Ali picked January fifth for our reunion in Little Tokyo. I’m sure he wouldn’t have if he’d known it was going to be 95 degrees. The heat roared down from the Great Basin on one of those Santa Ana gales — the kind that sucks the saliva from your mouth and dries the sweat before it reaches your pores.

Ken, Mia, and I were in L.A. for Christmas, one of the hottest on record, and Ali wanted us all to get together for old times’ sake. A decade earlier, we’d all been night-class students at the Marugoto Nihongo Academy on San Pedro and First.

It was a short walk from the Metro station to the Tortoise & Crane, a bar whose faded chochin jiggled on the breeze, and at whose wooden counter the ghosts of our days as part-time Japanese language learners still swayed over rum, lime, and Angostura bitters. The only thing that had changed were the number of tattoos on the bar staff’s arms.

Mia was seated at the end of the counter. She had on a pink Hawaiian shirt, all hibiscus and pineapples, and unbuttoned to her sunburnt cleavage. A pair of flier’s glasses kept her dark braids in check and an iPhone was pressed to her cheek; her lips worked hard against it.

She saw me and waved vigorously.

I slid onto a stool beside her and she patted my arm but kept talking, ‘Yeah, yeah, but we can’t do that right now. Let them sweat a bit longer …’

I ordered a beer. Sweat a bit longer. I’d been leaking like a noodle sieve since 8 a.m. I drank half my beer in two swallows and was about to drain the glass when Mia put down the phone.

‘Michael Takahashi! How the hell are ya?’ She leaped up and squeezed me in an embrace that smelled of fresh sweat and sandalwood.

‘Good, good,’ I said. ‘What’s it been, five years?’

‘Six years! Six years since we barely graduated.’ She laughed loudly. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. How’s San Fran?’

I forced a smile. It was what reunions were all about: a little “Where are they now?” with a bit of “This is Your Life”.

‘Nice, but the rent is screwing me.’

She patted my arm. ‘Well, you’re looking good for a guy who’s getting screwed. Still studying?

‘I was in Osaka in August. Problem was, all the cousins speak English now.’ I laughed. ‘You?’

‘Only use my nihongo when the Japanese TV and film crews are in town.’

‘How is the film business?’

‘Bochi-bochi ya naa. No money in it. Not for a make-up artist like me.’

I eyed her glass. ‘Is that why you’re drinking mineral water?’

‘Don’t drink.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Nope.’

‘You used to sink ’em faster than Miley Cyrus.’

We raised our glasses, toasting the six years that had divided us. As I drained the froth, a hand pressed down on my shoulder, and a smooth baritone voice descended. ‘Tell me I’m dreaming. The old posse assembled?’

A man to whom the years had been kind stood with a frosted glass of beer in his hand, beaming down on us. Ali was tall, muscular, and tanned. The glass beads on his juzu bracelet chattered as we shook hands.

He kissed Mia on the cheek and pulled up a stool between us. ‘Good to see you troublemakers again,’ he said. We raised our glasses to a new anthem: ‘To the good old bad days.’

We drank on. We laughed, reminisced, and recalled the bar sessions after Japanese classes, and after-after parties. We talked about the class of 2018, and those who’d been whisked off to Tokyo by handsome actors and gotten married, or gotten divorced, or who were managing tourist resorts in Hawaii, or who, in one case, were dead.                           

Ali looked at his watch. ‘Ken’s coming, right?’      

‘He’s got a family thing. Be here soon,’ said Mia.

‘He’s in D.C.?’

‘Yup. Married, two kids, government job,’ Mia said.

‘Doing what?’

‘Well that’s the thing. Ask him and he never gives a straight answer.’

‘You can ask him yourself when he arrives,’ I said. ‘What about you, big man, what angle are you working these days?’

‘Single, no kids, coffee.’

‘Coffee?’

‘I import beans from Colombia.’

‘There’s money in that?’ said Mia.

He pulled from his hip pocket a key chain with a Porsche logo and dangled it before us. ‘Coffee is black gold in this town.’

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if leaving L.A. had been a good idea.

But the day’s pent-up heat which oozed from the sidewalk, rippling my view of the traffic passing down East 2nd Street, confirmed that it had been. The wind had momentarily subsided, and the locals of Little Tokyo, driven from their stifling stores and apartments, now trickled into the cool depths of the bar in their singles and groups. It grew crowded.

We drank on, letting the bar staff carry away our empties, and the alcohol our inhibitions. Just like in the old days, we peppered our conversation with Japanese. Funny how alcohol frees the mind.

Then Mia disappeared into the restroom. When she came back she was rubbing her nose and her eyes were glassy.

‘Smell that?’ she said.

‘What?’ Ali said.

‘Smoke,’ I said. ‘It’s a brushfire up north. Did you see the news?’

Ali’s phone rang. ‘Sam, what’s up? You need it when? Hold on.’ He rose from his seat. ‘Back in a sec,’ he said and left through the bar door.

I had to relieve myself, so I followed. Turning into the men’s restroom I glimpsed Ali through the window. He stood in the parking lot talking to a shaven-headed man with a gallery of tattoos on his neck and a goatee as thick as a beaver’s pelt. Ali tossed his car key in the air. The man caught it and then he, too, was gone.

Back in the barroom, I asked, ‘Who was that?’

‘Who?’

‘The guy with the tatts.’

‘Business associate. Needs the company car for a bit.’

‘Didn’t look like a barista.’

‘They come in all shapes and guises.’

The sky outside had turned sepia on account of the smoke. I felt light-headed and loose-lipped.

‘I’ve got an idea—a sure-fire way to make a buck,’ I said to Ali, as we ordered afresh.

‘Let’s hear it, Mike.’

‘Your Colombian connections. With all those coffee beans coming out here, why not have them toss in a few bags of marching powder.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The price is going ballistic right now.’

‘Price of what?’ asked Mia.

‘Snow.’

‘Coke?’ said Ali.

Mia guffawed loudly. ‘Yeah, sure.’

But Ali’s face had straightened. There was a glint in his eye. He glanced around at the tables of happy friends and neighbors as red faced and merry as ourselves.

‘Well now, it’s really funny you should mention that.’ He eyeballed the two of us. ‘The coffee trade is going well, but it could be better. These hard times are sucking the froth off our profits. We need to adapt or diversify, if you know what I mean?’

I drained my beer and ordered another. I nodded. I had no idea what he meant.

‘I’ll be frank. I’m looking for partners …’ he said at last. ‘To facilitate the cash flow of our new product.’

‘Which is?’

‘Snow.’

‘I was joking,’ I said.

Ali’s smile faded. ‘I’m not. I’ve known you guys for a long time. You’re the salt of the earth, I can trust you. Look, my cousin, he’s high in the Commancheros. They can move the product in with my beans.’

‘What about Customs and Border Protection?’

‘Taken care of. We just need to find ways to wash the proceeds, if you know what I mean.’

This time I did know what he meant. I thought about my $1,000-a-week apartment in the Mission District, the credit card bills that were piling up, and my kechi clients at the advertising agency whom I’d have to grovel to when I returned.

‘Launder?’

‘And I’m not talking about your dirty underpants.’

I didn’t laugh.

Ali continued, ‘All you have to do is run some of our cash through your company account. Nothing significant at first. It’ll look like your business is on the up and up. You’re still running an advertising business right?’

I had trouble moving my head up and down.

‘Your cut will be somewhere in the ballpark of twenty percent of whatever goes through. I’m offering Mia the same deal,’ he said.

I glanced at Mia. She nodded, then winked at me. Then she looked up and squealed, ‘Ken!’

A man in a blue polo shirt appeared in the doorway with a beer in his hand. He was short, stout, with an olive complexion and broad forehead.

I stood unsteadily, watching him move towards us. He reminded me of a panther. ‘Ken, how the hell are you, man?’ I said.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘The Last Supper had nothing on our family lunches.’

‘We’ve been drowning our sorrows waiting,’ said Ali, gripping Ken’s hand. Before anyone could stop him, Ali left to order more beer.

‘Mia tells me you’re a government man now,’ I said.

Ken laughed; he looked embarrassed.

‘Taxation?’ Mia said.

He shook his head.

‘Foreign affairs?’ I asked.

‘What’s this? Six years and an inquisition in the first five minutes?’ He smiled. ‘No—no, nothing like that.’

‘You were always the most conscientious, clean-cut guy in class,’ I said. ‘You’re with Health and Human Services, right?’

Ken smiled, but said nothing.

‘C’mon, you can tell us,’ Mia whined. ‘Before Ali comes back. C’mon, you know what he’s like, he won’t let you finish a sentence.’

‘I’m head of Media Affairs,’ he said.

‘For the HHS?’ I said.

‘For the DEA.’

My laugh didn’t sound natural. I found my gaze searching for a resting spot, anywhere but Ken’s cheerful, engaging eyes which moved from me to Mia and back again. ‘Ah, hell, it’s boring stuff,’ he laughed. ‘I bet you guys are up to more creative mischief.’

‘No, no, not at all. That’s great. You’re going places,’ I said.

‘Yeah, well, the paid vacation is good. Just got back from a ski holiday with the family in Nagano. Best powder ever.’

‘Powder?’ said Ali, returning. The beer sloshed about in his glass. ‘What’s this about powder?’

‘Snow,’ said Ken, lifting his glass. ‘Kanpai!’ We drank long and deep.

‘Snow?’ Ali wiped his lip on the back of his hand.

‘Finest stuff you’ve ever laid eyes on.’

‘Where?’

‘Japan.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘I kid you not. I just got back from there.’

Ali slid onto the stool next to Ken, their shoulders rubbing.

‘Been to Colombia?’ Ali’s face was serious now.

‘You’re gonna tell me Colombia has better snow?’

‘As a matter of fact …’

‘What Ken means,’ I said quickly, ‘… is that the skiing is better in Japan.’ 

Ali looked at me; his gaze swung back to Ken. Laughter exploded from his mouth. He fell off his bar stool, gasping, and when he came up for air, Ken looked on bemused. ‘What else would I be talking about?’ he said.

But Ali was too far gone; he still couldn’t breathe. The heat, the beer, and whatever was itching his nose, had struck him like a velvet hammer. We tried desperately to reel him in before he swam out deeper.

‘Ken was just telling us about his work …’ Mia began, but Ali cut her off, ‘So you’re telling me I should be importing from Japan not Colombia?’

‘Importing what?’ said Ken.

‘Snow, man. Snow!’

‘Bro, what are you on?’

‘Ken’s with the DEA,’ I said.

‘What?’

Ken slipped his arm around Ali’s neck in a mock jiu-jitsu move. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, grinning.

‘A cop?’

‘Me? Hell no, I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag. I run the Media Affairs unit. We handle the reporters, feed them the cartel news, gang war reports, drug busts …’

‘And snow reports,’ I said.

‘And the snow reports.’ Ken laughed.

But Ali wasn’t grinning. His lips had turned to wood. His gaze swung to Mia and myself, then back to Ken.

Three words pushed through his lips. They were the three most unconvincing words one might ever hear spoken by a drunk in a crowded bar on a 95-degree day in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles.

‘I love skiing.’