He sweated inside an old blue poncho, even as the rain pelted it. His hair and shoes were wet. He knew that such disarray would cause him to be stared at and even mocked when he reached the East Wind, Rain. And in a way he was glad. He did not belong there, nor did he want to.

The rain stopped, just as suddenly as it had begun. He took off the poncho, shaking water from it and folding it as he walked. As he neared the club, a rat as big as a cat ran across the top of its sign, hopped onto a windowsill, and then disappeared into the night.

It was chaotic, circuslike outside the club. A steady stream of people came and went, moving into and out of taxis and limousines, a few arriving on motorbikes that they parked just across the street. On the sidewalk and in the street the evening shift of hustlers was back at work, pushing, chasing, pleading. Like starving goldfish in an aquarium, they were waiting to be fed.

A little boy with slicked-back hair in designer blue jeans and a Disney World T-shirt was carrying a wooden box, hawking shoeshines in urgent, gutter English. A hunchbacked young woman with sad eyes and arthritic fingers shyly waved a package of old black and white photographs. A thirtyish man dragged useless legs behind him as he hobbled on wooden crutches, trying to sell packs of gum. A young man wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball hat marched briskly in front of the restaurant, holding an array of foreign English- and French-language newspapers. Two suborning little girls in identical red wide-brimmed hats formed a tag team, offering cigarette lighters and foreign cigarettes from similar foldout cases.

Near the door a ferretlike man with a drooping mustache approached him from the shadows of a nearby building, where a dozen cyclo drivers and hustlers lazed. The thirtyish hustler was smiling with a too-easy familiarity, as if searching for a tawdry camaraderie. He wore a long-sleeve, silk-flowered shirt, and a large hoop earring in his left ear. A gold bracelet drooped from his wrist as he reached out and tried to touch Condley’s shoulder.

“You want blow?” the man asked. “Very good, number-one reefer.”

“Khong can,” said Condley. I don’t need it. He pushed away the man’s arm, having surprised him by answering in Vietnamese.

“Oh,” said the hustler, recovering quickly and himself switching to Vietnamese, offering opium instead. “Anh muon a-phien khong?”

“Fuck you,” answered Condley, reaching for the door.

“You want fuck?” The hustler laughed mockingly, joined by his nearby friends. He called again as Condley pushed open the door. “I got very good taxi girl for you, number-one good time, no problem!”