expenses-paid trip plus his fee deposited into his account for what amounted to hanging around.
On his last trip to the island, he’d spent more time at the Kinokuniya Bookstore on Orchard Road than he had discussing the job with his client. And in the end, he was told, “Thank you very much. We’ll call you when we have something else.” Though there was something to be said about making money for doing nothing, Quinn preferred to be in action. It’s what he’d been trained for, after all. He hated getting mentally prepped to do something that didn’t materialize.
Of course, everything was an opportunity, and while he might have spent a lot of time perusing the shelves at Kinokuniya, he’d also spent time deepening his knowledge of the island and strengthening his relationships with some of the local talent he had gotten to know over the years. You never knew when something like that would pay off.
Like that morning.
Quinn and Nate took a cab from the hotel to the west end of Orchard Road, getting out in front of the OG Orchard Point department store.
Orchard Road was the Champs-Elysees of Singapore. On this street, shopping was the main religion. Department stores, malls, small shops, fancy restaurants, fast food. It all blended together on Orchard. You could find places that catered to the Rodeo Drive mindset across the street from tiny bargain shops that appeased the thriftier customer.
“That way,” Quinn said to Nate, pointing to his right across a small side street at the Orchard Point shopping complex.
It was a multilevel shopping center, with many stores advertising discounts and bargains. At street level, small shops opened directly onto the sidewalk. There were tailors and luggage stores and camera shops and shoe stores. And while prices might not always be negotiable, they weren’t out of sight, either. Often the owner or one of the employees stood outside the shop, beckoning potential customers to come in.
Quinn led Nate to a wide set of stairs near the center of the mall, then headed up to the second level. By American standards, the hallways were narrow for a shopping center, maybe five or six people wide. Both sides were lined with stores similar to those outside.
Near where the hall reached the end of the building and made a ninety-degree turn to the right, Quinn found a dress shop. A sign above the entrance identified it as “Ne Win’s Fine Dresses.”
The shop itself was only about twenty feet deep and about the same wide. Racks had been mounted to the walls on both the right and left, double high like clothing bunk beds. There was also a mannequin near the front entrance wearing a beautiful red silk gown.
Before entering, Quinn told Nate, “Wait here.”
“You looking for something to wear?” Nate said.
Quinn didn’t even honor the comment with a dirty look. Instead, he stepped into the store.
Two well-dressed women in their early twenties were talking to an older man, the owner of the shop. One of the girls looked full Chinese, while the other was definitely a blend. Quinn moved over to the side, pretending to look at some of the clothes on the racks.
“And it will be ready by Thursday?” the second girl asked, her accent a mix of British, Australian, and Chinese.
“Of course. No problem,” the man said. His own accent was more pronounced. English was not the language he’d grown up learning.
“And you won’t charge her any extra, right?” the second girl said. “Not like last time.”
The old man smiled, but Quinn could tell he was holding back. “Of course not. No reason.”
The girls looked at each other, happy. The first girl nodded, then said, “All right. We’ll be back on Thursday.”
As they turned to leave, they noticed Nate standing near the entrance of the shop. Each girl gave him a coy smile, the girl who was full Chinese looking away first while her friend’s eyes lingered on Nate a moment longer. From Quinn’s angle, it looked like his apprentice’s eyes were lingering a bit too long, too.
“Excuse us,” the girl said unnecessarily as she passed Nate.
Quinn smirked to himself, then approached the shop owner. The old man hadn’t moved. The same forced smile he’d given the girls while they were in the shop remained on his face as he watched them walk away.
In a quiet, friendly voice, he said toward their receding forms, “Go fuck yourself, ladies. See you Thursday.” After a moment, he dropped the smile and looked at Quinn. “Goddamn SPGs,” he said, then headed toward the back of the store.
Quinn couldn’t help but smile. SPG, Sarong Party Girl. It referred to that group of young Singaporean women who went out dancing and clubbing, all the time on the lookout for Caucasian husbands. The shop owner had used the term like he was a hip local kid and not the Burmese refugee he really was.
The old man, Ne Win, had escaped his homeland in 1989 when he was suspected of organizing several pro- democracy demonstrations. He once told Quinn if he’d stayed, he’d be nearly twenty years dead by now. That was where he was lucky, he had said. Where he was cursed was with his name.
There was a much more infamous Ne Win, the general who had led the military coup that had taken over Burma in 1962. He was the dictator who had ruled the country for decades, and whose presence was still felt years after his death.
Quinn had known the shop owner Ne Win for a while. It had been Markoff who had introduced them. It had been about five years earlier, during a summit of Asian financial leaders. The connection was one of the reasons Quinn was paying him a visit that morning.
“You hear her tell me not to charge her more?” Ne Win asked.
There was a gray metal cooler against the back wall. The old man opened it and removed two cans of Tiger beer. He tossed one to Quinn.
