Snakeskin Shamisen by Naomi Hirahara

Kinjo reverted back to Japanese. “I was hit by a
dorobo
, a no-good thief. That
sanshin
is mine; I can prove it.” He opened a drawer in the coffee table and proceeded to take out a stack of photographs.
    “Here.” Kinjo threw down a black-and-white photo of himself with two other Japanese men, all cradling
shamisen
in front of tar-paper barracks. Kinjo’s was the only one with snakeskin; the other two were made out of cookie tins and cake pans. “Jerome, Arkansas.” He looked at Juanita. “I buy in camp.”
    “Camp? What? Where could you buy a
sanshin
at camp?”
    Tug and Lil had told Mas about internees purchasing clothing and other items from the Sears Roebuck catalogue. Nothing about Japanese traditional instruments.
    “An MP. Military police. He had been in Okinawa. Wounded and sent back to the States, to his hometown in Jerome.”
    “How come youzu lose it?” Mas had to ask.
    “I told you, it was stolen. Taken by someone in my very own band. And sold for much money, I imagine.”
    If what Kinjo said was true, then someone had gotten a raw deal.
    Kinjo turned on a lamp in the corner and reexamined the photograph in the light. It was obvious that the
shamisen
was like a child to him. His face had turned gray, like discarded chewing gum. “Ah—
shimmata
,” he said, as if the instrument had just experienced a death.
    “You knowsu Yamashiro?” Mas asked.
    “Why would I know such a person?” Kinjo responded in Japanese. Did Mas imagine that his sagging cheeks were slightly quivering? And Kinjo’s eyes: why were they incessantly blinking—
pachi-pachi
,
pachi-pachi
?
    What connection would he have to a fiftysomething Sansei from Hawaii? Was it merely a coincidence that Kinjo had been playing the
shamisen
at the same place where his old
shamisen
had been left at a murder scene?
    “I have another class coming.” Kinjo rose, unlocked the iron security gate, and held it open. “My son is getting a lawyer. I told police that the
sanshin
was stolen and that we need it back.”
    Mas had little knowledge of police procedure, but he bet that the instructor would not be getting his
shamisen
—if it indeed was his—any time soon. Juanita would have probably agreed if she understood what Kinjo was saying.
    They went outside, only to be blocked from a clean exit. The bearded
hakujin
man was still there, sitting on the stairs, running a pocket knife along a dead broken branch. Mas remembered sharpening his pencils back in Hiroshima in the same way. But what was the purpose of doing such a thing to a branch?
    “Excuse me,” Juanita said, stepping around the man. Mas followed Juanita, not bothering with the excuse. The man squinted up at Mas, the blade firmly held in his left hand. Mas noticed that the man’s fingers were long and tapered, the fingernails filed neatly, as if they were cared for by a professional. His face, on the other hand, was cherubic; he was Santa Claus on a diet. “
Konnichiwa
,” he said.
    Mas did a double take. The skinny Santa Claus was greeting him in Japanese.
    “I heard you asking questions of sensei.”
    Juanita backtracked and stood beside Mas on the Bermuda grass. “We’re just curious about a few things.”
    Mas wondered why Juanita didn’t just identify herself as a PI, but figured that she didn’t want to reveal her cards too early.
    “Curiosity killed the cat.”
    “Pardon?” asked Juanita.
    “You heard me. It’s not the best thing to be sticking your noses into other people’s business.”
    “And what are you doing right now?”
    Mas nudged Juanita. No sense in getting into a knockdown, drag-out fight now. They had to save those times for when it really counted. He didn’t know if this man was acting as Kinjo’s protector or enforcer.
    “No trouble.” Mas held up his hands as if he were a surrendering cowboy.
    “Then we’re in agreement.” The skinny Santa Claus then left the lawn.
    Thankfully, at that moment, Juanita’s cell phone rang. She answered, and