This time when he reached out, Quinn gave it to him. Having received his fee, the boy headed off in search of his next mark.
'Thanks,' Nate said.
'You owe me a dollar,' Quinn told him.
A dozen taxis were parked nearby. Several of the drivers were calling out to them, trying to get their attention. Quinn chose the nearest one, and soon the two of them were settled in the back seat, their bags on the seat between them.
'Hello, hello, hello,' the driver said as he got behind the wheel. He was an older guy, short and skinny. 'American?'
'Canadian,' Quinn said.
The driver grinned. 'Welcome,Vietnam.Where go?'
'Rex Hotel,' Quinn said.
Chapter 9
Quinn checked them into adjacent rooms at the Rex Hotel. As they headed upstairs in the elevator, Nate said, 'I think I could sleep for a whole day.'
'But you're not going to,' Quinn told him.
'What?'
Quinn took in a long breath, reminding himself that Nate was still raw, and still had much to learn. 'It's barely noon,' he said. 'You go to sleep now, you'll never adjust to the new time. Meet me downstairs in thirty. We'll go for a walk, get a look at the area.'
The elevator door opened, and they stepped out onto their floor.
'You're joking, right?' Nate said.
Quinn turned to Nate and looked him straight in the eye. 'Do you understand what's going on here?' Nate was about to respond, but Quinn's glare stopped him.
'This is it,' Quinn said. 'This is what you signed up for. You wanted to get into the game, so here you are. Everything up to the point where Gibson
tried to break your jaw was just theory. Not anymore. Understand?' Nate stared at Quinn, then gave him the slightest of nods.
'This is the real thing,' Quinn went on. 'This is dealing with jet lag. This is blending in with the locals. This is watching your back every goddamn second of the day because if you don't, you're dead. Do you get it now?'
'I get it,' Nate said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Quinn looked at him a moment longer, then started back down the hall. 'The lobby,' he said without turning. 'Thirty minutes.'
Nate was waiting for him downstairs when Quinn exited the elevator a half hour later. They were both wearing a fresh pair of clothes. In Nate's hand was a small silver digital camera. Quinn glanced at it, then raised his eyebrows in question.
'We're obviously not locals,' Nate said. 'People will expect us to carry a camera.' The corner of Quinn's mouth raised slightly. 'Good,' he said.
Without another word, they headed outside.
According to all the textbooks, Vietnam was a communist country. Though what was communist about Ho Chi Minh City, Quinn couldn't fathom.
Looking around, he was beginning to wonder if anyone other than members of the government had even heard of Karl Marx. Street vendors and shops and restaurants and clubs and salons and hotels and kids running up and down the streets, hocking souvenirs and knockoff copies of Graham Greene's
'Postcard . . . You buy . . . Very pretty . . . Look.'
'Mister. Mister. You American?'
'Real lighter. Zippo. From war. Work good.'
'America number one. Spider-Man. Michael Jordan.'
'I hungry. You buy.'
Almost as persistent as the kids on the street
were the men on cyclos, bicycle rickshaws. The ones without passengers would slow down as they passed Quinn and Nate and try to get their attention.
'Hello. Tour city. I take you. Two dollars only. Cheap.'
'I know good bar. I get you there fast. Very cheap.'
'Too hot to walk, mister. You ride.'
'You look for girls? I know place. Come, come.'
