A new dragon was on the streets of Bangkok. It was a time of great disturbance and conflict. A time of tyrants, a time of visionaries, a time for fools, pretenders, wannabes, and gentle souls, confused and isolated—lives tossing and turning inside their coconut shells. Calvino had pulled out a small victory, one that would please Andrew Danielson but also a feather in his cap that would look good when he sat down with the WHO officials, who would ask what he had done lately for the health of the world. As he entered the narrow dead-end sub-soi to his office, he did one of those end zone dances as if he’d scored a touchdown. Looking at his watch, it was just after 5:00 p.m. He thought about the money Danielson would give him. It was more than just another all-cash deal. Sure, he would deliver the videocassette of the piracy operation and get ten grand. But he’d also receive a letter of commendation on Andrew Danielson’s letterhead, and a letter from the drug company letting the WHO know this is the guy they need to do their investigations for them.

But in the meantime, Calvino had violated a primary operating principle about fees. Calvino’s law: Always get your money first. He had a set speech he gave to clients:

I want up-front money. I’ll forget about up-front money if you’re willing to have an up-front tattoo. My name tattooed on your right arm with a lot of black magic Chinese symbols for betrayal underneath. I’ll look at the tattoo and I’ll settle for “hei mo fa” under my name. Do that and I’ll let the up-front dough ride.

Danielson never got the tattoo speech. He was a lawyer. Ten grand was nothing for a partner in a Bangkok law firm. And Danielson wanted a performance guarantee. Calvino’s mother wanted him to go for the WHO job, so he swallowed hard and didn’t make his speech. That was okay. Everything had worked out just like it was supposed to, and he had the evidence.

* * *

Calvino heard a woman’s voice and tried to separate the signal from the noise. Why was the woman crying? He stopped and looked around at the buildings on both sides; he couldn’t locate where the crying was coming from. The sound of distant wailing suddenly drifted into wet sobs. A woman’s voice shuddering, as she recharged her lungs for a new round of even more powerful, mournful notes of sadness. This soulful female moan of despair troubled Calvino. He rubbed the pain in his shoulder. He knew something about pain.

I’m getting old. Too old to be hiking around a strange neighborhood with camera equipment, trying to avoid being noticed. A desk job at WHO was just what the doctor prescribed. Ease up, lay back, do the investigative work by computer, hire locals to do the footwork. Calvino had his new job all figured out in his head. Despite the horseshoe kick of pain, Calvino felt in good spirits. High and good, the way a man feels after making a big score, bringing it home, and showing the whole tribe that he might be getting old but can still do the job.

He shifted the weight of the camera bag from one shoulder to the other. On his mother’s side of the family, there was a history of arthritis; it was one of those built-in traits, like the mechanics of a ticking time bomb, that waited for the right age, the wrong moment, to spring a surprise. Click, detonate, then a surprise: wave after wave of electricity shooting through the shoulder.

Like the crying woman was a surprise. The sound of her sobbing, half muffled by the traffic from the street, registered on his consciousness. He walked ahead. The sound came closer, coming from the direction of his office. No sound disturbed a man as much as hearing a woman’s deep-throated bolts of pure grief. Cursed moans delivered to the world in a universal language of sorrow and loss. It was the soundtrack on the international news every night. But hearing it on television was never the same experience as hearing it live. Calvino once again shifted the weight of his camera bag from one bum shoulder to the other. Two shoulders working like a handicapped relay team looking to cross the finish line and collapse. The video camera, backup batteries, and the other gear felt as if they were pulling him to the ground.