Naomi Hirahara - Gasa-Gasa Girl

Mas had lost track of the days of the week, so he was surprised to see a security guard, not the floppy-bow-tied receptionist in the mausoleumlike lobby of Waxley Enterprises. Mochiron. Of course. It was Sunday, not a day of work, at least for white-collar types.

Mas didn’t know what to do. This had been a waste; he should just go back to the hospital and be with his family. But he felt that he needed to get a better sense of Larry Pauley. Maybe take a second look around his office and photos of his prized Thoroughbred. Mas waited by the side of the door and saw a couple of Latino men unloading a carpet shampoo machine from a white van. They spoke a different kind of Spanish than Mas was used to, but he still could make out enough words, and, of course, when language failed, you could always read people’s faces. And one of them was obviously irritated. A third man had not shown up. Mas watched them struggle with their cleaning equipment, and finally stepped in. “ Ayuda, ayuda, ” he offered, lifting two buckets. “I go in, anyways.”

They first protested, and then shrugged their shoulders. So a loco japones was going to help them, they probably figured. What did they have to complain about?

Mas let them lead the way through the lobby, lowering his face as they passed the security guard, who obviously recognized the two regular cleaners. They entered the freight elevator, whose walls were covered with a gray padded blanket. While the elevator rose, the two men spoke to each other, talking about some local soccer tournament the day before. They stopped on the third floor, at which Mas carried out the buckets filled with rags and cleaning products.

“ Gracias, gracias, ” they murmured, as Mas hit the Up button for the regular elevator.

Getting out on the eleventh floor, Mas was relieved to see no one manning the receptionist’s desk. But as he walked down a corridor, he felt the presence of another human in the maze of cubicles. Sure enough, Mas spied hair, the color of a paper bag, frizzed out like cotton candy. As the woman rolled her chair back, Mas finally saw the rest of her. A hakujin, wearing jeans and simple striped shirt.

“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” she asked. Rather than afraid, she seemed curious. Here Mas’s size and age were obviously an advantage.

“Ah, Pauley. Mr. Pauley,” Mas managed to spout out.

“Mr. Pauley isn’t here.”

“Left sumptin’ in his office last time,” he said, and then charged through the door to the hallway on the left.

With the cotton-candy-haired woman practically tailgating him, Mas charged into Larry Pauley’s corner office. It was dark, but Mas could still see that the walls were empty, no painting of the galloping horses, only a clean blank space where it once was hung. Larry Pauley must have been in this office for a long time for the paint to have faded. The beer steins were also gone.

One leg of the desk had been broken and the window that overlooked Central Park was now boarded up.

“I told you that Larry Pauley wasn’t here anymore.” The woman pulled at her hair. “I guess he didn’t take leaving too well.”

By the time Mas returned to the hospital, most of Mari and Lloyd’s shaggy-haired friends had left the waiting room. Mari was walking in the hallway, carrying a steaming cup of coffee.

“Where’ve you been, Dad? I was looking for you. Didn’t know if you wanted a bite to eat from the cafeteria.”

“Howzu Takeo?”

“Good, real good. Lloyd’s with him. Tug’s around, too. I think the transfusion has really perked Takeo up. We started off with Lloyd’s supply-he gave about a week ago. Apparently, I can’t give any blood right now.” Mari’s eyes became wet and shiny. “I’m anemic, Dad. Low iron.”

No wonder Mari’s color looked bad, thought Mas. Here he thought it was just age, but it was actually some medical reason.

Mari sipped her coffee and then leaned against the wall. “Seems like I can’t do anything right for him now.”

“Youzu a good mother.”

“You think? I’m trying. I really am. Lloyd says that I’ve been doing too much. After Takeo was born, I’ve tried to slow down, you know.”

“Not be so gasa-gasa.”

“Yeah. But that’s in my genes.”

“You like your mom.”

“Actually, Mom always said that I was like you.”

Mas shuffled his feet and looked down at his loafers. Mas knew that he had to mention his trip to Waxley Enterprises. “Izu try to see Larry Pauley,” he announced. “I thinksu heezu fired.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I didn’t get a chance to talksu to Lloyd, but I think itsu has to do wiz the books.”

“The books?” Mari looked confused.

“I checksu all the bills: don’t make sense. One lawn mower company belly-up, no around anymore. But still listed in the records.”

“What?”

“And they put down chemical fertilizer, but I knowsu Lloyd use all natural. Don’t make sense. Overcharge for bamboo. And toro, too. They pay two thousand dolla for dat. No way dat toro two thousand.”

“So you think Miss Waxley figured that out as well? Maybe he’s been doing that at Waxley Enterprises, too, huh. Maybe that’s why he was fired.” Mari furrowed her eyebrows. “Oh, I forget to tell you. Haruo called yesterday for you. Wanted our fax number. What’s that all about?”

Before Mas could explain, he felt another presence beside him. The eccentric man he had met at the church, Elk Mamiya. He was a couple of inches shorter than Mas, most likely a pure five feet tall, so Mas could see right into his magnified eyes. Little globs floated in the whites of his eyes like curds in spoiled milk. Elk must not have been sleeping well.

“Mamiya- san,” Mas said, wondering if some kind of health problem had brought the Nisei to the Brooklyn hospital.

“Heard about your grandson through the pipeline at church,” Elk said. Gossip traveled fast in New York City, thought Mas, as fast as in Los Angeles. Tug must have mentioned the blood drive to the church ministers.

“Sank you, ne,” Mas said.

Mari extended her hand. “Yes, we really appreciate your help.”

“No, no, I’m not here to give blood.” Elk shook his head, sparse tufts of white hair sticking out of his ears. “I’m here to tell you I figured it out.”

Mari crinkled her nose as if she smelled something bad.

“I’ve been doing research into this Hirokazu Ouchi-”

“That’s Kazzy’s father,” Mari said.

“Yes, an Issei, born in Nagano Prefecture. Married to Emily, an Irishwoman. Don’t you think it’s quite a coincidence that he died shortly after his wife died giving birth to a stillborn child?”

“What are you getting at?” Mari thinned her eyes.

“What I’m getting at”-Elk began to raise his voice-“is that somebody killed him off. Somebody wanted him dead, and then they killed off Kazzy.” Elk turned to Mas. “I told you, back at the church. They’re out to destroy us.”

“Ah, Kazzy’s father died in the 1930s. I doubt that has anything to do with Kazzy’s death today.” Mas didn’t know why Mari kept talking to the man. It was obvious that he was not in his right mind. Mas had met his share of men who had fallen off the edge. Some had been scarred by the camp experience, others from surviving the Bomb. He didn’t know why certain people were able to piece themselves together and even flourish, while the weaker ones languished like plants without water. It was a slow death, a process that Mas preferred not to watch, because it reminded him of his own disintegration.

Mari visibly frowned, and Elk apparently noticed. “So don’t believe me. What the hell do I care?” Elk focused back on Mas. “I just wanted to warn you-watch your step. They’re watching.” With that, he left, the fluorescent lights reflecting blue on top of his bald head.