Snakeskin Shamisen by Naomi Hirahara Page B

her fingers outstretched like claws. As he dragged her into the hearse, her fluffed-up hair smashed against his face. All he remembered was that she smelled like sour milk and baby powder.
    Itchy had gone from funeral work to gardening, but a new mortuary started by an old Latino neighbor of his in East L.A. had called him back to service. This time Itchy would not have to touch the dead bodies but deal only with the living, specifically the Japanese relatives of the deceased. He’d have a nice second-floor office overlooking a plaza in Lincoln Heights.
    Lopez, Sing, and Iwasaki Mortuary specialized in cheap funerals, which you’d think would attract a crowd. Itchy’s neighbor Mr. Lopez was obviously trying to hit the Latino, Chinese, and Japanese markets. A perfect plan in Lincoln Heights, where Mexican seafood restaurants and Chinese Vietnamese auto repair shops stood side by side. But the idea backfired, because mortuaries were like churches; people seemed to prefer them separated and segregated. It reminded Mas of his favorite Neapolitan ice cream—strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla were packaged together, but the solid lines of flavors never blended into each other.
    Normally Mas wouldn’t patronize a mixed bag like Lopez, Sing, and Iwasaki, but since G. I. had told him that Brian Yamashiro wanted a deal, Mas knew that Itchy Iwasaki was their man. Mas assumed that the funeral back in Hawaii would be elaborate, so he guessed it made sense to shave a few dollars from the cost to transport the body on the plane.
    Itchy was a plain talker who didn’t mince words. He wasn’t the type to hold anyone’s hands or convince them to buy something beyond their reach. He was thorough with his questions: Burial or cremation? Cardboard coffin (covered with a cloth and topped with flower bouquets, of course), sixteen-gauge steel, bronze, or copper? They wouldn’t have to suffer through small talk, fake sympathy, or sales pitches.
    Itchy was sitting in front of Mas now. He had grown much paler since joining the mortuary business, and his ears seemed like they were drooping.
    “Your friends coming soon?” he said. As he moved his swivel chair up to his desk, the springs squeaked.
    Mas nodded. G. I. was bringing Randy’s brother, Brian, who was staying at a Holiday Inn in Burbank.
    “Was this Randy Yamashiro the guy who won the jackpot in Vegas?”
    Mas nodded. “Brotha takin’ care of everytin’.”
    “So what’s the brother’s story?”
    Mas sat on the edge of a metal-framed chair so that his feet could remain on the ground. “Un?” Mas grunted.
    “Buddhist, Christian?
Okanemochi
? Has money?”
    “Banker,” Mas said, not knowing if a person who dealt with money on a daily basis actually had any in their pocket. “
Chotto kechi mittai
,” he added, remembering how Brian had borrowed money from Juanita for his cab fare. It sounded better in Japanese than in English:
It looks like the guy’s cheap.
    Mas could see the numbers being tabulated in Itchy’s head. This would be a charity case, done for a future favor from Mas. All this investigating was going to cost Mas—maybe not hard dollars today but a complimentary tree-cutting or sprinkler job tomorrow.
    Itchy had to take a call from another customer. “We can make changes if we tell the newspaper by ten,” he said. More squeaks from the chair. “If ‘girlfriend’ is unacceptable, how about ‘lifetime partner’?” Squeak, squeak. “‘Friend’? Okay, ‘friend,’ and mention her last. I got it.”
    Mas studied the linoleum squares covering the floor of Itchy’s office. A huge black scuff mark remained on one square, like a tire skid on the freeway after an accident.
    While Itchy continued to negotiate the language of obituaries, Mas heard footsteps on the rubber-covered stairs and then voices in the front office. G. I. appeared with Randy’s brother, who was wearing a pink polo shirt and jeans and had a cell phone case clipped to his belt. Mas