Free Snakeskin Shamisen by Naomi Hirahara Page A

readily admit to himself. Juanita had warned Mas that Tuesday would be a long day—she had mentioned something about meeting a musicology professor at UCLA—so he placed some squares of Salonpas over his achy joints, in particular his kneecaps and right shoulder blade. He tried to maneuver another adhesive square onto the middle of his back with a back scratcher he had received from Haruo, but the patch kept rolling up like a cigar. These were the times that Mas thought about the merits of a companion like Haruo’s Spoon, but the hassles outweighed the benefits. He would just have to suffer a sore back.
    The next morning, Mas maneuvered his truck around the winding Pasadena Freeway, apparently created for Buicks and Fords just a generation away from the Model T. As he neared Elysian Park, the home of Dodger Stadium, Mas was always struck by the silhouette of the palm trees along a hill, giant frilled toothpicks stuck into a meaty mound of L.A. earth.
    Juanita lived in Silverlake, named after the concrete reservoir that seemed more for show than for any usefulness. He headed toward Hollywood and got off around Echo Park, passing another fake lake, which bloomed with lotus blossoms, their leaves as large as plates, once a year. More curves, more cracked concrete, more hills that tested the Ford’s failing shock absorbers. The page for Silverlake in Mas’s Thomas Guide map had been torn out years ago, indicating how often it had to be used; Silverlake was like Culver City on hills—a web of roads that didn’t know the meaning of a straight line.
    Luckily, Juanita had been good at giving out directions, and Mas only had to backtrack once. She had said that her house was a little red castle, so Mas spotted it a block away. She had a large wooden trellis that supported healthy vines of bougainvillea, also bright red. His daughter, Mari, had once told him that the bougainvillea was her favorite plant, as it somehow reminded her of the California missions along the coast. Mas thought that it was because it was able to grow wild and flourished in full sun, much like his daughter.
    This PI business was lucrative, Mas thought to himself. For how could a single woman afford such a house? He parked the truck in the driveway in back of Juanita’s Toyota, since all the street parking was taken. The doorbell seemed to have been rusted for a while, because it emitted no sound. Mas instead took hold of the metal knocker and bore down on the wood door.
    A Japanese man in his sixties opened the door. He was tall and thin, with a well-groomed mustache over his thick lips. “Yes?”
    “Hallo. Juanita here?” With the same body type as the girl, this must be the father. Mas felt kind of funny asking for a girl young enough to be his daughter.
    “She lives out back. Here, I will show you.”
    The man led Mas through a side gate and down some concrete steps.
    “I’m Juanita’s father, Antonio,” he said when they reached a patio in front of a small back unit. Mas detected a slight clipped accent more reminiscent of his Latino helpers than Japanese Americans.
    “Mas. Mas Arai.”
    “You must be one of Juanita’s clients.”
    “Workin’ together,” Mas said. He wanted to make clear that his involvement with the daughter was purely professional.
    “Juanita.” Antonio banged on the door. “Mr. Arai is here for you.”
    The door opened, revealing Juanita in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was wet, and a towel lay on her shoulders. “Hello, Mr. Arai,” she said. “I’m running a little late. I’ll be right out.” She told him to wait in his car and repark it in the driveway after she moved her Toyota truck.
    Antonio obviously thought his job was done, and excused himself back to the main house. Mas found this father-and-daughter relationship interesting. Living side by side yet somehow able to keep walls between them. The Gushikens were not that Japanese-y, Mas figured.
    He returned to his car and watched a couple of