Blood Hina (21 page)

“You interested in girls?” A black man who looked to be in his fifties sat on a red plastic vegetable crate at the side of the entrance. He wore a fishing cap and his hair was twisted in long dreadlocks.

Mas shook his head.

The man tilted his head back against the iron gate. “That one’s not hookin’.”

Mas frowned.

“I know her. I’ve seen her before. She’s not hookin’, I tell you.”

“You know dat man she talkin’ to?”

“What, you some kind of cop?” The man weighed what stood in front of him and then grinned. “You must be her old man.”

“They buddy-buddy?” Mas asked more emphatically.

“Hold on. Hold on.” The man narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward on his crate, almost tipping it over. “All questions will be answered with a little green.”

Mas blew his cheeks with air. Luckily he had a ten and five smashed in his pocket (no opening of his wallet in this place), which he scooped out in one handful.

The man took the money and gave him something in return—an empty dirty plastic baggie.

The man winked. “Don’t want anyone thinking I’m sellin’ information,” he whispered. His breath was harsh—not necessarily bad, but laced with the scent of something salty and oily like olives.

“Anyway, I first sees the girl about a couple of days ago. I mean around here she kind of stands out, you know what I’m sayin’. She’s no Miss America on the outside, but she can be one in here. I was thinkin’ that maybe she was new and drummin’ up some new customers, you know what I’m sayin’. But then I see who she’s after. The Prince, that’s what we’ve been calling him. Turns out he was known here about twenty years ago, made his fortune, and ran away to Las Vegas.”

The same snippets that Chuck Blanco had reported.

“He’s a poser, if you ask me. I guess his father back in
Mexico or wherever he’s from was a big deal. Prince said he had the U.S. government down on its knees. But why’s he back here now, that’s what I want to know. Seems a little soft.”

The two didn’t seem to be too cozy. Dee was in fact hugging her chest with her arms, creating a barrier from Estacio. He then grasped her hand and squeezed something into her palm. She tried to return it, but he shook his head and laughed.

A black limousine pulled up to the side of the gate and honked its horn. The extravagant ride was apparently for Estacio, because he tipped his hand toward Dee before sauntering to the car.

In the meantime, the gatekeeper had shuffled away with his red crate, and in fact, other homeless men and women had cleared away from Mas. Suddenly he was surrounded by a moat of empty space—enough to attract the Buckwheat Beauty’s attention. Her eyes, focused on Mas, grew big. He knew what she was thinking: What the hell are you doing here? She took off like a rocket, and Mas got firsthand experience of how fast that skinny body could move.

The ground near the gate was littered with syringes and flattened fast-food cups. Farther down by a wall sat a line of people who had set up temporary homes. Refrigerator boxes, grocery carts filled with tied plastic bags, patched tents, even suitcases on wheels.

On the opposite corner Mas saw Roberto again. He was talking to a gigantic black man, the same one who seemed to be mourning Casey’s demise a day after his body had been found in the alley behind the market. The man kept shaking
his enormous head back and forth. He didn’t seem angry, just annoyed.

Mas would have crossed over to confront Roberto, but that would deter him from his hunt for the Buckwheat Beauty. He jogged until he felt sharp pains in his joints. Placing his hands on his thighs, he sucked in deep breaths of polluted air. It took him a good half an hour to finally reach the second-floor flower market parking lot.

Since it was way past the market’s closing time, the lot was virtually empty aside from the Ford on one side and the Hayakawa family delivery truck on the other. He saw no human form but heard some soft meowing on the Hayakawa side. As he approached the delivery truck, the cries got louder and louder, but he still saw no sign of anything living. He finally bent down, releasing popping sounds from his knees, and looked under the truck only to spot familiar Converse high-tops.

Walking around the truck helped to solve the mystery. The two alley cats were sitting in the Buckwheat Beauty’s lap, licking tears off of her chin. Seated on the ground, she leaned against the tire well, getting the right side of her sister’s shirt soiled with grime from the street.

Mas had been all set to shout at her—
What were you doing with Estacio Pena?
—but it wasn’t the right time. Instead of speaking, he placed his hand on her head. Slowly, slowly, her chin came up, revealing swollen eyes filled with tears, the freckles even more noticeable when wet. “Poor cats,” she said. “They’re starving without Haruo.”

Her right hand was tightened into a fist, and Mas gently tugged at her fingers until she finally opened her hand. Some
white powder in the tip of a plastic bag, still secured by a twist tie.

“Cocaine,” Mas murmured, taking the bag from her palm.

“It’s not cocaine. Heroin.”

Heroin. Haruo had said that
hiropon
had been the drug of the past, but in fact, it seemed to making it way back in popularity.

Seven months of being straight, isn’t that what the girl said? At the time Mas belittled her achievements in his mind, but now, seeing what went on in the hell park, he had to admire anyone who could scratch her way out of that lifestyle.

“I was this close, Mas, this close.” Her empty palm was trembling. “But I started thinking about my dad. About how he may have died trying to protect me. I couldn’t dishonor his memory again.”

                  
Kin no byobu ni utsuruhi o

                  
Kasukani yusuru haru no kaze

                  
Sukoshi shirozake mesaretaka

                  
Akai okao no udaijin

                  
Light reflecting on the gold screen

                  
Faintly flickers from the spring breeze

                  
Did you have some rice wine?

                  
Red-faced dignitary

                  
—“Hina Matsuri Song,” third stanza

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
s Mas drove the Buckwheat Beauty to her group meeting at the rehab facility, she and the Ford took turns sighing. First was the truck at a stoplight on Wilshire near MacArthur Park—a faint squeal emanating from under the hood—and then came Dee, a deep, wheezy breath as they passed the homeless men and women seated on the edge of the urban lake.

Mas was happy that he found the girl before she had a chance to relapse, but it was obvious that her mind, if not her body, had gone underground to her drug-abusing days. “I need to be in group,” she said to Mas, and he, not even
fully understanding, agreed to drive her wherever help could be found.

Group turned out to be in a residential drug treatment facility in South Los Angeles, apparently started by low-level ex-gangsters and Yellow Power activists of the 1970s. Mas drove through a narrow parking lot and braked by the door.

“You can drop me off here, Mas,” she said. “I’ll call my sister to pick me up later.” Dee did not move from her seat, and for a minute, Mas was worried that she might make a scene. But she actually was in the mood for confessing: “I have to tell you something before you leave.”

Mas turned off the engine, but his hands remained wrapped around the steering wheel, bracing himself for what surprises may come next.

“I did date Estacio once upon a time,” she said. “We actually lived together.” She explained again that Estacio was his given name but not that one that he first went by. “When I met him, he was Steve. He was actually born and raised in Imperial Valley by his mom, who’s white. While we were together, he went to Nicaragua to meet his dad—who was some kind of political leader—for the first time. He came back as Estacio with a new line of work.

“We were both in the music scene and did our share of drugs. But now Steve—Estacio—had a new supply of drugs—powerful stuff, pure stuff. I didn’t really know what he was doing. That’s what I told the police, anyway. We were living in East Hollywood at the time, and the police burst in one morning. We were in bed and Estacio was out the window in two seconds flat. And there I was, all by myself. They found a kilo of cocaine hidden all over the house. In
electrical outlets, the toilet tank, lamps. I was arrested and sent to the women’s jail. I didn’t know what to do, so I had to call my parents. I broke their hearts that day—I mean, really broke them. They went to my arraignment and then mortgaged the business to put up my bail.”

“Dis Estacio—”

“Was suddenly nowhere. He had disappeared. I knew of a lawyer who he had used in the past and he wouldn’t tell me anything. Now looking back, it was a good thing that he disappeared like that on me.”

Mas tightened his grip around the steering wheel, digging his fingernails into his palms.

“I didn’t know anything about Estacio going back to Imperial Valley. But, anyway, suddenly the DA offers me this sweetheart deal. I go into treatment, I’ll be on probation, but no jail time. So I jump at it.

“I’ve fallen down a couple of times these past twenty years. I got married to a guy who used to be a lot of fun when he was high and then he was high all the time without any of the fun. I finally split up with him a year ago, and here I am now, back home with Mom but clean, barely. I’ve made a lot of bad decisions, but I’m really trying to change.”

Mas didn’t doubt the Buckwheat Beauty, although he had plenty of reasons to do so.

“Whatsu dis guy, Estacio, want dis time?”

“He came to the market a few days ago and my mom was there in our stall. I told him to meet me at San Julian Park—figured no one from the market would be there. Estacio tells me how his father is a very well-respected man in Nicaragua right now and how Estacio himself has two
kids in elementary school back there. I don’t give a rat’s ass and I tell him as much. He tells me that his father all last year has been getting these strange anonymous postcards with this weird writing. Some secret message, I guess, I don’t know. Anyway, the father is all freaked out and was waiting for Estacio to get out of the slammer to do something about it. ‘What does this have to do with me?’ I ask him. ‘Just wondering if you heard anything,’ he says. Then, in passing, he starts asking me about Jorg de Groot. Mr. de Groot, he might have met him once outside my parents’ house. So why is he asking me about him? He wants to know if I heard anything about Mr. de Groot lately. ‘You know that he’s dead,’ I tell him. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but I heard that he had left something behind in some safe deposit box.’ This was a couple of days after the dolls had been stolen from our house. I tell him nothing. I figure that he’s looking for money or who knows what. But the dolls? Those have nothing to do with him. So I tell him nothing about the dolls and that I don’t want to ever see him again.”

Dee laced her fingers together in her lap as if she were a schoolgirl back in the classroom. “So, yeah, I knew Estacio. And yeah, he was my boyfriend. But that was a lifetime ago. Has nothing to do with me now. But guys like Estacio, no matter how many times you wash your hands, their stink somehow stays with you. I mean, we’re talking twenty years ago, and I’m still paying for it.”

But why had she met with him today? Mas asked.

“He wanted to know about you.”

“He say my name?”

“He first described you as an older Japanese man. And
then he mentioned your name, Masao Arai.”

“Masao?” Other than the United States government, his mother and wife were the only ones who called Mas by his full name. He had not said his full name to Blanco, so how had Estacio Pena possibly known it? The back of Mas’s neck felt itchy as if a spider was crawling down his shirt collar.

Dee turned directly to Mas. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the whole story before, but I didn’t want to bring it up again. If I thought any of this would have helped you find Haruo, I would have told you everything from the start.”

Upon hearing Haruo’s name, Mas felt a short pain stab his gut. It had been four full days since anyone had laid eyes on Haruo. Four days was more than enough time for someone to drive to Vegas, blow their wad, and come back to L.A. penniless. But still no sign of Haruo. Mas tried not to think about Chuck Blanco’s demise, because if the missing
hina
dolls had led to one man’s death, they certainly could be connected to another.

Mas had a last question for Dee before she left for group. It was a strange one, he knew, but she seemed unfazed that he was inquiring about her father’s dental care.

After answering, she hopped out of the car and headed for the two-story building. Before she opened the door, she abruptly turned around to make sure that Mas was still there, watching. In her oversized clothing but more so with her facial expression, she transformed into that young girl, needing her father to prod her on, assure her that she would be okay on her own.