Now the chocolate seller was making his spiel. “My church is hoping to get your support. We are a small church, no building to speak of, but we have the spirit inside of us,” he said, pacing the length of the car and holding up 100 Grand and Nestlé Crunch bars.

The man was selling a load of garbage, but Mas was surprised to see Tug taking two dollars out of his wallet and giving it to the man for two 100 Grand bars. Tug handed a candy bar to Mas.

“Could be poison, Tug,” Mas warned.

“Let’s live dangerously,” Tug said, tearing off the wrapper.

“ Orai, ” said Mas. He sensed that Tug, away from Lil for the first time in a long while, was transforming into a rebellious teenager. There was a Japanese term, heso magari, that mothers called such children. Heso meant belly button; magari, crooked. In New York City, Tug’s belly button was moving away from the middle.

“Go for broke,” Tug said before taking a large bite.

The 100 Grand bars didn’t kill them, but gave Mas a mean stomachache. It was from not eating all day, Mas figured. And at least the stomachache somehow lessened the pain in his hand and lower back. Tug had purchased a fancy Brooklyn Heights map and had highlighted their path to the last flower shop, one with a fancy French name.

“This place reminds me of Paris,” Tug said as they neared the corner storefront. Sometimes Mas took Tug for granted and thought of him as a simple man whose most worldly adventures went as far as discovering cockroach infestation in an all-you-can-eat buffet. But Tug had actually been to exotic places like Rome and Paris, Mas had to remind himself.

The shop was painted a golden yellow, with upside-down bouquets of dried flowers hanging from the ceiling like whisk brooms. On the floor sat cement angels and rabbits in between baskets of ribbon and vases of pink and lavender tulips. A fresh-faced girl stood behind the counter, her blond hair tied back in a high ponytail.

Tug licked his lips. “Let me take the lead on this,” he said. Mas clutched his belly, happy to oblige.

“Hello, can I help you?” Even though it was past lunchtime, the girl was enthusiastic. Must be new at this, thought Mas.

“Ah, actually, I was referred to you by Happy Ikeda, you know, of Happy’s Floral Design in Midtown?” Tug said.

The girl looked blankly at Tug. Mas guessed that Happy’s name didn’t have much weight in the fifty-and-under crowd.

“Anyway, I know that you order Mystery Gardenias from California. San Juan Capistrano, in fact.”

“Oh, yeah.” The girl became more animated. “They are so beautiful. Gigantic ones.”

“Yes, well, I know that this is a strange request. But do you have records on who bought any of those gardenias on Wednesday, Thursday?”

“Why?”

“Well, you see”-Mas cowered to see what Tug was going to come up with next-“we’re investigating a murder.”

“Murder?” The girl looked him up and down. She seemed to take note of Tug’s well-kept beard, his button-down shirt, the casual yet expensive designer jacket his kids had most likely purchased him for Christmas. Good thing she couldn’t see Tug’s bargain tennis shoes. Then her eyes moved to Mas.

Tug quickly displayed something from his wallet. “I’m an investigator,” he said, and then pointed at Mas. “This is Inspector Arai. From Japan. He doesn’t speak much English.”

Mas was ready to protest, but then thought better of it. Tug was pretty sly when he wanted to be. This way Mas didn’t have to open his mouth and make fools out of both of them.

The girl waited.

“Kazzy Ouchi,” Tug said. No reaction from the girl. “His death was in the paper.”

Unfortunately, youngsters didn’t read newspapers, much less the Post tabloid.

“Anyway, he has international connections. Both here and in Japan.”

“Wow,” the girl said, her mouth partially open, revealing chewed gum on her pink tongue.

“So, I’m sure that you would want to assist in the investigation.”

“What does this have to do with gardenias?”

“One was left at the crime scene.”

“How do you know that it was a gardenia from our shop?”

“Forensics,” Tug said. “We have advanced research laboratories.”

“Well.” The girl played with the keys of her computer, which probably doubled as the cash register. “I’ll have to check with my boss.”

“There’s no time for that,” Tug said. His voice took on an official tone like workers at government offices. Even Mas jumped slightly, recalling the way he had been treated at the Department of Motor Vehicles and Social Security offices. After forty years of loyal work with Los Angeles County, Tug had fully adopted the required attitude.

The girl looked confused and bit the side of her lip.

“I wouldn’t want to come here with a warrant. That would cause all sorts of problems for your boss.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to just look.” The girl finally caved in.

“A delivery to Kazzy Ouchi,” Tug said quickly, so as not to lose momentum. “ Prospect Park.”

The girl’s nimble fingers tapped the keyboard.

“Yes, there was a delivery to Kazzy Ouchi on Thursday.”

“From whom?”

“Somebody named Anna Grady.”

Anna Grady, thought Mas. Kazzy’s ex-girlfriend.

“Wait a minute. I remember this. I took the order over the phone.” The girl continued staring at the computer screen.

“You have her address?” Tug asked

“Yes, Fort Lee, New Jersey.”

Tug stepped behind the flower shop girl and noted the address in a small spiral notebook he kept in his shirt pocket.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to something on the screen.

“Oh, she wanted a note with the gardenia. That’s right. I remember now. She kept changing it. She finally came up with this.”

“‘Meet me in the garden at eight tonight,’” Tug read out loud.

Mas forgot that he wasn’t supposed to know English. “Thursday?” he reconfirmed.

The girl nodded her head. “Yes, last Thursday. Is that important?”

“Thursday the day Kazzy shot dead,” Mas said as they walked toward the underground apartment. “Girlfriend somehow connected.” Tug’s feet were swollen in his new tennis shoes, so he trudged behind Mas, a few steps back.

“Yes, I was thinking the same thing.” Tug stopped at the corner and leaned his hand on a neighboring brownstone. “My feet are aching, Mas. How are you holding up?”

Miraculously, Mas’s hand didn’t smart anymore, and even his stomachache had gone away. Mas figured that he had extra-strong white blood cells, perhaps enhanced from the radiation of the Bomb.

He told Tug that he could soak his feet in Mari and Lloyd’s bathtub, for which Tug seemed eternally grateful. “I’m getting tired of Joy’s brown water,” he explained.

As Mas opened the gate and door of the underground apartment, he remembered a moment at the flower shop.

“Whatsu dat ID you show the girl?” he asked Tug.

“Oh.” Tug smiled. “It was my old health inspector badge. Just covered up the side that said Department of Health.”

Mas laughed and let Tug into the underground apartment. He pointed through the bedroom to the bathroom and then checked the refrigerator. Empty, aside from a half-empty carton of soy milk and various bottles of mustards, sauces, and pickles. Luckily, in the freezer was a plastic bag of leftover rice. As he heard water running in the bathtub, he brewed some green tea and microwaved the rice. He poured the steaming tea over the rice in two rice bowls. He was delighted to find a small bottle of umeboshi on the refrigerator door shelf and floated a couple of the red pickled plums in his rice concoction.

Tug walked barefoot through the house, leaving traces of water on the hardwood floor. When he saw the rice bowls, his eyes crinkled in a smile. “ Ochazuke, ” he said. “Just like home.”