“I managed. Thanks to Mya. Isn’t that right, Mya?”
The Black Cat squeezed his shoulders.
“You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”
“Am I?” he asked, looking up at her.
She nodded, brushing the back of her hand against his cheek as he purred like a cat.
With a sigh, Calvino recalled the luxury hotel he’d left. It was as if he’d taken an elevator down to the basement while Rob had gone from the basement to the penthouse. Only the two destinations were the same place. Everything depends on where a man’s elevator has brought him from, Calvino thought ruefully.
“You saved my life,” Rob said.
“That’s right. I did,” said Calvino, unscrewing the cap of a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label.
Pouring himself two fingers, he raised the glass toward the two of them.
“Here’s to being alive.”
He threw the full storm into the back of his throat and swallowed.
“My father drinks whiskey like that. Neat, in one go.”
Calvino eyed him as he refilled his glass.
“No-stopping-to-breathe drinking,” said Calvino.
“I never heard binge drinking called that before.”
“Now you have.”
Rob’s nerves showed in his hands. Calvino watched him play with a lighter, the cigarette in his mouth bouncing up and down with his hand, doing a tango. The Black Cat helped him light the cigarette.
“You’ve got a real hang-up about your old man,” said Calvino.
Rob took a long drag on the cigarette, sucking in a lung of smoke before handing it to Mya Kyaw Thein, who helped herself before passing it back.
“If I’m going to stay in this room with you,” said Rob, “I want one thing understood. I don’t want to talk about my father. Are you okay with that?”
“Is that so?”
Calvino looked at his glass, then back at the kid.
“Why don’t you tell me about the men who jumped you tonight? What are you mixed up with that makes a couple of Thais want to kill you in Rangoon?”
Rob shrugged, his head lolled against Mya Kyaw Thein. Two cats rubbing against each other set off the purring sound that came from Rob’s throat.
Then Calvino could see that Rob’s adrenaline had kicked in again. His mind had flashed back to the Lexus, to getting beat up and watching two men get shot.
“Hands still shaking?” he asked.
It wasn’t really much of a question. Hands answered for themselves.
“How about we call your old man? You tell him you’ve decided to stay in Rangoon to finish up some business. When that’s done, you’ll phone him again.”
The bass guitar player for Monkey Nose had a fresh streak of blood leaking out of his nose. He looked like a suicide bomber who, after setting off the bomb, had through a miracle walked out of the rubble.
“Do it, Rob. Go back to Bangkok. Get Alan off your back. Sooner or later, it’s the only way, baby.”