“What happened?” I asked, and almost immediately regretted asking, because I was sure that Yoshida had been asked that question a million times before.
“World War Two.”
“Oh?”
“That’s right, but perhaps not what you think. Like most of the rest of the West Coast Japanese, I was sent to a camp. Man, it was cold there.”
I remembered what Mrs. Okada said and asked, “Were you at Heart Mountain?”
Yoshida looked startled and said “No. Manzanar. Why do you ask?”
“I just talked to someone who was at Heart Mountain today and she remarked about how cold it was there. That’s why I thought you might have been at Heart Mountain. Wasn’t Manzanar in the desert?”
“Yes, but during the winter it could get awfully cold, too. That’s why when the opportunity came for me to volunteer to go into the army, leaving the camp didn’t sound so bad.”
“Were you in the 442nd?” I asked, referring to the famous all-Japanese combat team, the most decorated in the U.S. Army.
“I was supposed to be in the 442nd, but I never made it. I never made it past two weeks in boot camp. They were supposed to be teaching us to throw hand grenades, but some of our guys really weren’t very coordinated. We were throwing them from these bunkers, really just a pile of sandbags in a U-shape. One of the guys pulled the pin on a grenade and threw it, but it didn’t go very far. It just sort of hit the ground and sat there. We were all ducked down behind, but nothing happened, so we decided the grenade was a dud.
“The guy who was training us, a staff sergeant, really wasn’t very smart. He was a big Southern boy and I figured he was given us bunch of Japanese to train as some kind of punishment. I don’t think he was malicious, but like I said, I don’t think he was very smart. Instead of evacuating all of us straight back from behind the bunker, after about ten minutes he told us to go over to the next bunker.
“I had just left the safety of the sandbags when the grenade went off. The guy who tossed it barely tossed it out onto the range. It was a pathetic throw really. It was more dangerous to us than it would have been to any enemy.
“Anyway, it went off and I caught a bunch of shrapnel in my leg and hip. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but it cut a bunch of tendons instead of just embedding itself in the fleshy part of the leg.
“If the guy who threw the grenade had just been a little bit more coordinated, it wouldn’t have been close enough to do me any damage. Or if the sergeant in charge of our group had shown a little bit more patience, or had been a little bit smarter in the way he evacuated us, I wouldn’t have been hit, either. In fact, I’ve often thought that just a few seconds delay in leaving the shelter of the sandbags would have saved me.”
He smiled and said, “Well, it can’t be helped. That’s what killed my dancing and my military career. I never got overseas. I never got to try professional dancing, although I think now maybe that would have been butting my head against a wall. Being a Japanese song and dance man right after World War Two wouldn’t have been easy.”
“We sort of have something in common. I was in Vietnam only three weeks when I got a back injury. Did they send you back to the camp after you recovered?”
“Oh, yes. Manzanar was my home for the duration.”
“Look, Mr. Yoshida, maybe you can help me find Angela.”
“What’s your interest in her?”
“She can help me establish the time when I visited Matsuda.”
“Are you a suspect?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so,” I said. “At least not yet. But I did see Matsuda that night and the only one who can really establish when I saw him is Angela Sanchez. I’ve developed a real interest in this case for other reasons, and I want to speak to her.”
Yoshida looked at me for a few long moments. I could see the aloofness, which had started to flee while Yoshida told his story of the hand grenade, returning. “I can give you her home address and telephone number when we get back to the theater, but I really can’t do much else.”
After getting the information I drove back to my apartment in Silver Lake. I was surprised to see Mariko curled up on my couch with a blanket pulled over her. She knew where I hid my extra key, and she had driven over from her own apartment and let herself in. I walked over to the edge of the couch, put my hand on her shoulder, and leaned forward and kissed her.
“How were the strippers?” she said. Her eyes were closed, but her voice was wide awake.
“I told you I went there for business,” I protested.
“Monkey business,” she said, her eyes popping open. Her face was serious, but I could see a playful gleam in her eyes.
“Well, I really went there to talk to the stage manager and choreographer, a guy called Yoshida.”
“Aha. And you didn’t see any naked girls?”
“Well, one,” I admitted, “but only because she strutted past me going offstage.”
“And I suppose you modestly closed your eyes when she did so?”
“Well, it was really hard to close them. They were bulging out.”
Mariko twisted around and playfully started to punch me. I grabbed her arms and soon we were involved in an impromptu wrestling match. Within minutes the wrestling match turned into something quite different.
Mariko fell asleep after our lovemaking, but as I got under the covers and snuggled up to her, I kept thinking about what Yoshida had told me. I also thought about Mariko and her struggles as an actress and an alcoholic. I thought about her standing up in front of a group of strangers to share part of her story in an effort to make it easier for others who were taking the same journey she was. I buried my face into the fragrance of Mariko’s hair and felt very protective toward her.
15
The next morning Mariko took off for work and I tried calling Angela Sanchez. The phone rang for a long time before it was answered.
“Habla.” A man’s voice: Latino, gruff, and sounding a bit older.
“I’d like to speak to Angela Sanchez, please.”
“Who the hell are you?” Anger and heavily accented English.
Surprised, I said, “I beg your pardon? I’d just like to speak to Miss Sanchez.”
“Angela is my mujer. Why are you calling her? She’s not here. Who are you?” Real anger now. The man was almost shouting.
It seemed kind of stupid, but I politely said, “Well, I’ll call back. Thanks for your help.” I hung up. What help? Damned if I know, but politeness can sometimes be an irritating habit.
Wondering what to do next, I went out to the car and got out the Thomas Brothers map guide, the bible for anyone who drives in Los Angeles. I looked up Angela Sanchez’s address and saw it was in East L.A. I decided to pay a visit.
First I swung by Little Tokyo and stopped at Fugetsu-Do. Fugetsu-Do is the oldest Japanese confectioner’s shop in L.A. It’s been in the same family for almost a century and they make what are positively the best manju (Japanese pastries) in town. I bought a nice assortment and watched as the clerk put them in a box and carefully wrapped the box with paper. Then she patiently tied a red ribbon around the box and presented it to me. She did this on every purchase, and if I had remembered to tell her this was a gift she’d have used gift paper.
I stopped by the boutique and gave the box to Mrs. Kawashiri, along with my thanks for setting up the meeting with Mrs. Okada. Ongiri again.
Mrs. Kawashiri recognized the Fugetsu-Do paper immediately, and after insisting that setting up the meeting was nothing, she looked at the box and said, “Yumm! Can I look at them?”
“Of course. I hope you’ll do more than look at them. With all the pastries you’ve given me I owe you more than a few treats.”