[Quinn 01] - The Cleaner

She let out a short, derisive laugh, but when she looked at him, there was just the hint of a playful smirk on her face. 'You paying me for this?'

Quinn laughed. 'No.'

The smirk grew wider, then quickly disappeared. 'What do you need?'

Quinn sighed inwardly. For a second there it was almost like the old Orlando was back. Just give it a little time, he thought.

'I need to know what Gibson's been up to,' he said. 'Who he's been working for. What jobs he's done lately. See if there is anything that can tie him to Taggert somehow.'

'Okay, but he was probably just a one-time hire,' Orlando said. 'That's the kind of thing Gibson loves to do.' She paused, then corrected herself. 'Loved to do.'

'Check anyway. All right?'

She looked away for a moment before answering. 'I can do that,' she finally said.

As they were getting up to leave, Nate said, 'Ann's offered to give me a tour of the city.' 'Is that right?' Quinn said, not sounding surprised. 'When is this supposed to happen?'

'Eh . . . now, if you think it's okay.'

'Do you think it's okay?'

'Quinn, let him go,' Orlando said.

Quinn chose to ignore her. 'You remember the rule of attachments,' Quinn said to his apprentice.

'Don't have any,' Nate said.

'Close enough.'

'I won't forget.'

Quinn gave him a single, terse nod.

'Thanks,' Nate said. He gave them both a smile, then headed over to the bar, where Anh was waiting.

'He'll be fine,' Orlando said as she and Quinn left the restaurant. 'Quit acting like his dad.'

'He's my responsibility right now.'

'You know who you're starting to sound like?' she asked.

He knew exactly who she meant. Durrie.

'Go to hell.'

As they climbed into a taxi for the ride back to the Rex, Orlando said, 'Do you mind if we make a stop first?'

'No problem,' Quinn said.

She gave directions to the taxi driver and soon they were on their way. After ten minutes, they pulled up to the curb in front of a large pagoda. Orlando paid the driver, and they got out.

'A temple?' Quinn asked. Orlando simply nodded, then led the way up the steps and inside.

The central room was vast, lit mainly by sunlight entering through the large, open doors that surrounded most of the building. But once inside, the light was quickly diffused by a layer of smoke that hung in the air. Quinn couldn't immediately see the source, but he could smell it. Incense. Spicy and sweet. The aroma inviting him in, relaxing him, soothing him.

Orlando led him toward the altar in the center of the room. It was at least twenty feet across, and nearly the same high. In the middle was a life-size statue of the Buddha.

But instead of stopping in front, Orlando walked around and behind the altar. Quinn followed. In the back, there were over a dozen people praying before a second, smaller altar. Again, there was the Buddha, this one the size of a small child. Lining the front of the altar were several round pots of sand, each stuffed with dozens of incense sticks. Many were withered and used, while others glowed as thin spirals of smoke rose from their tips toward the ceiling like ethereal tails pointed at heaven, only to dissipate and become just another part of the perpetual haze.

Surrounding the Buddha statue were shelves lined with photographs of the recently and not-sorecently departed. Orlando found a spot to the far left, then kneeled and began to pray. Instead of bowing her head, her eyes were glued to one of the pictures on the shelves. Quinn, careful not to disturb her, moved around until he had a better view of what she was looking at.

It was a picture of a man. But unlike the other photos, the man was Caucasian. The glass covering the image was so dirty with smoke residue from the constantly burning incense, most people probably didn't even notice.

As Quinn stared at the picture, a surge of conflicting emotions churned inside him. The picture was of Durrie. It was probably taken only a few years before his death. Durrie's hair was almost as gray as it had been on the job that had gotten him killed, but he was smiling and he seemed relaxed.

Quinn tore his eyes away and went back outside before Orlando finished praying. He bought a soda from an old man who'd set up shop at the bottom of the steps, then found a bit of shade near the base of the stairs.

He tried not to think about how the picture of Durrie had affected him. But there was no ignoring it. Guilt. Sadness. Hatred. Hatred for a man who had deserted a son he never knew. Hatred for a man who had taught Quinn how to survive and thrive, and yet was unable to follow his own lessons. But most of all, hatred for a man who had left Orlando heartbroken, damaged, and alone.

A short time later, his soda still unopened, Orlando rejoined him. 'Thank you,' she said.

'How often do you come?' he asked.

She looked up at him. 'Every day.'

Quinn wanted to say, He doesn't deserve it, or even better, He doesn't deserve you. Instead, he handed her the soda, then walked to the curb and hailed a taxi.