Read Online Gasa-Gasa Girl by Naomi Hirahara - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Naomi Hirahara
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Fathers and daughters, Mystery Fiction, Police Procedural, New York (N.Y.), Parent and Adult Child, Millionaires, Gardeners, Japanese Americans, Millionaires - Crimes against, Gardens
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tonight he ate as if there were no other.
As he was chewing on the last chicken skewer, the phone rang. It was Tug, apologizing and telling him that he was without his rental car. Mas told him everything that had transpired: from Kazzy’s death to Takeo’s medical setback to the appearance of Detective Ghigo at the hospital. “Needsu to get to Seventy-seven police station; check on Lloyd,” Mas told Tug. They made plans to meet at the Atlantic Avenue subway station ticket booth in the northeast corner. Mas had no idea how he was going to get to the Atlantic Avenue station, much less any specific corner of it, at eight o’clock at night, no less. At this point, he would just have to go out there and try. “Snooze, you lose,” his former friend Wishbone Tanaka once told him regarding an opportunity to buy a nursery. At that time, Mas lost a business deal; but this time, he could lose much more.
M as had put his old long underwear from his fishing and camping days on underneath his wool sweater and nylon jacket, but the blast of cold air still seemed to soak through the layers of clothing into his bones. He adjusted his Dodgers cap, but that was hardly any help in retaining warmth. At least it would disguise his age; he figured looking seventy years old would attract lazy thieves seeking an easy target.
On his subway map he had already traced the route of the green line with the edge of his dirty index finger. Unfortunately, the Atlantic Avenue stop was a good seven blocks away from the underground apartment. Seven blocks during a winter day in L.A. would be nothing, but this was New York City at night. Luckily the path was a straight one along Flatbush Avenue, so Mas figured that at least there was no danger of getting lost if he went in the right direction.
He traveled alongside the moving wall of cars until he came to a gated area next to a sporting goods store. The gate was open, and an overhead light from the side of the building shone on a man digging around a small pond. The Teddy Bear Garden that Tug had talked about, Mas remembered. Mas couldn’t help but walk a few steps into the dirt.
“Well, hello—” A balding
hakujin
man turned from his shoveling job. Mas noticed a flat of daffodils in square plastic planters. The man didn’t seem afraid that a stranger had invaded his space, and Mas wondered if the night gardener might be a little
kuru-kuru-pa
. “Got kind of behind from the rain last weekend,” the man said. “Wanted to at least get the daffodils going.”
From what Mas could tell, the garden would look pretty good in late spring. But right now, the bare trees and planted seedlings only held a promise of what could be.
“Are you interested in gardening?” the man asked.
Mas didn’t know how to answer. He had been doing it for more than forty years, but he honestly didn’t know how interested he was in it. “Izu a gardener,” he chose to respond. “In California.”
“Wonderful, that’s just wonderful.” The man went to a folding chair and pulled a piece of paper from a stack that was held in place by a round polished rock. “We’re having a barbecue here in a couple of weeks for anyone who wants to join us. We would love to have you.”
“Izu be out of here by then.” Mas glanced at the colored flyer, which was printed in English on one side and Spanish on the other.
The bald man looked sincerely disappointed. “That’s too bad,” he said. “But if you’re around, please come.”
As Mas left the gated garden, he just had to shake his head. He had had contact with plenty of strange
hakujin
in California, but the ones in Park Slope might even top them. He almost stopped by a wire garbage can to toss the flyer, but had second thoughts and stuffed it in his jeans pocket instead.
M as should have been warned about the size of the Atlantic Avenue station by the long line of letters and numbers encased in circles and diamonds on the sign in front of the station’s stairs.
As he was chewing on the last chicken skewer, the phone rang. It was Tug, apologizing and telling him that he was without his rental car. Mas told him everything that had transpired: from Kazzy’s death to Takeo’s medical setback to the appearance of Detective Ghigo at the hospital. “Needsu to get to Seventy-seven police station; check on Lloyd,” Mas told Tug. They made plans to meet at the Atlantic Avenue subway station ticket booth in the northeast corner. Mas had no idea how he was going to get to the Atlantic Avenue station, much less any specific corner of it, at eight o’clock at night, no less. At this point, he would just have to go out there and try. “Snooze, you lose,” his former friend Wishbone Tanaka once told him regarding an opportunity to buy a nursery. At that time, Mas lost a business deal; but this time, he could lose much more.
M as had put his old long underwear from his fishing and camping days on underneath his wool sweater and nylon jacket, but the blast of cold air still seemed to soak through the layers of clothing into his bones. He adjusted his Dodgers cap, but that was hardly any help in retaining warmth. At least it would disguise his age; he figured looking seventy years old would attract lazy thieves seeking an easy target.
On his subway map he had already traced the route of the green line with the edge of his dirty index finger. Unfortunately, the Atlantic Avenue stop was a good seven blocks away from the underground apartment. Seven blocks during a winter day in L.A. would be nothing, but this was New York City at night. Luckily the path was a straight one along Flatbush Avenue, so Mas figured that at least there was no danger of getting lost if he went in the right direction.
He traveled alongside the moving wall of cars until he came to a gated area next to a sporting goods store. The gate was open, and an overhead light from the side of the building shone on a man digging around a small pond. The Teddy Bear Garden that Tug had talked about, Mas remembered. Mas couldn’t help but walk a few steps into the dirt.
“Well, hello—” A balding
hakujin
man turned from his shoveling job. Mas noticed a flat of daffodils in square plastic planters. The man didn’t seem afraid that a stranger had invaded his space, and Mas wondered if the night gardener might be a little
kuru-kuru-pa
. “Got kind of behind from the rain last weekend,” the man said. “Wanted to at least get the daffodils going.”
From what Mas could tell, the garden would look pretty good in late spring. But right now, the bare trees and planted seedlings only held a promise of what could be.
“Are you interested in gardening?” the man asked.
Mas didn’t know how to answer. He had been doing it for more than forty years, but he honestly didn’t know how interested he was in it. “Izu a gardener,” he chose to respond. “In California.”
“Wonderful, that’s just wonderful.” The man went to a folding chair and pulled a piece of paper from a stack that was held in place by a round polished rock. “We’re having a barbecue here in a couple of weeks for anyone who wants to join us. We would love to have you.”
“Izu be out of here by then.” Mas glanced at the colored flyer, which was printed in English on one side and Spanish on the other.
The bald man looked sincerely disappointed. “That’s too bad,” he said. “But if you’re around, please come.”
As Mas left the gated garden, he just had to shake his head. He had had contact with plenty of strange
hakujin
in California, but the ones in Park Slope might even top them. He almost stopped by a wire garbage can to toss the flyer, but had second thoughts and stuffed it in his jeans pocket instead.
M as should have been warned about the size of the Atlantic Avenue station by the long line of letters and numbers encased in circles and diamonds on the sign in front of the station’s stairs.
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