Missing In Rangoon

Rob waved off the offer. He sat down at the table. The Black Cat reached out and brushed his face with the back of her hand. She’d been eating mutton curry and rice with her forefinger and thumb, the traditional Burmese style. He grabbed her hand and licked her fingers. She looked suddenly sad and distant. It was the same look Calvino had seen when the Black Cat had stood in the courtroom doorway watching her brother testify.

“You want something to drink? A beer? Whiskey?”

“I told you, man. I can’t stay here.”

“Your dad’s worried about you.”

“I’m overwhelmed by his paternal instinct.”

“He’d like you to go back to Bangkok.”

“He can go fuck himself.”

“Your father’s not well.”

“He’s dying. Don’t you think I know that? So fucking what? Everyone dies. He’s taking his sweet time at it. You can tell him that.”

An old Thai expression came into Calvino’s mind as he studied the contempt on Rob’s young face—thom namlai rot fah, “spit at the sky”—a hard-hitting phrase that described a certain way of showing disapproval. It fit Rob, as it fit a slave sending a message to his master. The man under the thumb of another spit in the sky because in his universe that was where the master lived.

“Why so bitter? Did he beat you as a kid?”

“I wish he’d given me that much attention. Why did he send you?”

“Maybe he wants to say sorry for that. Fathers can’t help making mistakes that mess up their son’s lives. Why should you be any different?”

“It’s too late.” He squeezed his girlfriend’s hand. “You can tell him that.”

“What kind of trouble are you in?”

Calvino hadn’t wanted to ask the question because once he had information about a man’s demons, his approach to the ninth toll-gate, that information pulled him inside the circle where the demons lived and did their business. And no one who’d taken a moment to think about it voluntarily entered another’s ring of fire unless he was a friend.

“The kind that never lets go.”

A black Lexus had double-parked next to a Range Rover and a Toyota SUV, and two men in street clothes got out and walked between the cars, straight to the table. One grabbed Rob by the back of his shirt and pulled him up from the stool. His partner held a handgun. In the dim light Calvino saw the gun come out in a flash.

“You make a big problem,” said the Burmese in English. “Now you come with us.”

The Black Cat turned into Mya Kyaw Thein and spoke to the men in Burmese. It sounded like a plea, the tone of a beggar requesting mercy. But the submissive tone of voice never works with gunmen, Calvino thought, whether they’re in Rangoon, Bangkok, Phnom Penh or Saigon. Calvino didn’t know any place in the region where such a pitiful tone would deliver any response other than a leering smile. She’d have had a better chance if Mya Kyaw Thein had switched back to the Black Cat and belted out “Cry Me a River.”

“It’s okay, Mya. Don’t get involved.” Rob looked at Calvino. “Tell my father you saw me.”

More firecrackers exploded a couple of feet away as the two men frog-marched Rob, shoving him through a gap in the tables. An elbow brushed a glass and it dropped on the pavement, shattering into pieces. The kidnappers kept their man moving. One of the Burmese thugs, dressed in a black T-shirt and cargo pants, held a handgun waist-high, out of sight. Calvino saw the barrel of a black 9mm touch the small of Rob’s back. His companion had an arm around Rob’s arm, pulling him along. A knocked-over dish hit the pavement. Like the glass, the broken plate drew no notice amid the blaring music, blurry voices with smudges of laughter and a background of traffic noise, gongs, drums and firecrackers. The two gunmen walked unhurriedly—the hallmark of professionals—glancing back now and then, and except for the tables they’d bumped into, no one noticed what was going on.

“Rob…” Mya said and then broke off her thought, switching into Burmese to shout at the two men who’d moved away from the table.

Neither of the men replied. Calvino grabbed her wrist as she got up.

“Wait here,” he said. “Let me handle it.”

Calvino waited until the two men and Rob had disappeared behind the Range Rover. The rear of the Range Rover obscured their line of sight back to the table. Calvino waited until they couldn’t see him before rolling off the stool and dropping to the pavement. He crawled forward three feet through the cigarette butts, chicken bones and spilled curry before rising to his feet and, hunched over, running to take cover in the front of the Range Rover.

Rob stood in front of the Lexus, where he switched into fight mode. He took a swing at one of the men and tried to make a break into the road. The two muscled goons, who had relaxed half a notch, thinking they had him under control, were caught off guard. They caught up with him a few meters away and wrestled him to the ground, punching him in the kidney

s with a couple of well-positioned body jabs that would sap the fight out of any man.

With the Lexus engine running, lights switched off, the driver sat alone behind the steering wheel, watching the struggle. Calvino pulled his Walther out of the holster and slipped in alongside the Lexus. He tapped on the window. The window slowly lowered. Reaching in to grab the driver, Calvino hit him hard on the head with the butt of the Walther and then opened the door from the inside. The driver tumbled out onto the street with a thump. Calvino dragged him free of the door and climbed in front.

Now the two goons had dragged Rob back to the Lexus, and he was making it hard work to shove him in the back seat. They’d had enough. Both men turned on Rob with their fists, beating the shit out of him. One of the blows hit Rob hard in that sweet spot on the bridge of the nose. He doubled over as a mess of blood and snot fell into his hands along with a muffled scream. Working Rob over served its purpose; his disorientation made it easy to bundle him into the back of the car.