Nick Carter - Double Identity

It was, of course, a picture of the phony Nick Carter — but the Karachi cops didn’t know that!

Nick finished his beer and lit another cigarette. He kept his face shielded by the paper and again surveyed the bar. It was jammed and smoke-filled now. Most of the patrons were men, though here and there Nick saw a prostitute in cheap Western finery. The men were a polyglot crew, mostly river and harbor workers with a scattering of lean Pathan tribesmen wearing pa jama-type trousers and dirty turbans. The stench of unwashed bodies was overpowering.

From the rear of the place came the sudden twanging of stringed instruments playing — to Western ears — a most unmelodic dance tune. There was a great surge by the crowd toward the music and Nick found himself and his corner deserted. Suited him fine. He stared down the bar and, through the mob, could see a fat woman wriggling her belly in a very basic version of the jhoomer, a Pakistani folk dance. The folk, N3 thought, would never recognize it! The layer of fat just above the woman’s scant covering wobbled and gleamed with sweat as she gyrated. Little cries of encouragement came from the crowd of men, most of whom were drunk. It was strictly a Moslem crowd, Nick noted with a sardonic little smile. What else? You didn’t see many Hindus around Karachi these days. If they were around at all they kept well out of sight.

He glanced at his AXE watch — it had survived the terrible passage out of the Karakoram Pass better than he had, his feet were still aching from frostbite — and saw that it was a quarter after twelve Karachi time. No point in stalling around here any longer. He was only postponing the trouble. He had to get out to Mauripur, find Sam Shelton’s house, and see what he could find in the way of a clue. Probably nothing — yet he must try. Reluctantly he began to push back from the table, dreading the empty streets, when he saw the incident at the bar. N3 remained in his chair, watching, as a hunch began to grow and develop in his quick brain. The man at the bar sounded like an American.

Certainly he was angry — and drunk. And broke. That was the real trouble. The man was broke and the bartender, a huge fellow in a dirty purple-striped shirt and a red fez, would not serve him. As Nick watched the bartender reached across the bar and shoved the smaller man brutally. The man fell amidst a clutter of butts, waste paper and spittle, his head nearly in an old petrol tin serving as a spittoon. He lay there for a moment, unable to rise, mouthing a string of foul curses in Hindustani — Nick caught the word bap, father, coupled with what seemed to be a species of incestuous monkey. Then the man on the floor swung into English, Americanese, and the result was delightful to hear. Nick grinned openly and enjoyed it, thinking that even Hawk could learn a word or two from this derelict!

N3 made his decision and acted immediately. It was his way. He had little to lose and possibly a great deal to gain. Even a bum like this must have a home of sorts — someplace to hide for the night. Anything was better than a hotel, even the cheapest, where he would have to show identification — and where sharp eyes would spot him as a wanted man.

He went to the fallen man and pulled him up roughly. The bartender looked on without interest, his swarthy face conveying his boredom and impatience with Yankees who were broke and on the beach. They were pigs! Useless pigs! One never got baksheesh from such as these. They drank cheap beer only and did not patronize the whores.

Nick tossed a 100 rupee note on the bar. “Bring whisky. Good whisky— American if you’ve got it! Tez! Hurry up!”

The barman was immediately servile. He had misjudged, then. This big one had money after all! And something else — an air of authority that was not to be trifled with. And yet another thing! The bartender pondered as he fumbled for the single bottle of precious American whisky — had he not seen the face of this big one somewhere before? Recently — quite recently! The bartender summoned his assistant and conferred with him for a moment in rapid Pashto. Both he and the assistant were Afghans.

The assistant studied the face of the big American who by now had gotten the drunk back to his table and succeeded in propping him up. “No,” said the assistant, “I have never seen him before. But if he is a friend of the Bannion, of that one, how can he be anyone important or worth anything? You are mistaken, boss. He can be of no consequence. I doubt they have a naye poise between them.” He went back to watch the belly dancer.

The owner crumpled the 100 rupee note in his pocket and took the whisky and two dirty glasses to the table. His assistant was, in fact, supposed to be a junior partner— but if he did not find out about the 100 rupees so much the better. And Ali could be wrong, too. He would keep an eye on this big American with money — just in case.

There was a folded copy of The Hindi Times on the dirty table. The owner used it to brush away the flies and ashes. The big American reached to take the paper from his hand. “Mine,” he said. “I haven’t finished with it yet.”

“Dwkh ,” said the owner. “My sorrow, sir. Will there be anything else? You wish perhaps to view the dancing? I could, er, arrange a private performance!”

Bannion, the derelict, raised his head from the dirty table. He stared at the owner with red-rimmed eyes. “Get lost, you greasy fat son of a bitch! Who needs you? Beat it!” He turned to Nick. “Better watch him if you got any money. He’s a thief. They’re all thieves!”

The owner retreated a step, but did not lose his servile expression. He dry-washed his hands and stared at Bannion with disdain. To Nick he said, “I must warn you against this one, sahib. He is worthless — for many years now. He is a cadger, a dead beat! I—”

Bannion tried to struggle out of his chair, his face working with rage. “You’re gonna be a dead Afghan sonofabitch if you don’t get that lousy fat carcass out of here!” He collapsed into the chair again.

Nick Carter nodded to the owner. “Leave us alone.”

When the man had gone he studied the man called Bannion. Pretty far gone, he thought. Way down in a deep hole. At the bottom of the ladder. Hopeless. Still he might prove useful.

Bannion was on the short side, squarish in build, with a little pot belly. His three-or four-day growth of stubble was reddish mixed with gray. What was left of his lank hair, around a smooth pink tonsure, was of the same color. His eyes, as he stared back at Nick now, were watery and inflamed. He looked like a bad case of pinkeye! He wore a filthy old GI field jacket covered with grease stains and a pair of equally disreputable OD pants. Beneath the field jacket a ragged tee shirt was the color of dirt. Nick, very deliberately, making a thing of it, glanced down at the man’s feet. He wore old Army shoes, one with a heel gone. He was sockless.

Bannion said nothing while this scrutiny was going on. He scratched at his red beard and narrowed his inflamed eyes at Nick. Finally he grinned. Nick was a bit surprised to note that his teeth weren’t bad.

Bannion said, “Inspection over?”

N3 nodded curtly. “For now.”

“I pass?”

Nick restrained a smile. This was a cocky little bastard, no matter that he was the down and out.

“Barely,” he said. “I really don’t know yet You’re really a mess, aren’t you?”

The little man grinned. “You can say that again, mister who-ever-you-are. I’m the bum to end all bums! I’m a derelict and a hopeless, no-good bum! But all that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? So why bother with me? Why pick me up and bring me over here with all this good whisky that, as far as I can see, is going to waste. You don’t look like a do-gooder to me. And you aren’t carrying a prayer book and a tambourine, either. So what goes on, mister? And, while you’re telling me, can I have a shot of that panther pee you’re paying for?”