Strawberry Yellow (12 page)

So the morphine tablets, purchased from a drug dealer by the Pajaro River, were there for Ats. She was close to death anyway, so no one would suspect. Figuring out his own demise was a bit tougher, but Shug had helped immensely. Jimi had everything in place. But then this new Arai had come into town. Once he was gone, the plan could proceed. This Arai just needed an extra push out the door.

A
giant stone rolled down a creek, building more and more speed as it came closer. The soft edges of the creek bed were being destroyed, chunks of moss-covered soil flying and hitting Mas’s face and neck. The rock hit the trunks of five cypress trees, almost knocking them over like bowling pins. Smashing against a boulder, the stone cracked open, releasing the severed head of Oily Takei, which then began to float upward, growing larger and larger.

Mas jerked himself awake, finding himself practically mummified in the motel sheet. Could Oily have killed Shug? He worked for a competitor, Everbears. He himself had said strawberry yellows threatened the whole industry. Did he steal Shug’s secrets to save his own company? Or perhaps it was more personal, longtime jealousy plus a desire for Minnie after all these years.

It was eight o’clock, early but not that early. He had already called Mari over the weekend to tell her that he was staying. Now it was time to make another call.

“Hello.”

“Hallo.”

“Mas, it’s good to hear your voice. Mari told me you’d be staying up there a few more days. How’s everything going over there?”

Genessee Howard’s voice was like tiger balm without the
overwhelming menthol smell. Her voice literally warmed Mas’s creaky joints, soothing, relaxing.

Mas, as best he could, told Genessee what had happened these past few days. Laila’s dead body. Shug’s mysterious death. Minnie’s call for help. Spying at Sugarberry. Strawberry yellows.

“And now Oily,” he said, concluding with the discovery that it had been their childhood friend who had stolen Shug’s laptop. “I’zu need to come home.”

Genessee was quiet for a while and Mas wished she would fill the silence with “yes, yes, Mas, come home.”

But instead he got this: “You’ve got to stay, Mas. They’re family.”

Family? Genessee never seemed that particularly happy with hers.

“Never underestimate the importance of family,” she reminded him.

Feeling recharged after speaking to Genessee, Mas took a shower, brushed his gums with a new toothbrush he’d purchased from the drugstore, and combed his wet hair. He felt, for once, optimistic. Maybe doctors would find that Shug actually had a weak heart, all along. That Laila’s killing had been a random incident—perhaps a hungry vagrant or drunkard who wanted his way with her. Nothing involving strawberries. Mas knew he was just fooling himself, but it felt good to try.

He watched television for a while, getting recaps of what
was happening in basketball and baseball back in Los Angeles.

Then a knock at the door.

Without even looking, Mas knew he wasn’t going to like who was behind the door. Robin Arai, out of her uniform and out of her hair bun. Her shoulder-length hair was in slight disarray, which made her look like an everyday person.

“I won’t blame you if you don’t want to talk to me,” she said.

At least the lieutenant had realistic expectations.

“I’m not here in an official capacity, but a personal one.”

Mas, halfway curious, gestured for her to enter. Closing the door behind her, he turned off the television.

“I’m off the Laila Smith case. Conflict of interest. Arturo Salgado has officially taken over.” She stood awkwardly by the wall air conditioner.

“They fire you?”

“No, no it’s nothing like that. I’m still working at the station.” Although out of her uniform, Robin still stood as straight as pole. “They traced the threatening phone calls to Laila. It came from a landline at a dorm at San Jose State. The dorm where Alyssa lives.”

Mas had to concentrate for a moment. Who was Alyssa again? Sounded familiar.

“My niece. Billy’s daughter.”

Mas knew nothing about her, other than her smooth, shiny face and long hair. Before he could fully absorb what Robin was telling him, she quickly interjected, “She didn’t do it. But sheriff’s detectives are going to question her today and I’m trying to get her a lawyer. I’m not supposed to contact her, but I tried. She’s not answering her phone and she
has too many messages in her voice mail. I keep telling her to clean it out.”

“Her motha?”

“Colleen? Well, she’s not quite available. She hasn’t been available for a while. After Billy moved out, she had a nervous breakdown. She’s been in and out of mental facilities. She insisted on coming to Shug’s funeral, but I think seeing Billy was too much for her, and she checked herself in again.”

Robin then swallowed, slowly and deliberately. “So, you see, it has to be someone else to tell her to wait for a lawyer. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Arai?”

Mas did but didn’t want to.

“Here’s a map to her dormitory. It’s on campus.” She took out a folded computer printout from her purse and handed to Mas. He accepted it, begrudgingly. He didn’t want to drive anyplace within Watsonville, not to mention fifty miles away. In order to hit the 101, he’d have to travel through the twists and turns of Hecker Pass.

“Please, Mas, as a favor to the family.”

Ah,
shikataganai
, Mas thought to himself. This all could not be helped. All he knew was the next time he talked to Genessee, he’d tell her that she was very wrong. Family is very overrated.

After Robin left, Mas put on his work boots and wind-breaker. In all honesty, he doubted he’d be able to find Billy’s daughter. Young people rarely stayed in one place; they were always on the go. But he saw something in Robin Arai’s eyes
that he had seen before: fear. She was scared for her niece, and she was most likely scared because she cared for her so much. That sentiment Mas actually understood.

So he’d go to San Jose, because he said he would. Other than that, no guarantees, that’s what he told the police-woman. As he started the Ford’s rattling engine, another truck started as well.

Where was this Arai going? First he’d been visited in the early morning by the other Arai, the police officer who was out of uniform. What were they conspiring about?

Jimi’s eyes were red, his eyelashes crusted with yellow sleep. He had spent the night there at the side of the parking lot, with Mas’s strange-looking monster of a truck in plain view. He’d brought a thermos of coffee, as well as a fresh coffee cake that he’d made. The caretaker was with Ats; he made some excuse that he had to go out of town on business.

He followed Mas from Green Valley Road to Airport Boulevard to finally the 152, Hecker Pass. Heading east—maybe Gilroy or San Jose? Jimi drove past strawberry fields, past the cemetery where most of Jimi’s father’s ashes were buried. The remaining ashes had been released in the hot winds of Arizona, sixty years ago.

Jimi remembered his last conversation with his father. “No,
da-me
. Don’t come too close,” Goro said from his hospital bed in Poston.

Jimi didn’t care what his father said. He wasn’t afraid of tuberculosis. He wasn’t afraid to die. In fact, he wanted
to enlist in the Army like some of the other young men in camp. When his mother, Itsuko, found out, she just turned her head toward the barracks wall.

“
Nagakunai
,” Goro said. It won’t be long. He had been placed in the Poston Hospital a month ago.

“Listen,” he said. “Listen.” Goro wasn’t one to say much, but he spoke now. He spoke about how he dreamt of strawberries. Red colors of all different shades, scarlet, blood red, wine-colored. The minuscule seeds pleating their plump skins.

“I have a special strawberry, one that I was experimenting with Wataru Arai,” he said in Japanese. “It is a strawberry like no other. But we cannot let the Arais have it all. Part of it belongs to us, the Jabamis.”

What can I do? Jimi asked. They were in camp, locked away. He had seen Wataru Arai working in the victory gardens, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his skin tanned and weathered like tortoise legs. There were no strawberries in that desert garden. Strawberries needed the coastal air. Wataru Arai had not brought strawberries to Poston.

“No, no,” Goro whispered. He tugged at Jimi’s elbow. His breath smelled strange, like unripe bananas. “We hid the plants. Wrapped them up, special barerooted. Stem House, basement.”

That had been two years ago. Barerooted strawberry plants stored in a cool place could last one, two months, at best. Jimi squeezed his father’s hand. “Papa, it’s okay,” he said.

“No, no.” Goro was more adamant this time. “The strawberries were saved. They were saved.” Before he could say more, a nurse, originally from San Juan Bautista, stopped by.

“Your father should not be so agitated.”

Jimi tried to argue with her, and Goro even attempted fruitlessly to get up.

“It’s okay, Papa. You can tell me tomorrow.”

“I named it Taro,” he said. “After you. Remember? Strawberry Boy.”

Mas circled the dense streets of downtown San Jose. Oneway streets everywhere, lined with older multilevel office buildings. Mas felt like he was traveling in a maze with no ending point.

Mayotta.
Hopelessly lost.

He felt himself grow angrier and angrier. Why had the woman police officer sent him to do this work?

Finally finding a place for the Ford in a parking structure, Mas followed the signs to San Jose State University. He had been here once before, to see one of Shug’s friends participate in a judo tournament. But that was more than half a century ago, and much—but not everything—had changed. He saw the same redwood trees, looking a little worn after all this time, as well as palms stretching above the red-tile slanted roofs of Tower Hall. Dark-haired young people were swarming all over the campus like ants seeking to conquer their landscape.