Missing In Rangoon

“Why don’t you tell us why Rob’s afraid?” asked Calvino.

“It would be better if he told you.”

“Ask him to join us. Tell him we’re here to help him. He’ll be okay.”

The Black Cat clutched her cell phone like it was a small bird fallen from a nest. Gently, lovingly, she gestured with it, as if the piece of shiny black plastic had a long story to tell, if only you could dial the bureau of truth. But that line was always busy.

She spoke in a whispered voice over the phone.

“He wants to meet only you,” she finally said to Calvino.

She locked eyes with Colonel Pratt.

“Nothing personal, Pratt. I liked how you played last night. The thing is, none of this has anything to do with you. My boyfriend knows you’re a cop. He says he can’t handle talking to a cop. Not now anyway.”

The small talk had ended. Colonel Pratt understood that there was a problem and he wasn’t part of the solution. There were far too many eyeballs feasting on Kati and watching their table. The men ate rice and mutton with their hands, sticky, wet fingers jabbing at the air.

“We’ll be on our way,” said the Colonel. “I hope you come back to the bar tonight to sing. I’d like to hear you again.”

“That’d be great,” she said with audible relief.

Calvino smiled. Colonel Pratt had handled the moment with perfect pitch.

“My name is Kati. I love your voice,” said his companion, bridging her hands together to form an elegant wai.

“Glad we met, and maybe I’ll see you later,” said the Black Cat as she auto-dialed Rob’s cell phone number.

“See you later,” said Calvino.

Colonel Pratt smiled as he rose from the table.

“Happy New Year!”

“Year of the dragon,” said Calvino. “Isn’t that a lucky year?”

“They’re all lucky if you get through them,” said Colonel Pratt.

Kati pulled at her skirt as she rose from the stool, and it seemed for an instant that half of Chinatown failed to exhale. She put her arm through Colonel Pratt’s, and they

walked away. The Colonel had accumulated a big enough face from the sea of Chinese diners that his head could have been a float in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He led Kati through the narrow gap between the tables, and soon they disappeared into the crowd.

There goes my backup, thought Calvino. He’d ordered the mutton and some vegetable dishes. The bowls on the other tables showed grease floating like oil slicks over the food.

Lowering her cell phone, the Black Cat said, “Rob’s on his way.”

That last call to Rob confirmed what Calvino suspected—that he was nearby, watching. What demon had lodged in Rob’s mind? Calvino casually thought that, whatever it was, he wasn’t in the business of taming demons. Wai Wan had passed freely through eight toll-gates, but it was at the ninth one where the motorcycle cop had followed him and changed his life. Whether a man had ever really cleared the ninth toll-gate was never an easy question.

The dragon dancers came out of the darkness. First came the sound of their drums, accompanied by cymbals and gongs. Calvino had a closer look at the Black Cat’s costume; it was the same design as those of the dancers. She’d dressed so she could melt into the dragon dance.

A couple of dozen dragon dancers wound through the street on the right. They came down Maha Bandoola Road, making the rounds from shop to shop, banging drums and gongs until the owner made a donation. Someone tossed firecrackers behind the dancers. Calvino saw the flash from a hundred tiny explosions in the road. The diners at the tables laughed, showing their teeth. The Chinese savored the sound of exploding firecrackers and the smell of gunpowder. The banging of gongs and drums grew louder as the young men and women covered in dragon costumes moved in closer, darting in and out of the road. The large red dragon mask with huge eyes and gaping mouth reared up and down near Calvino’s table. One of the men in sneakers and white shirt shoved a donation box in front of him. As Calvino dropped in a five-dollar bill, he saw a foreigner move behind the dancers, stop for a moment and then walk over and sit at the table.

As the dragon dancers continued down the street, Rob watched, biting his lower lip. He’d dressed in white silk like the other dancers. His head was covered with a smaller version of a dragonhead mask. Slowly he peeled off the mask to reveal a luk-kreung—or half-breed, as his father called him—looking as if he’d seen a ghost. In the dim light, Rob easily passed as a Chinese dragon dancer. Only he was taller and had broader shoulders than most of the Burmese or Chinese.

Rob drew in a long breath as sweat streaked his face and dripped down his neck, glistening hot even in the dim light. His hair, long and braided in strips, hung around his head like a curtain on a Somali warlord, and he had a full black beard. He had the kind of presence that indicated an ongoing relationship with trouble. Calvino had thought that trouble’s name was Mya. But a man could never be certain whether trouble had an extended family. There was an echo of his father’s face, mainly in the eyes and the way his mouth clenched like an angry fist looking for a soft gut to land in.

“I can’t stay long.”

“You want something to eat?”