was surprisingly tasty. It certainly beat those instant ones that Haruo insisted on buying at his local grocery store.
As soon as he slurped up the last bit of soup, he smelled something sweet behind him. It was Keiko, the Ramen Lady on the television commercial. The points on her spiked hair glowed bright yellow.
How was it? she asked. Her voice was low and husky like a middle-aged barmaid. It didnt match the high-pitched one on the television commercial, and for a moment Mas was too stunned to know what to say.
Keiko then switched over to Japanese. How did you find it? she repeated.
Oishii.
Very good, Mas answered.
First time?
Mas nodded.
How did you hear about us?
Terebi?
Mas nodded again. Saw your commercial.
Keiko smiled, obviously pleased with her public presence. My voice too low, too sexy, they told me. Used a twenty-year-old who was working at the station on her summer break. Nice to be young,
ne
.
Mas didnt dare to say anything more. He wasnt used to snooping around, especially out here in the San Fernando Valley. This wasnt his part of town, and it knew it. Mas was waiting to be tossed out, rejected like those broken branches he tended at one of his longtime customers. They called it grafting, an attempt to attach something strange and new to an established tree. It usually didnt work, either with plants or with people.
You dont live around here, Keiko said before Mas could get away.
Mas shook his head and took out his wallet.
What, you have some friends out here?
Mas was thankful that his face was already sweaty and red from the hot noodles. She wasnt going to give up, so Mas gave her what she wanted. Yah, friend.
Oh, really? Well, tell him to come try.
Mas grunted.
Maybe I know him. Whats his name?
Mas stared into Keikos eyes. What the heck? he thought. What did he have to lose? Haneda, he said finally. Joji Haneda.
Haneda-
san
? Junko-
san
s friend? They were coming here almost every day last week. Told Junko she should try cooking herself once in a while.
Mass chest lurched. So it was fate after all that he was in this sweaty ramen house in the middle of North Hollywood. He had come this far. No sense in backing off. Yah, Junko, he said. You dont know where she lives, do you?
Keikos eyes flashed for one second. Just a minute, she said, disappearing into the back kitchen.
Now Ive done it, thought Mas. Im not cut out to do this kind of sneaking around. He picked up the check and placed a crumpled five-dollar bill and a couple of ones on the plastic plate. Shes probably on the phone now, warning this Junko about a dirty old
ojiichan
at the ramen house.
He pulled open the door, and almost walked smack into another Japanese woman, who was maybe around Maris age. Her eyes sloped downward like two tadpoles; her left one curved more than the right. At the bottom of the left one was a black birthmark, looking like one of those tattooed teardrops on some of the boys Mas picked up as day laborers. Only this mark was natural, not branded.
Excuse, mumbled Mas.
The woman flared her nostrils in irritation. She was one of those who hated old men, Mas figured.
Wait, Keiko called out. She let me borrow this. Her address is here. She waved a shiny magazine titled
Cosmopolitan
and pointed to a mailing label. Mas walked over, and sure enough it had a name, Junko Kakita, and a North Hollywood address.
Mas tried to make out the numbers and letters without his drugstore reading glasses, which hed left in the truck. Sank you,
ne,
he said, reciting the address in his head.
The tadpole-eyed woman stood close behind them. Oh, Rumi-
chan
. Keiko finally became aware of the womans presence. This man is looking for Joji-
san,
Junkos friend.
The young woman froze, aside from her left eye, which began to twitch. Mas was close enough to also see that her hands were trembling.
Keiko didnt seem to notice. Tell Haneda-
san
that I hope hes feeling better, she said to Mas. And come again.
Mas went back to the truck and pulled out his Thomas guide, which was under some rope behind the seat. It was 1987, published before the Century Freeway, but good enough for North Hollywood. He pulled his glasses out of the glove compartment, flipped through the pages, and found the street. It was a small one, and dead-ended before it could get anywhere.
Driving over to Junko Kakitas, he saw more of the same, plain apartments that looked like mini-motels. He finally spotted the address, a two-story unit with a line of doors and windows. Must be a Japanese owner, thought Mas, looking at the shaped juniper trees, or at least a Japanese gardener.
Numba D, Mas muttered to himself. He looked at the line of metal mailboxes. There were only eight; the fourth one over bore the name KAKITA.
It was on the second floor. A couple of rolled-up advertisements were hanging from the screen door. Heavy curtains were drawn. Mas tried to peek through the window but heard a male voice behind him. Shes not there.
A Latino man in his fifties and about Mass height stood against the second-floor railing. She left a couple of days ago.
Again, Mas didnt know what to say. The whole thing looked suspicious, he was the first to admit. If he had caught a dried-up old Japanese man looking through his customers windows, he would have kicked him out, right on the spot.
You the one who going to take care of her plants, right? the man, probably the manager, said.
Before Mas could respond, the manager was opening the door and leading him inside. The living room was dark, aside from light coming through the open door and the edge of the drapes.
The manager walked over to rows of at least twelve bonsai plants arranged on wooden planks over cinder blocks by the window. Why she make such a fuss over those little plants? he said. Last time she accuse me of killing two of them. Said she was going to take fifty dollars out of her rent. I told her, Next time, find someone else.
Mas stuck his finger into the soil of one of the planters. Pretty dry. As he walked over the kitchen, he made a mental note of everything on the counter, table, and floor. Roll of aluminum foil, rice cooker pot soaking in the sink, stack of newspapers in the corner, with, yes, crib notes from Hollywood Park racetrack on the top. He filled an empty water jug with lukewarm water and proceeded to water the plants. There were juniper, pine, even a miniature maple. To look further authentic, Mas got out his pruner, which was dangling from his belt, and clipped some wayward leaves.
The manager soon got bored waiting for Mas and went outside for maybe a smoke or who knows what. This was Mass only chance. He quietly crept down the hall. As he passed by the yellow tile bathroom, a smell hit his nostrils. Menthol, strong enough to burn the insides of your lungs. Mas knew that smell well. Salon Pas thin pads that old gardeners like him stuck to sore backs and battered knees. Would a woman named Junko use those for her achy joints?
Her bedroom was a typical womans, with a pink bedspread, even stuffed animals tucked in by the pillows. Simple dresser with a jewelry box, heart-shaped. But next to the box was a black plastic Casio watch. Strange, thought Mas. This woman, judging from her taste in furnishings and miniature plants, wasnt the type to wear a cheap mans watch that you could buy at the local drugstore for $9.99.
He returned to the hallway, where a series of photos were displayed on the wall. Many were of a middle-aged woman with long hair and a rubbery face with too much makeup. In most of them, she was posed with other women Mas recognized one of them as the tadpole-eyed girl he had run into at the ramen shop today. Another photo had a lot of girls and men in suits, holding beers and smiling like at a New Years party.
The last one on the end was different. It wasnt in a frame, just taped onto the wall. The woman was wearing a visor, sitting in front of a slot machine, with an old man. Mas tried to make out the mans face. Japanese, with age spots. Hooked nose. Damn, there was no mistake. The resurrected Joji Haneda.
The blood seemed to drain out of Mass fingertips, and his hands felt cold and clammy. Before Mas could figure out his next step, the screen door banged open and shut.
Mas adjusted his eyes to the brightness emanating from the doorway. It was a woman dressed in all black, with a pair of huge sunglasses crowding her round face. She dropped her black duffel bag onto the floor. Youre Jojis friend,
desho,
she stated more than asked. I had heard that youd be coming.
CHAPTER THREE
Mas thought that the ramen lady had talked, but he soon figured out that something else was going on.
The mistress went into her bedroom, closed the door, and then came out with a long white envelope. She plopped it down on the kitchen table and perched her sunglasses on top of her head.
She was not a pretty woman. Her skin was blotchy and covered with blemishes. Her large eyes her best feature were ringed with dark makeup. Her hair looked like the mane of an
obake,
a ghost in those Japanese fairy tales. She was about fifty, trying to look like twenty-five.
There, she said with a slight accent. You check it.
Mas remained silent and picked up the envelope. Sure enough, a stack of twenty-dollar bills must have been at least fifty of them. And some sort of receipt, folded in half.
You lucky to get that, she said. The bastard.
Mas pulled out the piece of paper, then pressed the envelope closed. He thought the woman was cursing him, but soon figured out she was talking about Joji Haneda.
He owe me at least that much. Probably more. She went over to her bonsai and stuck her finger in the soil as if she were measuring the temperature. Was going to take that money. But then, I dont need Jojis trouble. You know what I mean?
