The Cleaner

by Brett Battles

  First, he hoped to find someone to help him in Berlin, and second, he wanted to see if he could discover something that might help him figure out who wanted him dead. Unfortunately, he had no luck on either account.

  When he finally gave up, night had fallen over Saigon. His legs ached and his eyes were strained from staring at the computer screen. Not surprisingly, he felt the need to get out of his room and clear his head.

  He called Nate to see if he wanted to get a drink, but there was no answer. Probably off with his temporary girlfriend, Quinn thought.

  If Orlando hadn't stopped him, Quinn probably would have clamped down a little harder on Nate. No matter what, they were going to have to have another chat about relationships when this was all over.

  But for the time being, it looked like he was on his own, so he headed out. In front of the hotel, he flagged down a taxi, then had to stop two more before finding a driver who spoke English. 'Where to, mister?' the cabby asked as Quinn climbed in.

  'A bar,' Quinn said.

  'You look for girls? I know place.'

  'No. Just somewhere to relax.'

  'Okay, okay. No problem.'

  The cab took off.

  The first place the cabby took him looked like such a dump from the outside, Quinn didn't even get out of the car. The next place wasn't much better. Still, Quinn didn't want to waste the whole night in the back of a cab.

  The driver must have registered Quinn's hesitation. 'No, no. Not here,' the driver said. 'I know better. Close to hotel. You like.'

  They drove for fifteen minutes, then pulled up in front of another building. This one was on a darkened street a couple of blocks from the Saigon River. There were a dozen people standing outside, clustered around the front door. A mix of Vietnamese and foreigners. All were well dressed.

  'Apocalypse Now,' the driver said. 'Very popular.'

  As Quinn got out, he noticed two more cabs pull up. Out of the first climbed a young Vietnamese couple. Out of the other came three boisterous Caucasian men. By their accents, Quinn identified them as Australians. At least the cabby appeared to be right about one thing: Apocalypse Now was a popular place.

  There was a bouncer at the door, but he let Quinn in without a word. Being a foreigner meant money.

  Inside, the place was packed, seventy percent Vietnamese, the rest a mix of other nationalities, but mostly Caucasian men. Music blared from somewhere, a song by the Gorillaz from a few years back, 'Clint Eastwood.' There were tables and an open area for dancing. Quinn began working his way through the crowd toward the bar.

  He was halfway there when someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Quinn turned.

  'You speak English?' It was a young guy, white. Judging by his accent, either German or Dutch. The guy's eyelids were heavy. Quinn guessed he'd been drinking for a while.

  'Yeah?' Quinn answered.

  'American, huh?'

  Quinn said nothing.

  'You need anything, man?'

  Quinn shook his head. 'I'm fine.'

  'Hash? Opium? I think I got some X left, too.' The guy began digging into a pocket.

  'I'm fine,' Quinn repeated. He headed toward the bar.

  'All right,' the drug dealer called out. 'You need something, you know where I am.'

  Quinn ordered a rum and Coke. Drink in hand, he turned back to study the room, unsatisfied. This wasn't the scene he needed. What he wanted, he realized, was to be doing exactly what Nate was probably doing – sitting at the Mai 99 restaurant, drinking a Tiger beer and talking to the waitresses. That was Quinn's comfort zone. A less intense atmosphere. Casual flirtation with women he didn't know well. Relationships that would go nowhere. Nights spent alone back in his room. With a book. With the TV. With his computer. But with no warmth beside him. It was easier that way.

  To his left, another foreigner, maybe six foot two and solidly built, was talking to a tiny Vietnamese woman. Girl, really. She couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. Quinn couldn't hear what they were saying over the loud music, but he got the idea that a business deal was being discussed.

  A moment later the woman kissed the man on the cheek, then walked off. The man straightened, a smirk on his face, then noticed Quinn looking his way.

  'How's it going, mate?' the man said. Australian. Quinn recognized him as one of the guys who'd arrived just after he had.

  'Fine,' Quinn said.

  'Didya get a load of her?'

  Quinn nodded but said nothing.

  'A real pro, that,' the man said. 'Wanted a hundred fifty U.S. Hell, I could go to Phnom Penh and find a real looker who'd stay with me all week for less than a hundred and fifty. She'll be back though. Unless she finds a newbie not clued into the local pricing structure.'

  Quinn shook his head sympathetically. It wasn't a conversation he had any real interest in. 'Where you from?' the man asked.

  'Canada,' Quinn said. 'Vancouver.'

  'To the Queen, then.' The man raised his beer, and Quinn tapped it with his own glass. 'Leo Tucker,' the Aussie said. 'That's me.'

  'Tony Johnson.'

  'Here on business, Tony?'

  Quinn nodded. 'You?'

  'Nah. Just checking out the action. The ladies here are fucking gorgeous, but they're pricing themselves out of business. You here for long?'

  'Leaving in the morning.'

  'Too bad,' Tucker said. 'There's a private party tomorrow night. Hoping it'll salvage my trip. A friend's throwing it. Should be a lot of fun. Plenty of women to go around.'

  Quinn professed his disappointment, then, feigning fatigue, he made his escape. As he stepped outside, he felt a momentary sense of relief. But it didn't last long. Standing just outside the door was the drug dealer from inside. There was no one else around. Even the bouncer seemed to have disappeared. Quinn's senses went on alert.

  'Where you going, American?' the dealer asked.

  'Home,' Quinn said.

  'It's early. Party's just starting. You want some pot?'

  Quinn shook his head. 'No, thanks.'

  There was a cab parked a block up the street. He began walking toward it.

  But before he got very far, the dealer ran up and grabbed Quinn's arm. Quinn turned, glaring.

  'Hold on,' the dealer said. Metal flashed in his hand. A knife. 'Let's you and me go for a walk. Okay?'

  Quinn turned quickly, grabbing the man's arm with both hands and shoving him backward until he was pinned against the outside wall of the club.

  The dealer cursed in surprise, obviously not expecting Quinn to react so quickly.

  Quinn held on tight to the hand holding the knife. He knew he couldn't let go. If he did, he'd end up on the sidewalk cut, bleeding, maybe even dead.

  The dealer knew this, too. He began to punch at Quinn with his empty hand while trying to pull free the one holding the knife. Quinn rolled into him, offering only his back to the man's blows. The dealer's breaths quickened, each huff more vocal than the last as his frustration grew.

  Quinn twisted the man's wrist, trying to make him drop the knife. But the dealer's grip was strong.

  Changing tactics, Quinn pulled away slightly, then slammed himself back into the man's chest. He did it again. And again. The third time, he knocked the breath out of the dealer. Surprisingly, the asshole still wouldn't let go of the knife.

  As the man gasped for air, Quinn quickly looked around. There was an old pipe, maybe four inches thick, running up the side of the building only a few feet away. Quinn pulled the dealer toward it, then smashed the man's wrist against the pipe over and over again.

  Suddenly there was a crack and the man cried out in pain. The knife clattered to the ground. Quinn found it with his foot and kicked it as far away as possible before he let go of the man. He needn't have bothered. The dealer slipped down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, cradling his arm in his lap.

  'You son of a bitch,' the man said. Quinn leaned down, grabbed the man by the hair, and pushed his head back until their eyes loc
ked. 'When someone tells you no,' Quinn said, 'you should listen.'

  He let go of the man's hair, then stood back up.

  'What the hell?' a voice called out in English.

  Footsteps. It was Leo Tucker. 'You all right, mate?' Tucker asked when he reached Quinn. 'I'm fine.' Tucker looked down at the writhing drug dealer on the ground. 'Who the hell is he?'

  'I don't know.'

  'I saw him take a swing at you.' Tucker nodded in admiration. 'Good move.'

  'He's high. It wasn't hard.' In the distance, they could hear the sound of sirens. 'Christ,' Tucker said. 'The last thing you need is to be messing with the police. Come on.'

  Tucker started toward a cab that had just pulled up. Quinn had no desire to get involved with the local authorities, so he followed. Tucker opened the door for him.

  'Thanks,' Quinn said. 'I owe you.'

  'Just get in,' Tucker said.

  Quinn ducked inside.

  'You're going to have to scoot over,' Tucker said, leaning through the doorway. 'I appreciate your help, but I've got it from here.' Then Quinn saw the pistol in Tucker's hand. The

  Australian smiled, and Quinn slid over.

  Chapter 14

  Tucker said something in Vietnamese to the cab driver, then settled back and gave Quinn another smile. 'Cheer up, mate. We'll get our business done, then you can be on your way.'

  'And what business would that be?' Quinn asked.

  Tucker said nothing.

  Quinn shrugged as if to say he didn't really care what the answer was. In many ways, that was true. Survival was his main objective now. He couldn't afford to believe Tucker would just let him go after their 'business' was done. But until the opportunity to escape presented itself, he knew he'd have to play along.

  They rode in silence. Without looking at his watch, Quinn guessed it was a little before 10 p.m. As the cab moved through the city, he marked the path in his mind. A hotel here, a bamboo scaffolding there, a three-tiered pagoda, a blue lantern hung in a window. Though he was in a part of the city he had never been before, he knew, given the opportunity, he would be able to make it back to familiar ground.

  After about ten minutes, they entered an area that looked primarily residential, not just apartment buildings, but a few homes, too. Tucker leaned forward and said something to the driver, who nodded, then turned at the next street. The houses here were different – larger, better kept. Two blocks later, the cab stopped beside a large white wall. At the left end of the wall was a gate. In front of it stood two Vietnamese men. They eyed the cab suspiciously as it came to a halt. From the way they stood, Quinn knew they were armed.

  Tucker handed the cabby some cash. 'We're here,' he said to Quinn.

  Quinn opened the door and got out. One of the men at the gate took a step toward him, his face taut and expressionless. But as soon as Tucker emerged, the man relaxed.

  'What now?' Quinn asked.

  'We go in for a chat.' Tucker nodded toward the gate. 'You first.'

  Before they passed through, one of the two men searched Quinn, patting him down. The guard came up with a roll of Vietnamese dong and Quinn's folded-up map of the city. He handed the items to Tucker. Quinn was grateful he'd given himself the night off and left the tools of his trade in his room. But the map was a problem. On one side was written the address of Orlando's office. He needed to get it back.

  Once the search was complete, the other man pulled the gate open just enough to allow Quinn and Tucker to walk through. Behind the wall was a large, white, two-story house surrounded by a well-tended garden. Lights were on in several of the windows. From one drifted the sounds of music

  – Ennio Morricone's soundtrack to The Mission, if Quinn wasn't mistaken.

  As they neared the house the front door opened. A large, muscular man stood in the threshold. Like Tucker, he was Caucasian, although not quite as pasty as the Australian. Maybe a little Latin blood, Quinn decided. Or maybe just more time in the sun.

  'This is Perry,' Tucker said to Quinn. 'Perry's in charge of making sure nothing gets broken around here.'

  'Does that include me?' Quinn asked.

  Tucker laughed.

  Perry, unsmiling, moved out of the way so they could enter. Once inside, Quinn felt like he had stepped out ofVietnam and directly into an English country manor. Beyond the entryway was a large living room filled with dark antique furniture. On closer inspection it actually seemed more French than English. It was the paintings on the walls that gave it the English feel - paintings of hunting dogs, game birds, and horses, but none of people.

  'Your place?' Quinn asked Tucker. 'It's a little nineteenth century, isn't it?'

  'That way.' Tucker pointed to a hallway at the far end of the living room.

  Quinn shrugged. As he walked in the direction Tucker had indicated, he carefully noted everything he could use to aid him if needed. There were several objects in the living room that would make for good blunt instruments: a vase, a fist-sized brass sculpture of a sleeping dog, a glass ashtray. But none were in his direct path.

  Once in the hallway, Tucker directed Quinn to open the first door on the left. Inside was a bookcase-lined den. A large desk faced the door, dominating the space. Behind the desk sat a man, another Caucasian. He wore a dark blue dress shirt and looked to be in his early sixties – mainly due to his silver, close-cropped hair. He stood as Quinn and Tucker came in.

  'Please,' the man said, gesturing to two chairs in front of the desk. 'Have a seat.'

  Quinn took the chair to the right, and Tucker took the one to the left. The man behind the desk waited until they were settled before he sat back down.

  'Can I get you something?' the man asked Quinn. His accent had a Mid-Atlantic cast to it. 'Water, perhaps? Or a soft drink? I'm afraid we've no alcohol here.'

  'I'm fine,' Quinn said.

  There was a pitcher of water and four glasses on one side of the desk. The man reached over and filled three of the glasses. He set one in front of Quinn and one in front of Tucker, taking the third for himself. 'Just in case you get thirsty.'

  'Thanks,' Quinn said, leaving the glass untouched.

  'Well then. I guess we should get started.' The man paused for a moment. 'Leo,' he said to Tucker. 'Where's Art? Wasn't he with you?'

  'Seeking medical attention, I'd guess.' Tucker looked over at Quinn. 'Our boy here did a number on him outside Apocalypse Now.'

  The older man frowned. 'Dreadful place. Too loud, too many undesirables. I suppose I should find out if he'll be all right.'

  'He'll be fine,'Tucker said. 'Looked like a broken arm.'

  'Wrist,' Quinn corrected.

  'That'll take a while to heal,' the older man said.

  'Who are you?' Quinn asked.

  The man laughed. 'I should have introduced myself sooner. I apologize. My name's Piper.' 'As in Pied?' Quinn asked. 'As in Mister,' Piper responded. The name tickled something in the back of

  Quinn's mind. He was sure Piper wasn't someone he'd worked with before – Quinn would have remembered him instantly if that were the case. But the name was familiar.

  'Now why don't you tell us who you are,' Piper said.

  Quinn shrugged. 'Sure. The name's Tony Johnson.'

  Piper laughed again. 'You don't look like a Johnson to me. Do you think he looks like a Johnson, Leo?'

  'Not to me, he doesn't.'

  'Leo was the one who spotted you,' Piper said, returning his attention to Quinn. 'He's pretty good at faces. He was at the airport checking the new arrivals yesterday. Something he does for me most mornings. And there you were.'

  'There he was,' Tucker agreed.

  'The famous Jonathan Quinn,' Piper said.

  Quinn didn't flinch. 'And you just decided to have me over for . . . a glass of water?'

  'Just a chat,' Piper said. 'Consider the water a gift.'

  'What do you want?'

  'That depends.'

  'On what?'

  Piper smiled. 'Did you know there's a price on y
our head?' 'That doesn't surprise me,' Quinn said calmly. 'How much am I going for these days?'

  'Not enough to make me shoot you on the spot, but enough to make me curious. Leo, what was the amount?'

  'Twenty-five thousand U.S.,' Leo said. Piper looked back at Quinn. 'You see. Curiosity money, really. Not worth my trouble.' Quinn leaned back in his chair, then said, 'So who wants me dead?'

  'Good question,' Piper said. 'There was no name attached to the . . . request. I was hoping you might know.'

  Quinn shrugged. 'I guess we're all in the dark.'

  'Curious how only you are mentioned,' Piper said. 'I guess your friend isn't as important.' 'Friend?' Quinn asked, suddenly tense. 'You weren't alone when you arrived,' Piper said.

  'A young man? Tucker tells me he had some trouble with one of the local kids.' If they had noted Quinn's arrival, of course they would have made Nate, too.

  'A colleague, perhaps?' Piper asked.

  'Could be I just met him on the plane,' Quinn said. Tucker snorted. 'Right,' he said, laughing.

  Piper pulled something out of a drawer in the desk and set it on the blotter in front of him. It was a photo of Quinn and Nate standing outside the Rex Hotel. Piper turned it so that Quinn was looking at it right-side-up, then tapped the picture several times.

  'I haven't been able to ID him yet, but my instinct tells me he works for you.'

  Quinn smiled.

  'What are the two of you doing here?' Piper asked.

  Quinn glanced down at his left hand as he ran his thumb over the pads of his fingers. 'What's the play here?' he said, looking up. 'Are we waiting for someone? When he shows up, maybe he takes me on a ride into the countryside? He comes back. I don't.'

  Tucker laughed again. 'Pal, you really must be having a bad week.'

  Piper leaned back, his eyes studying Quinn. 'As you can probably guess, my business here is very sensitive. What I don't want is for the two months I've had to spend in this hellhole to be blown by someone like you. So you see why I'm curious about your intentions. That is the only play I care about.'

  'Then we don't have a problem,' Quinn said. 'Until Romeo here picked me up at the bar, I didn't even know you were in town.'