Gasa-Gasa Girl

Mas returned to Takeo’s room, only to see his grandson cast on open seas, surrounded by doctors and nurses, their gowns the color of green toothpaste and after-di

Mari rested on a couch in the waiting room, a cold pack on her forehead, while Mas and Tug spoke in the hallway.

“Couldn’t catch him. No good knees anymore,” said Mas, dejected.

Tug handed him a paper cup filled with water. “Drink this, and take a few deep breaths.”

Mas kept on wheezing, and Tug theorized that perhaps decades of smoking were finally taking their toll on his health. If Mas weren’t so worn-out, he would have snapped at his friend. He didn’t need useless health advice when his daughter had almost passed out, his grandson and son-in-law attacked. Lloyd was now conscious but being X-rayed to make sure that his brains weren’t scrambled from the blow to his head.

Both Detective Ghigo and Jea

Mas and Tug made their way to the waiting area. Jea

“We’ll pick him up,” said Ghigo. “He had a large amount of money recently transferred to his personal account. He and Pe

“The police traced the anonymous calls back to Pe

“I need to see my son.” Mari removed the ice pack from her head and tried to lift herself up from the couch.

“You hear docta; Takeo orai,” Mas said. “Sleepin’ now. Needsu his sleep.” Ghigo had ordered two police officers to keep watch in front of Takeo’s room.

“Yes, Mari. You need to rest a little. They could get you a hospital bed.” Tug placed his huge hands on the top of the couch.

Mari shook her head. “I can go over to Lloyd’s room and keep him company.” Lloyd had a mild concussion. He’d been knocked out by a fire extinguisher. He hadn’t seen his assailant, unfortunately, but several security cameras got pictures of Larry-his mouth covered with a mask, but that medical jacket, soaked in the scent of a designer cologne, had plenty of dark hairs. Good thing that Mas had pointed it out to the police.

“Maybe, Dad, you can get a few things for me from home?”

Mas nodded.

As Ghigo and Jea

But Mas wasn’t in a celebratory mood. He was far away, looking beyond Tug, toward the darkness of the street through the hospital windows.

It was past midnight before Mas reached the underground apartment, but people-some alone with their heads down, others in pairs making loud noises-were still walking the streets. You could never feel lonely in New York City, thought Mas, wondering if that was one of its main charms.

After he entered the apartment, he turned on the lamp. White papers littered the front of the fireplace. Dorobo, thief, thought Mas. He slowly retrieved them, realizing as he did that they were actually a product of the fax machine. With the help of his reading glasses, Mas arranged them in order. The first page stated, FAX COVER SHEET/Kinko’s. Kinko? Sounded like a strange Japanese name. But then Mas remembered that name on storefronts all throughout Los Angeles. A chain of photocopy services.

Underneath Kinko’s was another name: Haruo Mukai. So Haruo had come through again.

There were three additional pages. All were from Asa Sumi’s journal, although the script looked a little different. Instead of the neat hatch marks that could have been made by the end of a sharp knife, the handwriting was rushed, fluid like ru

Kazzy hadn’t been killed to cover a man’s greed, but a daughter’s scorn.

chapter thirteen

Mas didn’t sleep at all that night. He was a walking mummy, stumbling on the sidewalks of Park Slope, leaning against trees, watching a man wash his Pontiac at three o’clock in the morning. Everyone here was alive, completely engaged with what they were doing, whether it be corner-store workers setting out the new newspapers for the day, or people drinking coffee and long Mexican sugared donuts. He figured that the energy of the streets could help him think. To take pieces of paper, casual conversations, and chases-both physical and mental-and somehow pull them together into something that made sense.

Mas then knew that he needed to see the pond again. He walked more purposefully, ignoring the weight and weaknesses of his legs. A gray fog covered the top of the Waxley House, erasing the existence of the watchful rooftop dragons. He figured that the house would be empty. He entered the back through the side gate, hearing the woeful barking of a dog a few houses east.

The past few days of both sun and coolness had done wonders for the garden. The cherry blossoms were ready to pop open, and the long, ski