[Quinn 01] - The Cleaner

Upon returning to the Rex Hotel, Quinn picked up a map of the city, then told Nate he was on his own for a while.

'But don't sleep,' Quinn said.

'I won't.'

'I mean it.'

'I said I won't.'

The map wasn't as detailed as Quinn would have liked, but it did show him the street he was looking for. He had initially thought about putting this trip off until the next morning. Get some sleep, be more alert. He had even contemplated putting it off altogether. His instincts told him it was a mistake, but he had come to Vietnam not only because they needed someplace to lie low, but also because they needed help. And after discovering the secret compartment in the bracelet, he knew they needed that help as soon as they could get it.

On the sidewalk outside the Rex, he started for the line of taxis at the curb, but he changed his mind at the last moment and decided to take a cyclo. Just because he had to make the trip didn't mean he had to get there in a hurry.

The driver, a man in his late twenties, didn't speak English, so Quinn pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote the address of where he wanted to go on the back of the map. The driver looked at it, then smiled and nodded.

Saigon – Quinn couldn't bring himself to keep calling it Ho Chi Minh City – was a madhouse. An honest-to-God, overcrowded, disorganized madhouse. And he loved it. The city radiated with a vibrancy and excitement he'd found in few other places.

The streets were crowded with motorcycles, bicycles – both standard and cyclos – scooters, even the occasional car or truck. While he'd seen similar vehicular menageries elsewhere in Asia, this was the first place he'd seen a family of five riding on a single 50cc motorcycle.

That wasn't the only sight that caught his attention. There were also the large three-wheeled bikes that had been converted into what amounted to small trucks. A large flat surface was built onto the front halves of the bikes. This allowed drivers to carry anything from cages of chickens, to stacks of old tires, to boxes and tins of God knew what. The merchandise was piled high and wide, seemingly obscuring the driver's view.

Another thing he noticed, something more typical of many third-world countries, was that traffic signs were more like suggestions than actual law. There were cops around, but as long as the traffic kept moving, they seemed content to let things be.

The cyclo driver took him through a particularly crowded section of town. Vendors lined the streets, selling everything from live animals to firecrackers to pots and pans. It was an assault on Quinn's senses. The odor, in particular, was overwhelming. Fish and sweat and trash mixed with the sweetness of flowers and fruit and baking bread.

The cyclo driver leaned forward and said, 'Cholon.' Quinn recognized the name from one of the brochures in his hotel room. It was essentially the Chinatown of Saigon.

After they had been traveling for twenty minutes, the driver turned the cyclo onto a less trafficked side street and pulled up in the middle of the block next to a long, two-story building.

'Is this it?' Quinn asked, forgetting momentarily that the driver wouldn't understand him. Realizing his mistake, he pointed at the address on the map.

The driver smiled widely and nodded at the building. 'Ici ,' he said.

'Parlez-vous francais?' Quinn asked.

'Un peu, monsieur.'

Quinn reached into his pocket. 'Combien?' he asked.

'Two dollar,' the driver said in English.

The moment Quinn climbed off the cyclo, it began to rain. He ran down the cracked sidewalk and found cover in the recess of the building's doorway just as the initial sprinkles turned into a downpour. He opened the door and went inside.

There was a reception desk at the far end of the lobby. A young woman, Vietnamese but dressed in Western clothing, was sitting behind it, looking in his direction. Quinn put on a smile and walked over. 'Do you speak English?' he asked.

'Of course,' she said. 'How may I help you?'

'I'm not sure if I'm in the right place,' he said.

'Who are you looking for?'

'The Tri-Continent Relief Agency.'

She smiled. 'You are in the right place. Second floor, on your left. Room 214. Would you like me to show you?'

Quinn shook his head. 'Thanks. I should be able to find it.'

'You are welcome.'

Quinn took the stairs to the right of the desk. When he reached the second floor, he turned left and walked down the hall until he came to room

214.

The door was solid wood. Mounted in its center was a brass plaque engraved with the words in English: Tri-Continent Relief Agency, Ho Chi Minh City Branch. Below it, in smaller type, was a Vietnamese translation.