Free Sayonara Slam by Naomi Hirahara Page A

coroner. Find out the status of the autopsy report.”
    â€œMe?” Mas said in Japanese. Was Yuki kuru-kuru-pa ?
    â€œYou’ll be better at communicating than me. You’re the one who’s telling me to concentrate on work.”
    Mas cursed. The boy was right. He couldn’t get out of this one. After Yuki pressed in the number, Mas took the phone. “Hallo. I want to talk to coroner.”
    â€œWhat is this regarding?”
    Whatthehell was Itai’s first name?
    â€œI’zu reporter. From Japan.”
    â€œYou can leave a voice message with our press department.”
    After some clicks, Mas explained that he was leaving a message. “Dis from Yuki Kimura, Nippon Series . Callin’ about Mista Itai. Whatsu goin’ on wiz him?”
    Yuki took the phone from Mas and left his cell number.
    Who knew if the coroner would respond back?
    Yuki agreed that it would best to leave the Bonaventureand stay clear of both Neko and Amika. They returned to the Little Tokyo hotel, where Yuki took a proper shower and then went shopping for fresh changes of clothes. He wasn’t much of a shopper, to Mas’s relief, and they ended up in a tiny gift store bordering the driveway at one of Little Tokyo’s Buddhist temples.
    Yuki’s purchases in hand, Mas gestured toward the semi-hidden temple down the skinny driveway. “They have the Hiroshima Peace Flame in there,” he said in Japanese.
    Yuki came to a dead stop on the sidewalk. “What do you mean, ‘flame’?”
    â€œSomeone carried it from Hiroshima,” Mas said, remembering an article in The Rafu Shimpo . “Still burning.”
    â€œCan we see it?”
    Mas shrugged. He wasn’t much of a Buddhist, but he knew most of the priests around town were on the mellow side. Since Buddhists were the minority in the US, their doors were always open to newcomers.
    The main sanctuary was locked, so they went to a side door to find the office. The priest, wearing a white shirt and tie underneath a solid brown kimono, looked familiar to Mas. He had a long face and eyes that looked both welcoming and sad. He must have officiated at one of the many funerals that Mas seemed to attend every other weekend.
    â€œI understand you have the Hiroshima Peace Flame here,” Yuki said. “I am from Hiroshima.”
    â€œOh, really?” the priest said, almost as if he was expecting Yuki. He led them out of the office and into the darkened sanctuary. At the side of the main altar was an ornate goldlantern shaped like a beer stein. A faint flame illuminated its center. “In the 1980s, the mayor of Los Angeles brought the flame over in ember form from the Hiroshima Peace Park,” the priest said. He’d obviously told this story before.
    How could he bring fire on an airplane ? Mas wondered. He must have had to go through a lot of clearance for that.
    Yuki put his hands together and bowed toward the light. This moment of reverence both touched and surprised Mas. The boy then stepped back and waited, as if he expected Mas to do the same. But Mas had experienced the flames of the Bomb firsthand. He felt no need to bow to it now.
    As they walked back to the hotel, Mas remembered Mari’s earlier offer. “Youzu can wash some of your dirty stuff at my house. My daughta invite you ova for dinner, anyways.”
    Yuki seemed relieved for the chance to eat a home-cooked meal. He didn’t know what he was in for, thought Mas. Mari was still in her healthy, no-rice, no-bread mode. In other words, a big pile of various raw greens with squares of fresh tofu.
    Yuki’s eyes widened as he stared at the white cubes on his plate on the dining room table.
    â€œWhat, is something wrong?” Mari asked as she passed around some miso dressing.
    The boy was smart enough to stay silent and shake his head no. Takeo, who was raised on raw, unsalted almonds and dried cranberries, happily began to eat, and so did