Summer of the Big Bachi by Naomi Hirahara Page B

away. Right now the stench was unmistakable. “What does he want?”
     
     
Haruo looked back at the closed bathroom door on the other side of the hallway. “I just talk to him on the phone,” he finally said.
     
     
“He wants sumptin’. I know that guy.”
     
     
Haruo shook his head. “Just wanna see ole friends. Thatsu all. Even asked about you.”
     
     
Mas pinched his cigarette stub. “There’s nutin’ he needsu to know about me.”
     
     
“I knowsu that. I don’t say nutin’ about you.” Mas heard the bathroom door open, and Stinky, zipping up his pants, reentered the bedroom. Mas wasn’t going to keep talking about Haneda, and Haruo seemed to understand. He straightened his hunched back. “Well, Mas, how about the exams? You gonna go with me?”
     
     
“Can’t go. Got plans.”
     
     
“You can’t work. No condition—”
     
     
“Me no work.”
     
     
“The races, Mas? Just call your bookie.”
     
     
“Bookie? Who said anytin’ about gamble?”
     
     
“Mas, whatsa matter? Just go few minutes—”
     
     
“Dammit, Haruo, I don’t wanna see those sonafugun Hiroshima doctas.” Before he realized what he was doing, Mas flung one of his Budweiser cans just a few inches away from the wisps of Haruo’s white hair. It ricocheted against the mirror of the dresser, spurting out cigarette ash, and then landed on the floor.
     
     
Mas immediately regretted his actions but said nothing. The North Hollywood incident had shaken him more than he cared to admit. The fly began to buzz and circle the room like a small aircraft losing gas. The three of them remained silent for about a minute.
     
     
“ Orai, Mas, have your way.” Haruo pushed back his hair. “Tomato in kitchen. Good ones, real red.” He walked past the bed, then out of the room, with Stinky following, peppering him with questions.
     
     
I don’t want your pitiful tomatoes, Mas wanted to yell out. He couldn’t stand the puppy dog, his eternal friend. Why didn’t Haruo ever fight back, tell him where to go? Mas wondered. Be a man, a real man, for once.
     
     
Mas lay back on the mattress and finished off the stub of his Marlboro. He should have asked Haruo to help him put the sheets on the bed. The buttons on the mattress were dark and soiled from sweat and dirt. Flies whizzed into the room from the broken window screen and landed on Chizuko’s old jewelry box.
     
     
“Sonafugun flies,” murmured Mas, who could only follow them with his eyes. After a few hours, the flies just buzzed in the corner of the ceiling. They were just plain worn out and afraid to move.
     
     

     
When the phone rang, the room was shadowy and dark. Mas flung his arm, knocking his beer can and television remote control from the nightstand.
     
     
“Hallo,” Mas mumbled.
     
     
“Yeh, Mas, it’s Tug. Tug Yamada. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
     
     
“Oh, hallo, how are you.” Mas pictured the tall, sturdy Japanese American man who entered a room like a tugboat fighting a storm. Tug’s real name was Takashi, but like other Nisei, the second-generation Japanese Americans, he had to have a more “American” moniker worthy of veterans and Sun-day golfers. Mas always hated to call a grown man Tiger, Wimp, or Fats, but what could he do? A Nisei was a Nisei, and there was no changing them.
     
     
“I heard what happened to you. I can’t believe how bad things are today. To have your truck stolen right underneath your nose.” Tug’s voice boomed over the line.
     
     
“Yah,” Mas said.
     
     
“Well, Lil made a tamale pie, and we want to drop it off. You just sit tight; we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” The line clicked, and Tug Yamada was gone.
     
     
Mas groaned and slowly pushed himself up. Tug’s wife, Lil, and Chizuko had met years ago, when their daughters were in the same preschool class. The Yamadas were Mas and Chizuko’s first full-blooded American friends. Tug had fought in the U.S. Army over in France— even had a missing half a forefinger to show for it.
     
     
That