Snakeskin Shamisen Read Online Free Page A

was coming from the door marked KANE , men’s room. A group of people were starting to gather at the open door, and again Mas found himself pushed to the front.
    G. I. had Randy in a headlock, pressing the top of his head against the hand-drying machine.
    “Dammit.” Randy shook G. I. off his body like a dog freeing himself of raindrops. “You don’t get it, G. I. Never did.”
    “Listen, wasn’t this party for me? You’ve won half a million dollars, man. Be happy for once.”
    Randy sneered, and for a moment Mas thought that he was going to do something violent, like throw the trash can against the mirror. But he instead tucked his head down and barreled through the crowd. The room was dead quiet. Everyone felt so self-conscious that no looks or words were exchanged. G. I. walked out, and the rest of the crowd slowly followed. Except for Mas. Filled with three Sapporos, he still had to use the bathroom. As he walked toward the stalls, he noticed a figure cowering in the first stall, the door ajar. It was Jiro, his Hawaiian shirt ripped and the freckles on his face smeared with tears.

    M as had had enough excitement and decided to go straight home without saying good-bye to either G. I. or Randy. The incident in the bathroom had put a damper on the festivities; the feelings of embarrassment seemed to soak throughout the banquet hall. The fake palm fronds began to look wilted up on the wooden beams, and the entertainment had changed to karaoke. An oblivious singer was swinging his hips to the words “I did it my way,” convincing Mas more than ever that it was time to leave.
    There was plain
haji
, or shame, that people carried with them like heavy stones. And then there was
haji kaita
, when you made a fool of yourself. A good number of the guests had watched G. I. and Randy make fools out of themselves. Old friends, both over fifty years old, they had no business fighting with each other like boys in a schoolyard. After Mas saw Jiro in the bathroom, the freckle-faced man, too, had scurried away in shame. Too bad, too bad, thought Mas. There was no reason for such a celebration to end on this sour note.
    Mas took out the screwdriver from his pocket even before leaving the restaurant. Ready for his clean getaway, he shoved open the back door, only to bump squarely into the young hostess, Tiffany, who was coming back into the restaurant. The screwdriver dropped and rolled down the concrete edge of the parking lot. Tiffany bent down to retrieve it. She had a fat bag around her shoulder; she must have been done for the day and realized that she had forgotten something back in the restaurant. She handed the screwdriver to Mas, scrunching her nose in curiosity.
    Mas didn’t feel like he needed to explain. It was no crime to carry a screwdriver. “Sank you,” he said quickly, and headed for his truck. Most of the Toyotas and Infinitis had left, and even though it was early, around five, there was a strange emptiness in the air. The traffic from the nearby boulevard droned like rushing water, but there were no other signs of life—no stray crows or lost seagulls on the telephone wire above. Mas jammed the screwdriver into the lock, swung open the door, and pulled himself into the Ford. It was definitely time to get out of Torrance.
    As Mas drove north on the Harbor Freeway, he thought about Jiro hiding in the corner of the bathroom. Had something happened between him and G. I.? Or maybe the argument had started with Randy. These men weren’t such close friends; or perhaps they were too close. Sometimes knowing too much about somebody could lead to trouble, Mas knew firsthand. As the traffic started moving, Mas relaxed a little, and stretched out his neck, hearing his bones crack. He didn’t have to solve anybody’s problems, he reminded himself. His mission today had been to show his face and wish G. I. well, and he not only had done that but had even stayed for a couple of extra hours. His debt to G. I. wasn’t