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“What happened to your suit?”
Saxon reached over to run his finger over Calvino’s right sleeve and then put it in his mouth.
“Mutton curry. You must have been eating with your fingers. You got enough on you. It looks like the cook exploded an old bull ram at your table. But I digress. You left your room to keep me company or at least long enough to ask me for the details on the Burmese gumshoe.”
“No one has called a private investigator a gumshoe for fifty years or more.”
“We were behind the times in my part of Ontario.”
“And now that you mention it, what’s the name of this gumshoe, and where can I find the little hole-in-the-wall office, his fedora sweat-stained, hanging on an umbrella rack?”
“His name is Naing Aung. You’ll find him in a walkup on 27th Street. His shop is the fourth door on the left, as you walk in from the Scott’s Market end. If you pass a Hindu temple on your right, turn around and go back. You’ve walked too far.”
A smirk streaked Saxon’s face, and he shook his head.
“He’s new to the business. But I think he’ll be okay. I verified him myself, Vinny.”
“What do you mean, verified?”
“I asked him to follow you. He tracked you and Pratt and some beautiful Thai woman to Cherry Mann. I had to know if he was any good and what kind of moves Pratt and you might throw at him. I told him that guys like you and the Colonel never go anywhere in a straight line just in case you’re tailed. But you didn’t lose Naing Aung. I thought that was a good recommendation.”
“What else was in his report?” asked Calvino, sipping his whiskey.
“He said you got lost.”
“I was avoiding a tail.”
Saxon pursed his lips, frowned, before breaking into a big smile.
“Naing Aung didn’t see it that way. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve got your private eye. I’d say we’re square.”
Saxon raised his glass and waited for Calvino to raise his.
“Square and an IOU if you need something in Bangkok.”
“If I ever have someone who goes missing there, I’ll give you a bell.”
FIFTEEN
The Chinese New Year Tail Job
CALVINO CARRIED TWO plastic shopping bags out of the Savoy Hotel bar. One bag was heavy; inside were two one-liter plastic bottles of Coke. In the second bag were twin orders of pasta with pesto and two orders of rocket salad with sliced tomatoes. The smell of pasta filled the air, and for a moment he was back in Little Italy on the outskirts of New York’s Chinatown, near where downtown bankers and lawyers sat in their Manhattan offices figuring out how to invest in Burma.
He walked back to the guesthouse carrying the bags. The old woman behind the reception desk glanced at him as he turned to walk up the steps. She lowered her glasses.
“Mr. Smith buys his dinner at the Savoy Hotel,” she said.
It was unusual behavior for one of her guests, for whom the pleasures of the Savoy were normally far out of reach. She gripped another Georgette Heyer novel. He caught the title—The Toll-Gate.
“How’s the book?”
“Stolen gold, highwaymen, mysterious strangers,” she said.
“Makes you feel right at home,” he said.
“Mysterious strangers and a missing toll-gate keeper,” she said.
“I’m familiar with the plot,” said Calvino.
