“‘Discomfort guides my tongue and bids me speak of nothing but despair,’” said Pratt quoting Shakespeare.
“Shakespeare is what the Burmese have to look forward to?” said Calvino.
“People like the ones who own these cars don’t need much help from foreigners, Vincent.”
“I never heard you call Shakespeare a foreigner.”
“I am not talking about what I think.”
It was the Colonel’s polite way of saying that foreigners like him usually attributed too much importance to the role of other foreigners in the lives of the rich.
Calvino walked around the Lamborghini, shaking his head.
“Admiring your Italian ancestry, Vincent?”
“Say some guys at Goldman Sachs form a band. They drive out to Brooklyn or Queens for a gig. I could visualize a parking lot outside a bar in one of the boroughs looking something like this. And none of them would be Italian.”
The parking lot reeked of cash, privilege and immunity. Cars like these should have a sign installed over the gas tank, thought Colonel Pratt—“fueled by drug money, kickbacks or corruption.” Take your pick. Calvino might joke about them, but the people who bought and drove such cars didn’t have a sense of humor when it came to the sources of their money. He’d come to Rangoon to deal with the people who drove such cars, and to lower their fuel consumption.
“Looks like you’re playing in a band of made men,” said Calvino.
The planning had seemed easy in Bangkok. Standing in front of the bar, the full weight of Pratt’s mission came home to him—walk into a bar and charm such men into helping him shut down a business that was kicking out vast wealth. He felt stupid.
“The little big leagues are the most lethal,” said Colonel Pratt.
“The big minor leagues are even worse.”
“Shakespeare once wrote, ‘The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.’ And robbers of hope are in a league of their own.”
Calvino cracked a smile. “Shakespeare comes to Rangoon. Time to check out the players on stage.”
They went inside. The door opened into a large room. Pool tables on the left, a large bar in the center, stools on the right, a stage opposite the pool table area and a dozen tables with chairs. The tables had young, well-dressed men and women with perfect makeup and hair—the kind of people who were never seen carrying a paper sack, using a hammer and nail, or unscrewing the back of a motor casing. Most were Westerners, but a few Burmese were mixed in, like a few almonds floating in a bowl of peanuts.
Several white women sat at the bar drinking red wine, talking to the other women, index fingers hovering above smart phones, as bartenders and admirers floated in and out of their field of vision like screen icons.
Calvino spotted Jack Saxon at a corner pool table. Saxon stared down the shank of his pool cue, left eye squinted and breath held, took his shot and dropped the five-ball in the side pocket. As he rose up, his face wore a self-satisfied grin. When he saw Calvino and the Colonel advancing across the floor, his grin morphed into a crooked smile. He pointed his pool cue in their direction, leaned over and took his next shot, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Saxon missed the shot, winced and waved at Calvino. His luck ended, his shoulders slumped forward as if acknowledging defeat.
“Over here!” he shouted, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.
The attractions of the 50th Street Bar were many. It was a place to be seen. Certainly one could drink there while watching the live feed of soccer and cricket matches and Formula One races—the English taste in sports. You could do some business. You could see who was sleeping with whom this week—one of those old colonial habits that was far more resilient than the empire—or check out who was driving which car. The good life, with an English flavor, had arrived for the children of the few. Saxon led Pratt and Calvino over to the table occupied by the band and made the introductions. Calvino pulled back a chair and sat down, while Pratt leaned his saxophone case against the edge of the stage.
Yadanar Khin stood up and extended his hand to Colonel Pratt. It was soft. He had the hand of a man who’d never known hard physical labor.
“Man, you’ve got the gift. The Java Jazz Festival album a few years ago blew me away. People probably tell you that all the time. I am honored you’re here. When Jack said you were in town and wanted to sit in with us, I thought, that’s more than good. That’s great.”
As he spoke, Yadanar hadn’t paid attention to Calvino, who’d been watching him like the chaperon of a teenager with a reputation for getting herself in trouble in the back seats of expensive cars.
Yadanar noticed Calvino’s gaze.
“This is my friend Vincent Calvino,” said Saxon. “He’s in town looking for the son of a friend who’s gone missing.”
Yadanar gave Calvino the once over, registering his expensive jacket and trousers that helped him blend into the mix of foreigners at the club.
“People get lost in Rangoon. Hope you find the guy. You two know each other?”
He’d turned back to Pratt.