hakujin,
Japanese, black, or Mexican, Mas couldnt tell. Then something cracked against the concrete close to Mass head. The footsteps returned to the Ford, the door closed, and the engine revved one last time before the truck left the street. Mas struggled to turn his head, but saw only a broken branch with a piece of gauze bandage hanging from one end.
CHAPTER FOUR
You needsu to see docta, real docta, Mas.
Mas glanced up at Haruo, who stood by the sheetless bed. Haruos hair, which covered the left side of his face, looked freshly washed and dried, even electrified, by the dry summer heat. Next to him was Stinky Yoshimoto, listening attentively. Why he was here, Mas had no idea. Stinkys mouth was half-open, making him look like an eel awaiting its prey.
Acupuncture enough,
yo,
Mas replied. He lay on the bed, staring at his peeling bedroom ceiling. A gauze bandage was wrapped around his torn hand, while the bruise on his left cheek ached.
Too bad about the Ford, Haruo said. Mas still couldnt quite believe it. How could he be without the Ford? The theft had done something serious to him. An anger, one he hadnt felt in years, burned in his gut.
Sugokatta, ne,
Mas, Haruo continued. You lucky. You couldve caught them and gotten your head blown off like Morishita-
san
.
Probably young ones, eh, Mas, Stinky said, blinking furiously. Maybe
kurochan
s. Or those Mexicans.
Mas ignored Stinky he wasnt worth wasting time on.
Maybe the police will be able to find, said Haruo, the forever optimist.
Ah. Mas spit into a tissue and tossed it on the floor. Not counting on them. As it turns out, the police barely spent ten minutes asking their few questions. Name. Year of car. Model and make. Employer. Mas was going to say that he was self-employed, but gave Mrs. Witts name and her San Marino phone number instead. Never know if her connection would help things along.
They did ask whether Mas saw anything, and he knew that this would be the time to come clean with the threat: Keep your mouth shut about Haneda. . . . But then more questions would follow. How is he connected to all of this? It was much easier to keep it all inside.
Haruo pulled a strip of hair behind his ear, revealing a bubbled keloid by his sunken cheek. Whatcha doin ova in North Hollywood, anyhowsu?
Pain jolted up Mass spine, and he turned on his side, grimacing. I should ask you the same question, he thought.
You there to find Joji Haneda, huh? Stinky greedily asked, folding his hands together.
Mas clamped down on his dentures. He didnt know who he could trust, even somebody as worthless as Stinky. Haruo didnt say anything either, so Mas knew that he was guilty. Stinky filled the silence with the time he had witnessed a liquor store robbery, the same story they had heard again and again. Every foolish word seemed to aggravate the pain in Mass back. Finally, he moaned, low but long.
I tell you, Mas. Haruo bent over the bed, and Mas could see a fringe of his friends long hair. You should see those docta,
tada
.
Stinkys interest was piqued. Free?
They only come once . . . every two years, Haruo stammered. They here . . . this week you know, the
hibakusha
doctors. Whatcha got to lose? Japan doctors, they good.
Mas felt for his box of cigarettes on the nightstand by his Budweiser. Those Hiroshima doctas, what do they know?
Theyre
wakai,
Mas, but theyre educated.
Young? Babies. Raised on Kentucky Chicken. They know nutin about the war, black market nutin about it.
That dont matter. . . . Theyre not history professors. Its the
karada
that theyre interested in. Mas, Ive been four times. They found nutin, Haruo continued. Strong as a horse, they say. And its free for everything blood test,
shikko
test. . . . Go to regular docta, cost you two hundred dolla, I bet.
Easy, interjected Stinky.
Mas shooed away an especially large fly. Were just guinea pigs for them. They want to find sometin wrong, cancer,
gan,
in our eyes, ears, liver, hearts. So they can go back to the big shots and say, Look what we found in these atom bomb survivors. Nasty, huh?
This the thing that happens, what, every other summer? Stinky asked. Haruo nodded.
Every other year in June and July came the doctors, a month before the television reports on the Bomb. It was for an international study on radiation exposure.
What was the big deal? wondered Mas. He had survived Hiroshima and smoked a pack a day since age fifteen, yet still outlasted his wife and many others in their sixties. When you died, you died, and that was all there was to it.
Mas turned to his side and tapped his cigarette ash into the tab of his Budweiser. It was no use arguing with Haruo. He could be like an untiring mosquito, buzzing around ones ears until he sucked up what he wanted.
Honto,
Mas, I take you. No problem, Haruo insisted, while Stinky excused himself and went to the bathroom.
Mas waited until Stinky had closed the bathroom door. Forget the doctas. I dont care about none of that. I saw you, Haruo.
Haruo averted Mass gaze and began scraping some dirt under his fingernails. Saw me where?
North Hollywood. You were there. The ladys place.
What lady?
Hanedas lady.
I have nutin to do with Haneda.
Mas couldnt always tell if someone was telling the truth, but he could smell a lie fifty yards away. Right now the stench was unmistakable. What does he want?
Haruo looked back at the closed bathroom door on the other side of the hallway. I just talk to him on the phone, he finally said.
He wants sumptin. I know that guy.
Haruo shook his head. Just wanna see ole friends. Thatsu all. Even asked about you.
Mas pinched his cigarette stub. Theres nutin he needsu to know about me.
I knowsu that. I dont say nutin about you. Mas heard the bathroom door open, and Stinky, zipping up his pants, reentered the bedroom. Mas wasnt going to keep talking about Haneda, and Haruo seemed to understand. He straightened his hunched back. Well, Mas, how about the exams? You gonna go with me?
Cant go. Got plans.
You cant work. No condition
Me no work.
The races, Mas? Just call your bookie.
Bookie? Who said anytin about gamble?
Mas, whatsa matter? Just go few minutes
Dammit, Haruo, I dont wanna see those sonafugun Hiroshima doctas. Before he realized what he was doing, Mas flung one of his Budweiser cans just a few inches away from the wisps of Haruos white hair. It ricocheted against the mirror of the dresser, spurting out cigarette ash, and then landed on the floor.
Mas immediately regretted his actions but said nothing. The North Hollywood incident had shaken him more than he cared to admit. The fly began to buzz and circle the room like a small aircraft losing gas. The three of them remained silent for about a minute.
Orai,
Mas, have your way. Haruo pushed back his hair. Tomato in kitchen. Good ones, real red. He walked past the bed, then out of the room, with Stinky following, peppering him with questions.
I dont want your pitiful tomatoes, Mas wanted to yell out. He couldnt stand the puppy dog, his eternal friend. Why didnt Haruo ever fight back, tell him where to go? Mas wondered. Be a man, a real man, for once.
Mas lay back on the mattress and finished off the stub of his Marlboro. He should have asked Haruo to help him put the sheets on the bed. The buttons on the mattress were dark and soiled from sweat and dirt. Flies whizzed into the room from the broken window screen and landed on Chizukos old jewelry box.
Sonafugun flies, murmured Mas, who could only follow them with his eyes. After a few hours, the flies just buzzed in the corner of the ceiling. They were just plain worn out and afraid to move.
When the phone rang, the room was shadowy and dark. Mas flung his arm, knocking his beer can and television remote control from the nightstand.
Hallo, Mas mumbled.
Yeh, Mas, its Tug. Tug Yamada. Hope I didnt wake you.
Oh, hallo, how are you. Mas pictured the tall, sturdy Japanese American man who entered a room like a tugboat fighting a storm. Tugs real name was Takashi, but like other Nisei, the second-generation Japanese Americans, he had to have a more American moniker worthy of veterans and Sun-day golfers. Mas always hated to call a grown man Tiger, Wimp, or Fats, but what could he do? A Nisei was a Nisei, and there was no changing them.
I heard what happened to you. I cant believe how bad things are today. To have your truck stolen right underneath your nose. Tugs voice boomed over the line.
Yah, Mas said.
Well, Lil made a tamale pie, and we want to drop it off. You just sit tight; well be there in fifteen minutes. The line clicked, and Tug Yamada was gone.
Mas groaned and slowly pushed himself up. Tugs wife, Lil, and Chizuko had met years ago, when their daughters were in the same preschool class. The Yamadas were Mas and Chizukos first full-blooded American friends. Tug had fought in the U.S. Army over in France even had a missing half a forefinger to show for it.
That shortened finger both terrified and entranced Mas; he tried time after time to avoid looking at the severed appendage, but his eyes were inevitably lured to it. It was a mark of citizenship, reminding him that while Tug was a red, white, and blue American, Mas was only a bloody
Kibei
born in Watsonville who had spent most of his early years across the Pacific in Japan.
Mas eased himself to his feet and stared at the image in the dresser mirror. Large bags drooped from his black, beady eyes, and his long, outgrown hair stood up like a roosters crown. His cheek looked bad, like someone had tried to hull out a piece of flesh with a spoon. He groaned again, not for himself but for his duty to be presentable, a curse he learned from the always proper Chizuko.
