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“He’s staying with me at the guesthouse until I can figure out what do to with him,” said Calvino.
He wasn’t comfortable with Kati listening in on their private conversation, but Colonel Pratt hadn’t given him much choice. Not at Cherry Mann, not at the 50th Street Bar. The way she was shadowing the Colonel made Calvino wonder if he should leave the two of them alone. He saw no point in going into details with a stranger at the table.
Calvino figured Colonel Pratt must have sensed he was only sharing a minimum of information. Why would an experienced cop like the Colonel sit back while Kati moved in so close? A broad like her throwing herself at a middle-aged cop who played the saxophone might happen in the movies, but what had happened in Chinatown had been real. The point was, his friend hadn’t been there to back him up, and Calvino felt the sting of disappointment. The Colonel had never let him down before.
“How’d he end up in your room?”
“Let’s say, we bonded like blood brothers.”
“He could use an older brother. Someone to give him advice.”
“We could all use some advice.”
It was an opening to talk about Kati, but it wasn’t the place or time. She was hanging on to him like a vine twisted around a bamboo.
“I’ve got a lead on a couple of things…”
Calvino stopped himself, rose from the table and motioned for Colonel Pratt to follow him outside.
They stood in front of the luxury cars. The valets recognized them, turned away and went on with their business. Neither Calvino nor the Colonel fell into the category of luxury car types; they’d arrived in beat-up old taxis. Parking valets, Calvino thought, always get instant updates on the pecking order.
“Pratt, I want to help you,” he said. “I don’t know who this Kati is. What she is to you, or you to her. Whoever she is, I’m not comfortable talking about business around her.”
The Colonel walked down the street to where the light faded to darkness. Calvino followed.
“You think that I’m stupid?”
“I never said that.”
“But you thought it.”
“Every man around is tripping over his dick to get next to her,” Calvino said. “I’m not saying I don’t understand the attraction. I do. But you can’t work a case with a woman who draws more attention than a suicide bomber in a swimsuit and an explosive vest.”
“It’s a honey trap, Vincent. I saw it coming. I have to play it the way I see it. I need to know who’s running her and what they’re after. If I throw her out, they’ll do something else. It’s better to keep your enemies close so you can watch what they’re doing.”
Calvino stepped forward and hugged him.
“Great. Honey. They set the trap, but you saw it coming. For a while... You know, for a minute or so, I thought…”
“Forget it. What have you got?”
“A couple of Thais in a Lexus grabbed the kid. I shot them. They gave me no choice. They drew down on me. As I said at the table, the kid’s at my room. Also, I talked with Jack, and he’s found a local private investigator who can do the work you’ve got in mind.”
“How does Jack know what I have in mind?”
“He doesn’t. It’s a figure of speech. He knows you need someone for surveillance. I thought I’d go and check him out.”
Colonel Pratt turned, looked at his watch and glanced at the entrance to the bar.
“I’ve got to get back. Let’s meet the private investigator tomorrow morning.”
“Not a good idea, Pratt. A farang and a Thai show up asking him if he’s up to running a surveillance detail on some important people. Rangoon’s a small, tight place. People talk.”
“Okay, set it up, and I’ll take it from there.”
The small changes had been adding up in Colonel Pratt’s life, only Calvino hadn’t wanted to see them. Working in a corruption-ridden department had never been much fun for an honest cop like the Colonel. The saxophone had been a hobby for years. Sometimes a hobby takes on a life of its own and becomes, not a pastime or a temporary escape, but a new path. After he’d won an award at the Java Jazz Festival, some doors had opened for Pratt. He’d been invited to play in Singapore, Hong Kong and Brunei. His assignment to the job in Rangoon had also resulted from his music career. To those around him, he seemed too good on the saxophone for it to be a cover. After one set, members of the bands he sat in with forgot he was a cop. That was the idea.
“The kid gave me some information about some cold pill smuggling operation he got involved in. That’s why he nearly got himself killed earlier tonight.”
