Gasa-Gasa Girl

Mas was making salami sandwiches when Lloyd and Mari finally came home. He had picked Takeo up from the neighbor’s place, and the baby was fast asleep. Before peppering them with questions, he gave them a chance to see Takeo and change out of their dirty clothes.

Mari was the first to emerge from the bedroom. “Thanks for putting up the house,” said Mari.

“Jail pretty bad?” Mas had gone to visit someone at a jail in L.A. for the first time last year and hadn’t relished the experience.

“We don’t need to talk about it right now.” She picked up one of the salami sandwiches and ate it musha-musha, as if it were the best thing next to pickled mackerel sushi.

The phone rang and Mari answered, with a ball of salami sandwich bunched up in her left cheek. She stopped chewing and asked a few questions. Her dark eyebrows furrowed like a wire spring pressed together too tight.

“That was A

chapter eleven

Mas had been truly afraid only three times. The first time was, of course, when he stood in the black rain of the Bomb; the second, watching Chizuko being eaten by the cancer; and the third, when the Bomb returned from its hiding place in his memory. In those instances, fear slapped him square in the face and kept his legs from moving. The tangle of Kazzy’s murder was different. Here now fear slowly seeped in, causing him to run faster and faster. Hayaku, hayaku, just like the pace of the city.

He was now in Fort Lee on the thoroughfare by the bus stop in the plaza, passing familiar cafés with lit candles on the tables.

A

But Mas told Lloyd to stay home. If A

It was no problem locating the exact high-rise building. Three police cars, lights flashing, were parked at the loading zone, radios squawking out numbers and addresses over the crackle of static. In spite of the late hour-nine, ten?-there was a small crowd of men and women surrounding the parking lot, cordoned off by familiar yellow police tape. Huge lights had been propped up, as if it were a location for a movie shoot. Mas knew about these things because he had driven past his share of production sites in L.A.; hell, one director had paid him one hundred dollars to park his Ford gardening truck in the background of a scene.

The figure of a body was outlined on the concrete ground. The coroner’s department must have carted away the body, but had left behind a puddle of blood. Under the bright lights, the blood glistened, still wet with floating chunks of body parts-was that part of a brain? Mas felt his di

He couldn’t believe that only this remained of the chawan -haired woman so prim and precise.

The same security guard was outside with the crowd, so in spite of the high-rise being the scene of a bloody death, Mas found it easier to get to the elevator, and then to A

Police officers, men in suits and ties, and women in sweaters and slacks walked into and out of rooms, talking among themselves and taking notes. Again, no one seemed to pay attention to Mas.

The sliding-glass door was ajar, letting a cool breeze in. Mas could smell the sourness of an overworked river. A wind chime shaped like a Buddhist bell tinkled from the top of the balcony. Most of the plants had been overturned, soil dumped out, roots exposed.

“Mr. Arai, you came.”

Mas turned. A

Mas sat with A

“That’s all they took,” A

“Book.” Mas kept staring at the destroyed display case.

“Yes, the journal’s gone. Do you think that’s what they were after?”

Mas recalled the detailed questioning by the bail bondsman. “What happen, exactly?”

A

“Sorry, so sorry.” Mas wished that he could leave. He could barely stand it when any woman cried. He didn’t know what was worse-when it was a stranger or your wife.

“They say that she was thrown off the balcony. Why would anyone do that to Seiko?” She dabbed the corner of her eyes with her fingers and took a deep breath, making the top of her dress move up and down. “I asked for you and your daughter to come, because she had asked me about the note I sent Kazzy.”

She then leaned over to Mas, so close that he could feel the softness of her chichi s. “I’ll tell you what happened as long as you tell no one,” she whispered. “Especially Becca.”

Becca? What did she have to do with A

She placed a folded-up note in Mas’s hand. “Read this later,” she whispered. “Kazzy wrote me back. He messengered it to me the same day. Thursday. The day he died.”

Mas stuffed the note in his jacket pocket.

“With Kazzy dead and now Seiko, what am I going to do?” She leaned her head against Mas’s arm, and Mas could feel her soft hair on his chin.

“Mr. Arai, what the hell are you doing here?” Mas pulled away from A

Mas felt the blood drain from his face. Was Ghigo, the crow, ever present?

“We can ask you the same question, Detective,” A

“Like I told you before, Mrs. Grady, the New Jersey police is working with us on the murder investigation of Kazzy Ouchi. Since we were just here interviewing you, we were called in. Just to see if there’s some kind of co

“Well, there’s no co

“We’ll see.” Ghigo turned his attention back to Mas. “So how do you know Mr. Arai?”

“He’s a friend. Old friend.” A

“That’s interesting,” said Ghigo, “especially since he just arrived in New York last week.”

Before the detective could say more, his bald-headed partner called him over to the balcony. “Don’t go anywhere, Mrs. Grady,” he said.

While Ghigo’s back was turned to them, Mas rose. “I betta go.”