“Like horses?” Mas asked.
“Just a little hobby.”
Mas pointed at a beer stein decorated with purple San Gabriel Mountains, horses, the smiling face of Laffit Pincay, Jr., and the words Santa Anita Racetrack. “Have dis one at home,” he said. Mas was partial to Pincay; he had made at least five thousand dollars by betting on the jockey throughout the years.
“You’re a track man, too, Mr. Arai?” Larry’s voice went up an octave higher.
Mas nodded.
“Here, let me show this to you,” Larry called Mas over to his desk. Mas edged behind Larry’s chair and almost choked on his strong cologne. A man would only soak himself in fake scent to mask his natural bad skunk smell, Mas figured. With a clear view of Larry’s wide forehead, Mas noticed a funny scar just below his receding hairline. A result of a childhood accident or a more recent incident? Mas didn’t want to ask.
Larry took out a file from his top drawer and opened it to the centerfold. A beautiful black racehorse, its coat and muscles taut and shimmering in the sun. It had a necklace of roses tossed over its neck and a jockey at its side.
“Good-lookin’ horse,” Mas managed.
“I’m buying her next week. Her name’s Last Chance.”
Last Chance. Not much of a name, thought Mas. But maybe it had some special meaning for Larry. Mas knew that some gamblers just went for the names of horses, whichever one gave them a tingle of hope and possibility.
Larry closed the folder and Mas finally sat down in the leather chair, safely escaping Larry’s scent. “Anyway, you were talking about your grandson?” Larry said.
Mas swallowed and prepared to cast his line. In lake fishing, you waited to see ripples on the surface of the water. Mas thought he saw some movement in Larry’s mind, and lowered the bait. “Yah, Waxley Garden. Don’t think Takeo should be involve-too danger, you knowsu, with Mr. Ouchi’s death and all.”
“I understand, Mr. Arai. I completely understand.”
“So I’m tellin’ Lloyd and Mari, get Takeo outta there.”
“I think it would be for the best.” Larry smiled wide for the first time for Mas. His smile was a dazzling white, as if he had used a bottle of Clorox to bleach his teeth. The cologne, the white teeth, what was real about Larry Pauley? Mas thought that it might lie in that hint of a tattoo.
Larry went on to say that he would be more than happy to assist Mas in any way, because it was Takeo’s welfare they were thinking about, yes? Mas nodded like a Tommy Lasorda bobble-head doll, a big grin pasted on his face. He was glad there were no mirrors in Larry’s office, or else he would be making himself sick at this point. Larry didn’t want Takeo and probably Lloyd to have anything to do with the garden. The question was, why? Larry finally said that he had another appointment to go to, so Mas rose from the chair.
“Youzu goin’ ova to memorial service?” Mas asked.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to make it,” said Larry without a tinge of regret.
Before Mas left the office, he turned to Larry. “Mr. Ouchi not a track man,” Mas stated more than questioned.
“Kazzy? Are you kidding me? His Highness would never rub elbows with commoners.”
Mas went back to the sidewalk, only to find the Cadillac gone. Tug was not around, either. A few minutes later, Tug appeared. “You didn’t tell me that Mr. Ouchi’s memorial service is today, Mas.”
“Yah, I forget.”
“So Phillip was in a rush to leave. He was pretty upset to hear that I was a friend of yours. I told him that I meant no harm, that I was sorry about his father’s death. He didn’t look too good.”
Tug explained that Ouchi Silk was on the fifth floor of the metallic building. “I think they are downsizing, because half of the offices were vacant. They must be having economic troubles.” Mas remembered how Tug’s son, Joe, was going through the same thing at his job back in California. This downsizing was an epidemic.
“ Warukatta. Sorry I putcha in a bad position.”
“No problem, Mas. That’s just part of the job.”
What job? Mas wondered. Since retiring, Tug had devoted himself to fixing broken objects in his house and Mas’s. It was obvious that he was now trying to fix broken people.
Even on the train ride back to Brooklyn Heights, Tug wasn’t acting himself. A man entered the train car holding a carton of chocolates. Mas didn’t give it a second thought. Everyone was selling something in New York, and subway passengers were a captive audience. Even the homeless stood up in the train car, sharing their woes and tribulations so eloquently that Mas was almost moved to place a buck in their empty hats. Almost moved, but not quite.
Now the chocolate seller was making his spiel. “My church is hoping to get your support. We are a small church, no building to speak of, but we have the spirit inside of us,” he said, pacing the length of the car and holding up 100 Grand and Nestlé Crunch bars.
The man was selling a load of garbage, but Mas was surprised to see Tug taking two dollars out of his wallet and giving it to the man for two 100 Grand bars. Tug handed a candy bar to Mas.
“Could be poison, Tug,” Mas warned.
“Let’s live dangerously,” Tug said, tearing off the wrapper.
“ Orai, ” said Mas. He sensed that Tug, away from Lil for the first time in a long while, was transforming into a rebellious teenager. There was a Japanese term, heso magari, that mothers called such children. Heso meant belly button; magari, crooked. In New York City, Tug’s belly button was moving away from the middle.
“Go for broke,” Tug said before taking a large bite.
The 100 Grand bars didn’t kill them, but gave Mas a mean stomachache. It was from not eating all day, Mas figured. And at least the stomachache somehow lessened the pain in his hand and lower back. Tug had purchased a fancy Brooklyn Heights map and had highlighted their path to the last flower shop, one with a fancy French name.
“This place reminds me of Paris,” Tug said as they neared the corner storefront. Sometimes Mas took Tug for granted and thought of him as a simple man whose most worldly adventures went as far as discovering cockroach infestation in an all-you-can-eat buffet. But Tug had actually been to exotic places like Rome and Paris, Mas had to remind himself.
The shop was painted a golden yellow, with upside-down bouquets of dried flowers hanging from the ceiling like whisk brooms. On the floor sat cement angels and rabbits in between baskets of ribbon and vases of pink and lavender tulips. A fresh-faced girl stood behind the counter, her blond hair tied back in a high ponytail.
Tug licked his lips. “Let me take the lead on this,” he said. Mas clutched his belly, happy to oblige.
“Hello, can I help you?” Even though it was past lunchtime, the girl was enthusiastic. Must be new at this, thought Mas.
“Ah, actually, I was referred to you by Happy Ikeda, you know, of Happy’s Floral Design in Midtown?” Tug said.
The girl looked blankly at Tug. Mas guessed that Happy’s name didn’t have much weight in the fifty-and-under crowd.
“Anyway, I know that you order Mystery Gardenias from California. San Juan Capistrano, in fact.”
“Oh, yeah.” The girl became more animated. “They are so beautiful. Gigantic ones.”
“Yes, well, I know that this is a strange request. But do you have records on who bought any of those gardenias on Wednesday, Thursday?”
“Why?”
“Well, you see”-Mas cowered to see what Tug was going to come up with next-“we’re investigating a murder.”