Summer of the Big Bachi by Naomi Hirahara

anymore.”
     
     
Mas sucked his metal dental plate. No Tanaka’s Lawn-mower. Hard to believe. It would be strange to enter that shedlike store and not see Wishbone’s pockmarked face behind the counter.
     
     
“Look, Mas, you owe me; you know you do. Gave you a break every time things didn’t work out so good. Remember when your back went out real bad, fifteen years ago? Prac-tically gave you that gas blower.”
     
     
Sonafugun. He would bring that up. Even though Wishbone was Nisei, there was a big part of him that was Japanese, and it was coming up now.
     
     
“Hey, what about Haruo Mukai? He’s your buddy, right? Heard he sold his house. He’s, what, somewhere in Crenshaw?”
     
     
“No, bad idea. He don’t do cards.” Mas tightened his grip on the telephone receiver.
     
     
“Well, he sure did back in the old days. Crazy bettor, that skinny man was.”
     
     
“Hotteoke,” Mas said. Leave him the hell alone. Although Wishbone didn’t speak much Japanese, he would understand that much.
     
     
“Okay, okay, no need to get so touchy—”
     
     
Something clattered onto the tile on the bathroom floor. “Wishbone, I gotsu someone here.”
     
     
“Listen, I’ll call you in ten minutes. Game’s starting at eight.”
     
     
Mas wanted to tell him not to bother, but Wishbone had already clicked off. What trouble. Mas tried to clear his eyes of the film that had accumulated during the past three days, but it was no use.
     
     
Mas and Tug completed the work on the toilet bowl tank and then sat at the kitchen and talked over 7-UP and rice crackers. It was about eight o’clock when the phone rang again.
     
     
“Hey, Mas, it’s me, Wishbone.”
     
     
“Yah.” Mas could hear the clicking of poker chips and men’s voices in the background.
     
     
“Don’t worry, you don’t need to come. Got plenty of guys.”
     
     
“ Orai. What, Whitey and Shy help you out?”
     
     
“No, Haneda found them all. We’re covered.”
     
     
“Haneda? What Haneda?” Mas could barely speak.
     
     
“You know, Joji Haneda, from Ventura. He’s back in town. That’s my friend’s connection.” Laughter in the background. “And hey, your old buddy Haruo is even here. Seems like he plays cards now.”
     
     
Before Mas could interrupt, the line cut off. “Wishbone, Wishbone.” Mas jiggled the receiver. It was no use. Wishbone was probably back absorbed in his game, and Mas had no idea where they were.
     
     
“Everything okay?” Tug called out.
     
     
Little Tokyo, wasn’t that what Wishbone had said? Second floor. It all sounded familiar, a faint echo of something recent. Mas went into the bedroom and rummaged through the pockets of his old jeans. There, in the pair torn from the accident, in the front pocket, was the map, folded in half.
     
     

     
Even after looking at the photo of Haneda at the mistress’s place, Mas couldn’t remember his face. It seemed blurry, hazy, like a photo of a moving man. He tried to recall the photo of the bridge, how he had looked as a teenager. He could remember certain features, the prominent nose, high cheekbones, pointy chin. But they were separate parts that didn’t quite match together, like those police composites of suspected rapists shown over the television. Those drawings were all similar. The faces were devoid of any racial distinction, could be either black, Mexican, or hakujin . When the guy was finally caught— say, like the Night Stalker in East Los Angeles— Mas was always amazed how different he seemed from the early drawings. Perhaps the victims couldn’t clearly describe their assailant; the darkness of the crime pulled a film over their eyes, blinding them to the softness of a mouth, the liveliness of the eyes, or the curve of an ear.
     
     
He sat in the passenger seat of the Yamadas’ old Buick, in front of their fabric dashboard cover. A line of decorative pins had been attached to the right side, above the glove compartment— a swirling American flag, the words 442ND REGIMENTAL COMBAT