Summer of the Big Bachi by Naomi Hirahara

the yam wine, he figured. He pounded on the door. “Missu Kakita.”
     
     
There was the click-clack of high heels below on the concrete. Who was that passing by the foot of the stairs? A woman with long, dark hair? “Hallo . . .” Mas called out.
     
     
The woman disappeared. Mas rushed down the concrete steps and out to the street. A child wailed from one of the open windows, and the smell of onions and spices soaked the air. This was one no-good place, thought Mas. Faceless people coming and going. The sidewalk was still, too still. Mas’s body pulsed, down to even the tips of his fingers.
     
     
Then he heard it. It shrieked at first, as high-pitched as an air raid siren. Then a rumble like a summer thunderstorm. He knew the familiar music, a morning ritual. It was the song of his Ford Custom Car truck, now hurtling from its resting place in the hands of a stranger.
     
     
In the darkness, Mas struggled to see the driver, but everything was happening too fast. He grabbed hold of the truck’s bed, as Mari had done years ago, and ran forward, desperately trying to keep it from leaving. His gnarled hands grasped for anything, the rakes with missing teeth, the loops of garden hoses, the Trimmer lawn mower, which was being tossed about with the stacks of broken branches. The truck squealed and squeaked before gaining speed and tearing up the road. Yell, he thought, yell. But all that came out was spit and air and wheezing. The ends of the rake were cutting into his palms, and the edge of a blower pressing into his forehead. Sonafugun, you not going to leave. You not leaving. But as the truck turned, Mas tripped into a pothole and felt a burning in his back. His face smacked against the concrete. Mas tried to look up. He heard the truck abruptly stop. With the motor still running, the door of the Ford was creaked open, and then footsteps, hard heels of a man’s dress shoes. The thief’s knees popped as he knelt down. All Mas could see was the tops of his brown leather shoes— a fancy kind with silly-looking tassels. “Keep your mouth shut about Haneda, or next time it’ll be more than your beat-up truck.” A male voice— but young, old; hakujin, Japanese, black, or Mexican, Mas couldn’t tell. Then something cracked against the concrete close to Mas’s head. The footsteps returned to the Ford, the door closed, and the engine revved one last time before the truck left the street. Mas struggled to turn his head, but saw only a broken branch with a piece of gauze bandage hanging from one end.
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER FOUR

     
     
“You needsu to see docta, real docta, Mas.”
     
     
Mas glanced up at Haruo, who stood by the sheetless bed. Haruo’s hair, which covered the left side of his face, looked freshly washed and dried, even electrified, by the dry summer heat. Next to him was Stinky Yoshimoto, listening attentively. Why he was here, Mas had no idea. Stinky’s mouth was half-open, making him look like an eel awaiting its prey.
     
     
“Acupuncture enough, yo, ” Mas replied. He lay on the bed, staring at his peeling bedroom ceiling. A gauze bandage was wrapped around his torn hand, while the bruise on his left cheek ached.
     
     
“Too bad about the Ford,” Haruo said. Mas still couldn’t quite believe it. How could he be without the Ford? The theft had done something serious to him. An anger, one he hadn’t felt in years, burned in his gut.
     
     
“ Sugokatta, ne, Mas,” Haruo continued. “You lucky. You could’ve caught them and gotten your head blown off like Morishita- san .”
     
     
“Probably young ones, eh, Mas,” Stinky said, blinking furiously. “Maybe kurochan s. Or those Mexicans.”
     
     
Mas ignored Stinky— he wasn’t worth wasting time on.
     
     
“Maybe the police will be able to find,” said Haruo, the forever optimist.
     
     
“Ah.” Mas spit into a tissue and tossed it on the floor. “Not counting on them.” As it turns out, the police barely spent ten minutes asking their few