Nick Carter - Double Identity

Nick shoved the bottle toward him. “Help yourself. Only stay on your feet, please. I think I might have a little job for you later. Not much later, either. Just how drunk are you now?”

The man seized the bottle and poured with a fairly steady hand. He jerked his head toward the bar. “Not as drunk as they think I am. That’s an act I put on sometimes — these bastards like to see a white man drunk and making a fool of himself. Makes them laugh — and when they laugh they buy drinks. Simple as that, mister.” He drank his shot in one gulp and hastily refilled his glass, then shoved the bottle toward Nick. “Thanks. Been a long time since I’ve tasted real American booze. Mostly I drink beer or Karachi rot-gut. Now, mister, what’s your angle?”

N3 felt a tinge of pity. He repressed it immediately. There were millions of these men in the world, all with a hard luck story, and he had neither time nor inclination to listen to another one. Yet this man might prove valuable in just this situation — it remained to be seen.

He replied to the question with another question. “What’s your name? I’d like to know something about you before I go on with this — not much, but a little. How you happen to be stranded in Karachi, for instance?”

The little man reached for the bottle again. “Mike Bannion,” he said. “Michael Joseph, in full. I used to be a newspaper man. In the States. In the world, for that matter. All around and about! That was ten years ago — when I landed here in Karachi after a story. I got the story — but I also got drunk. I’ve been drunk ever since. I’m going on being drunk as long as I can manage it. And you’re wrong about one thing— I’m not stranded. I’ve got a home, believe it or not. I’ve also got a wife and nine kids. I married a native— Moslem girl. Her old man hates me and disowned her. She’s fat and ugly now — having all those kids — but when I married her she was something. Now she takes in laundry to feed the kids and pay the rent and I shift for myself to get drink money. And that’s it, mister, the story of my life. Or all of it that you’re going to get— I don’t care how much money you pay me!”

Bannion took a deep breath, another shot of whisky, and stared with covetous eyes at Nick’s pack of Goldflake. Nick shoved the cigarettes across the table. “Help yourself.”

As Bannion lit up Nick studied him carefully. He must make up his mind in a hurry. Now. He decided to go through with it. It was a risk, but then he was used to taking risks. One more couldn’t make much difference. He took the copy of The Hindi Times from his pocket and opened it to the front page. He shoved it across to Bannion.

“Take a good look at that. Read the story if you can— then I’ll ask you a few questions. If you give the right answers, and are still interested, I think we’ll be in business.”

Bannion’s expression did not change as he studied the picture. He glanced at Nick once, then back again to the paper. Obviously he read Hindustani well. Finally he folded the paper and handed it back to Nick. He nodded slightly back of him toward the bar.

“If they spot you you’re in trouble. I notice there’s a reward for you — and these characters would sell their mothers for a plugged rupee. Unless they thought they could blackmail you first.”

Nick put the paper back in his pocket. His grin was faint, quizzical. “Perhaps that thought has occurred to you, too?”

Bannion grinned in return. He poured himself a drink. “It was the first thing that struck me, Mr. Carter. But we’ll see. That your real name?”

“Yes. But this is not a picture of me. It’s the picture of a man who is posing as me. He killed the American, Sam Shelton. I didn’t. It’s a very complicated story and I’m not going to try and explain it to you now. Maybe never. It’s all very top secret stuff. You’ll be working blind, with only my word for anything. Still interested?”

Bannion nodded over his glass. “Could be. I wasn’t exactly born yesterday, you know. And I couldn’t care less whether or not you killed this guy— I only want two honest answers out of you! Have you got money — lots of money?”

Nick smiled faintly. “Uncle Samuel is behind me all the way.”

Bannion brightened. “Good. Second question — are you working for the Commies? Because if you are, and I find it out, the deal is off! I might even get mad and lose my temper. There are some things even a bum like me won’t do.”

Nick grinned across the table. There was something likable about this little redheaded wreck of a man. Not his odor, or his looks certainly, but something!

“Just the other way round,” he said. “I’m agin. That’s all I can tell you.”

The bloodshot eyes regarded him steadily for a long time. Then Bannion reached for the bottle again. “Okay. I’m in, Mr. Carter. Short of murder, I’m in. What do we do first?”

Nick poured the drinks. “This is the last,” he warned Bannion. “I want you as sober as possible. After this one we leave — and we’ll need transportation. Got any ideas about that?”

“I’ve got a jeep outside,” said Bannion surprisingly. “The oldest jeep in the world. Name of Gae — that means cow in Hindustani. She still runs — barely. Where do you want to go, Mr. Carter?”

As they left the man from AXE said, “Call me Nick when you must call me anything — and don’t use my name anymore than you must. Never in front of other people! Right now I want to go to the Mauripur district — to Sam Shelton’s house. You know the district?”

“I know it. I even know the house — it’s on Chinar Drive. I used to drive a beat-up taxi around town until the Paks got sore and spoiled it for me. They don’t like white men working at their jobs.”

Nick followed him to a dark lane near the Indus. The night was clear and cool, with a hanging yellow lantern of moon, somewhat spoiled by the smell of mudflats and dead fish. In the faint light Nick could see ghostly dhows drifting with the current down to the Arabian Sea.

Maybe it wasn’t the oldest jeep in the world. Perhaps, Nick thought as he climbed in, it was only the second or third oldest. You couldn’t say that the paint job was bad— there was no paint. There was no glass in the windshield. The tires were worn down to the cord. The single headlight was wired on and bounced alarmingly.

Bannion had to crank — the starter having long ago gone to buy whisky, he volunteered without shame — and after an anxious moment Gae began to cough and wheeze and hawk up great blue gouts of stinking smoke. They took off cautiously as Bannion babied the tires. A coil of spring nipped at N3’s backside as they rattled and clanked and clunked down every dark alley Bannion could find. And he seemed to know them all. He carefully skirted the modern downtown section of Karachi. They came to a maze of miserable huts thrown together from every kind of material — packing crates, bamboo, mud blocks and logs, flattened oil and beer cans. The stench was appalling. They wound through this desert of misery by means of a single-lane knee deep in greasy mud. The ancient jeep huffed and puffed valiantly. The hovels, and the smell, covered acres.

Nick Carter put a handkerchief over his nose and Bannion snickered. “Rough, huh? Refugees from India in here — no place else to put ‘em. It’s a hell of a mess — even I live better than these poor devils.”

“Speaking of places to live,” said Nick, “after our little excursion tonight I’m going to need a place to shack up — a safe place where I won’t be bothered by cops or anyone else. Your place should do?”

“Perfect,” Bannion nodded and smiled, his teeth flashing through the red beard. “I thought you’d come to that! You’re welcome — part of the deal. The cops never bother me. I know most of them in the neighborhood and anyway I’ve been around so long they take me for granted now. I’m just the American bum!”