from the tone of her voice, Mas could tell it was G. I.
“Mas,” she said, handing him the phone. “G. I. wants to talk with you.”
Mas angled the small phone to his ear. “I’m here with Brian, Randy’s brother,” G. I. told him. “I need you to help me find a good mortuary. A reasonable one.”
G. I., who was lucky enough to still have both parents back in his hometown of San Francisco, apparently figured that Mas would be an expert on death in L.A., and he wasn’t that far off. Mas had buried his wife, Chizuko, as well as some assorted gamblers and gardeners with no relatives to speak of nearby. Mas didn’t know much about world politics or celebrities, but he did know how you were supposed to handle last rites, at least in the Japanese American world.
He told G. I. not to worry, that he would help him out. They made arrangements to meet the next day. As he finished the phone call, Juanita headed back to her truck. No matter how much ground they managed to cover today, the investigation would have to be interrupted tomorrow. Last rites took precedence over justice, at least for tomorrow morning.
chapter four
Ichiro “Itchy” Iwasaki was an old friend of Mas’s from his poker-playing days at Wishbone Tanaka’s lawn mower shop. He had little cupped brown ears like those of a monkey, and he often pulled his right earlobe before making a bet. Mas had watched to see if there was some kind of pattern. Did it mean that he had a good hand? Was he bluffing? Sending a message to another player? Or was it just a nervous twitch? In the dead of winter Mas noticed that Itchy had stopped pulling on his ears. In the summer, it started up again. Mas found out later that Itchy was a regular at the public golf course in Monterey Park. Golfer’s sunburn, Mas figured. Not any kind of deliberate gambler’s signal.
Itchy had been a janitor at L.A. City Hall but, after getting laid off, had taken a temporary detour in the Japanese American funeral business. In L.A., there were at least a couple of mortuaries that specialized in Japanese American death. They knew how to collect
koden
, money from mourners to alleviate the family’s financial burden of burying or burning their dead. You slipped a twenty-dollar bill or maybe an extra ten (for someone beyond a passing acquaintance) into a sympathy card. The registrars made sure that you wrote your name and address on the back of the envelope, and within two weeks’ time you would receive a printed thank-you card with a book of twenty stamps inside. The Japanese always had to do
okaeshi
—something in return. Mas never knew how the tradition of giving stamps had started in America—probably just the practicality of Japanese immigrants. Like lightbulbs and toilet paper, everyone needed stamps. In Japan, you would give probably five to ten times more in cash, but would receive a ceramic vase or a dish half your gift’s value in return. Mas would take stamps over a flower vase any day.
Some people preferred giving and receiving checks instead of cash, because there were occasional incidents of theft during funerals. Chizuko had been appalled to hear of such crimes, but nothing surprised Mas. Where there was money, there were crooks. If the potential victims were overcome and blinded by emotion, all the better.
To make ends meet after losing his janitorial job at City Hall, Itchy had picked up the dead bodies from people’s houses or nursing homes. But after a few months, he couldn’t handle touching them anymore. He didn’t understand why the bodies got so cold and stiff so fast, he told Mas. What was it about the pumping of blood that kept one’s legs and arms so soft and pliable? One time when he was loading an old lady’s body into the mortuary’s 1975 white Cadillac hearse (they saved the shiny black one for funerals), the stretcher tipped over and the body fell onto the driveway. Wasting no time, Itchy lifted her by her armpits. Rigor mortis had set in, leaving
“Mas,” she said, handing him the phone. “G. I. wants to talk with you.”
Mas angled the small phone to his ear. “I’m here with Brian, Randy’s brother,” G. I. told him. “I need you to help me find a good mortuary. A reasonable one.”
G. I., who was lucky enough to still have both parents back in his hometown of San Francisco, apparently figured that Mas would be an expert on death in L.A., and he wasn’t that far off. Mas had buried his wife, Chizuko, as well as some assorted gamblers and gardeners with no relatives to speak of nearby. Mas didn’t know much about world politics or celebrities, but he did know how you were supposed to handle last rites, at least in the Japanese American world.
He told G. I. not to worry, that he would help him out. They made arrangements to meet the next day. As he finished the phone call, Juanita headed back to her truck. No matter how much ground they managed to cover today, the investigation would have to be interrupted tomorrow. Last rites took precedence over justice, at least for tomorrow morning.
chapter four
Ichiro “Itchy” Iwasaki was an old friend of Mas’s from his poker-playing days at Wishbone Tanaka’s lawn mower shop. He had little cupped brown ears like those of a monkey, and he often pulled his right earlobe before making a bet. Mas had watched to see if there was some kind of pattern. Did it mean that he had a good hand? Was he bluffing? Sending a message to another player? Or was it just a nervous twitch? In the dead of winter Mas noticed that Itchy had stopped pulling on his ears. In the summer, it started up again. Mas found out later that Itchy was a regular at the public golf course in Monterey Park. Golfer’s sunburn, Mas figured. Not any kind of deliberate gambler’s signal.
Itchy had been a janitor at L.A. City Hall but, after getting laid off, had taken a temporary detour in the Japanese American funeral business. In L.A., there were at least a couple of mortuaries that specialized in Japanese American death. They knew how to collect
koden
, money from mourners to alleviate the family’s financial burden of burying or burning their dead. You slipped a twenty-dollar bill or maybe an extra ten (for someone beyond a passing acquaintance) into a sympathy card. The registrars made sure that you wrote your name and address on the back of the envelope, and within two weeks’ time you would receive a printed thank-you card with a book of twenty stamps inside. The Japanese always had to do
okaeshi
—something in return. Mas never knew how the tradition of giving stamps had started in America—probably just the practicality of Japanese immigrants. Like lightbulbs and toilet paper, everyone needed stamps. In Japan, you would give probably five to ten times more in cash, but would receive a ceramic vase or a dish half your gift’s value in return. Mas would take stamps over a flower vase any day.
Some people preferred giving and receiving checks instead of cash, because there were occasional incidents of theft during funerals. Chizuko had been appalled to hear of such crimes, but nothing surprised Mas. Where there was money, there were crooks. If the potential victims were overcome and blinded by emotion, all the better.
To make ends meet after losing his janitorial job at City Hall, Itchy had picked up the dead bodies from people’s houses or nursing homes. But after a few months, he couldn’t handle touching them anymore. He didn’t understand why the bodies got so cold and stiff so fast, he told Mas. What was it about the pumping of blood that kept one’s legs and arms so soft and pliable? One time when he was loading an old lady’s body into the mortuary’s 1975 white Cadillac hearse (they saved the shiny black one for funerals), the stretcher tipped over and the body fell onto the driveway. Wasting no time, Itchy lifted her by her armpits. Rigor mortis had set in, leaving
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