Missing In Rangoon

“Couple of days ago.”

“Where’s Mya?”

He shrugged, shoveling the pasta into his mouth and drinking from the large plastic bottle of Coke.

“She went out.”

“That’s obvious. Where’d she go?”

“I can’t remember. Her mother’s house, or maybe to 50th Street.”

“Is she coming back?”

“I dunno. She was pretty upset about what happened tonight.”

Rob eyed the second container of pasta.

“You gonna eat that?”

Calvino shook his head. “It’s yours.”

“Thanks,” said Rob, popping the lid on the Styrofoam container. He took another large swig from the Coke bottle, belched and spooned in a large mouthful of pasta. He watched as Calvino crossed the small room to the closet, where he pulled out a clean shirt and trousers before disappearing into the bathroom. After a shower, Calvino came out dripping wet, trying to decide which of the two used bathroom towels to use to dry off. He chose Mya’s towel from the chair, tossing it back over the chair when he’d finished. It still had her smell. Rob had finished the second pasta and crawled back onto the bed.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Calvino asked.

The kid was already half-asleep. Bathed, fed and tucked in, he clung to the soft bed like a drowning man who’d been pulled into a lifeboat. He hadn’t even had time to put the earphones back on.

It was past midnight as Calvino climbed out of the taxi at the 50th Street Bar. Even from the street he could recognize one of Colonel Pratt’s sax riffs. The piano and guitars played in the background, giving the Colonel space to do his thing. The same flashy cars were parked in the same places. It was like returning to a high-end showroom.

Colonel Pratt had finished his solo as Calvino entered the bar and was taking a bow in front of a table where Kati stood and applauded. She might have been the Colonel’s biggest fan, but he also had the rest of the house shouting for an encore. He spotted Calvino as the American crossed the floor toward the stage.

Calvino leaned down to Kati to say, “Have you seen Mya?”

Kati shot him a look that he read as an unmistakable “No, I haven’t seen the bitch.” The question was asking one cat to account for another prowling the same neighborhood. Maybe she did go to her mother’s house, Calvino thought.

Colonel Pratt came up for air after another two-minute solo to the sound of more applause. He lowered his saxophone and smiled at the crowd. No cop had ever heard that amount of applause in a lifetime of work.

Yadanar Khin looked up from the piano keyboard and announced a twenty-minute break. Unstrapping his saxophone, Colonel Pratt stepped down from the stage and walked over to the table where Kati sat, beaming like a lighthouse. Calvino joined them, sitting across from the Colonel. Yadanar Khin was on his way to join them as well when a customer pulled his elbow and sat him down at another table. Two other band members followed the piano player. That left Calvino with Colonel Pratt and Kati and three empty chairs.

“Did the kid show up?” asked the Colonel.

“He’s no longer missing.”

The Colonel broken into a smile as Kati put a hand over his in one of those preemptive “he’s mine” gestures.

“Good,” said the Colonel.

Kati sat like the holographic angel on a Christmas tree—beautiful, glowing, impressive and totally still. Not a word came out of her mouth.

“I phoned his father in Bangkok, and they talked.”

“That must have been a touching moment.”

“The kid refuses to go back to Bangkok.”

“He’s going through some difficult identity changes.”

Calvino thought that those words described Colonel Pratt more than the kid.