Gasa-Gasa Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

grandfather. The man studied Mas for a moment, and Mas stared back. The man wore a light-blue button-down shirt and a puffy vest. His graying hair was parted to the side. He looked respectable. Mas figured that he was meant for better work than he was doing. “Marlboro,” Mas said to the man.
    “Marlboro?” the man repeated as if he didn’t quite understand.
    Mas nodded, and the man drew out a pack from a line of cigarette cartons organized against the wall.
    “You Japanese?” the man finally asked, after Mas pushed a ten-dollar bill across the counter.
    Mas didn’t know if it was a trick question. He knew that the Japanese weren’t much loved among other Asians, especially those straight from the Pacific. “Yah, but Izu born here.” Mas waited for his change. “California.”
    “Oh, California.” The man slid the change from the curved slots of the cash register. “My sister in California. Los Angeles.”
    Mas nodded. “Me, too.”
    “Los Angeles a very good place.”
    Mas agreed. It didn’t matter that L.A. had been hit by its share of riots, earthquakes, fires, and even tornadoes. Most city folks knew little of the tornadoes, but Mas knew enough nurserymen to have heard about the plastic roofs of their greenhouses flying off in the wind, leaving behind only a twisted metal frame. L.A. was for the toughest of the tough, and apparently this store owner’s sister qualified.
    Mas shook the package of cigarettes over his head in appreciation and made his way through the plastic strips to the sidewalk. With a fresh cigarette finally in his fingers, Mas couldn’t help feeling a little optimistic. Mari, the baby, and the son-in-law had to be together by now.

    T he Waxley House was a strange blend of styles, looking a lot like a child who didn’t know how to dress. On the bottom, the house was all dark wood, simple and clean lines. But on the top, it was brightly painted with swirls of red, green, and yellow, reminding Mas of those Chinese-influenced temples in Japan. He thought he even spotted a wooden dragon where the peaks of the roof met.
    The grass in front was freshly seeded, and the familiar smell of steer manure burned Mas’s nostrils. He was surprised that Lloyd didn’t use chemical fertilizer pellets—odorless and definitely high-technology. Mas didn’t want to admit it, but he was impressed that Lloyd had opted for the old way instead of the new. Stuck in the steer manure was a rectangular sign:
    Waxley House and Garden
est. 1919
Operated by the Ouchi Foundation
    The door to the front seemed to be ajar, but Mas felt funny about going through the house. Seeing a gate to the side, he chose instead to enter the garden through the back way, his favorite approach to a strange place.
    A large, leafless oak stood on one side of the property, making it look nothing like a Japanese garden. A couple of dozen cherry blossom trees had been introduced to the property, but their branches drooped as if they were in mourning. Mas went forward for a closer look. What the hell? The trees had been massacred—the branches pulled down and broken.
    Mas also noticed the outline of the koi pond for the first time. Undoubtedly because of the weather, the pond was dry, with no signs of either fish or water. It was, however, filled with debris and trash; the vandals had indeed hit again.
    “The police were already here; you just missed them.”
    Mas turned to face a woman who was the size of two Maris—at least widthwise. She had a round face and short reddish brown hair that was chopped at an angle. She must have been around forty but had at least three sets of earrings dangling from one earlobe. Something about her eyes seemed Japanese.
    “You must be Mari’s father, right? Lloyd mentioned that you’d be coming—you look just like Mari. I’m Becca Ouchi. I work with Lloyd.” She reached out her hand, a heavy silver ring around her thumb. Mas tentatively squeezed the woman’s hand. It was soft yet firm, like a