The clerk behind the desk smiled with appreciation, and gave Carter a fifth-floor room with a view of the Zoological Gardens.
Carter signed the registry, then slipped a twenty (New Zealand dollars) across the counter. The clerk stared at it, then at Carter. He was wary, but interested.
"Did you notice an American or Englishman come through here in the last couple of weeks?" Carter said casually. "A tall man, about my height. Rangy. English accent. Likes martinis with a dash of Pernod?"
The clerk's eager eyes dulled. He wouldn't get the extra money. He shook his head. He was honest.
"Popular with women," Carter added, smiling encouragement. "A real flamboyant type."
"Sorry, sir," the clerk said, disappointed. "I don't remember anyone like that, and I'm on duty every day just about."
Carter nodded. It'd be like hunting for one particular seashell on a Coney Island beach. Lousy odds.
"Take the money, son," Carter said. "Ask around. Maybe someone on another shift saw him."
The money disappeared into the clerk's pocket. A big smile appeared on his face. In socialized New Zealand, taxes were high. Tips were a hedge against inflation.
"Be glad to, sir," the clerk said, handing him his room key. "Anything I can do."
Carter left the hotel to go to a nearby men's shop to buy clothes. Without thinking about it, he automatically watched the streets for the bright yellow Mazda. Nothing. He went to a leather shop and bought a suitcase. Briefly he remembered the fishing gear that had burned to ashes in Mike's Cessna.
He shook his head, packed the suitcase, and returned to the hotel lobby. There'd been no sign of the Mazda. And no one seemed particularly interested in the short-bearded American tourist who'd just indulged himself in some fine New Zealand clothes.
In the lobby, Carter purchased a downtown map of Wellington, and a restaurant and touring guide. It had been thirty six hours since he had last slept. Weariness dragged at him. He went upstairs to his room to plan his hunt for Rocky Diamond, shower, and sleep.
Seven
The names of the areas of Wellington reflected its Maori, English, and American past. Names like Khandallah, Ngaio, Crofton Downs, Kilbimie, and Brooklyn were discouraging to Carter because they showed more than the past; they told of the present enormous size of Wellington. More than 300,000 inhabitants spread in an arc around the bay. And Carter needed to trace one single man, an outsider, who had no record of ever having been in New Zealand.
There was only one logical place to start: Wellington International Airport. He made a circle around the area, then consulted the restaurant and dining guide for bars.
In New Zealand, people drove on the left side of the road, mailboxes were painted royal red and shaped like dollhouses, and once every three years in the general election, prohibition was voted upon. It hadn't passed yet, but bar hours were commensurately short in a nation where the temperance movement could easily get out of hand. The bars closed at ten o'clock.
Nick Carter was mindful of this as he walked along Broadway, head bent against the howling wind, toward the Bayard Stockton Cellar. The international airport was south. Big planes roared in and out of the distance, lights flashing.
It was 6 p.m. The chilly Wellington gale slashed through Carter's suit as if it were gauze. But Carter had slept, eaten a good meal, and was feeling fine, eager to discover what underlay the strange events in New Zealand.
Prepared, he wore his old friends Wilhelmina, Pierre, and Hugo. It was astounding what their presence did for the disposition of a Killmaster.
He pushed open the plastic-covered door to the Bayard Stockton Cellar. Cigarette smoke and stale liquor odors clotted the air. In the entryway was an enlarged color photograph of a sardonic man with red hair. Beneath the photo was typed the inscription "Founded by radio announcer Bayard Stockton, the man with the golden-gravel voice, disappeared Christchurch on assignment, July 1984." The photo and inscription were covered with clear plastic thumb-tacked to the wall. Carter shook his head, and walked down four cellar stops. Not your usual high-class establishment.
The bar was dark, the only light coming from small bulbs hidden behind cheap bloodred lampshades. The wallpaper was red, too, and heavily flocked. Four people sat at the bar, empty stools between each. They'd staked their claims to isolation. Behind the bar was a large painted canvas, a poorly done imitation Modigliani nude. The bar had aspirations. It wanted to grow up to be a whorehouse.
Carter sat on a stool at the end of the bar and loosened his tie. The heater was on. Even in summer, Wellington nights could be cold. His face flushed with warmth and stale air. The bartender looked at him.
"Lion beer," Carter said.
The barkeep nodded, picked up a glass, and slid it beneath the tap. As the beer poured, Carter took in his fellow drinkers: two women, two men.
Each of the men glanced at Carter, furtive, polite. The women stared down into their drinks. Not often in this country did you see women alone in a bar. And they weren't soliciting, just drinking. One had a whiskey sour, and the other a rum and cola. They didn't look like Rocky Diamond's types.
The bartender watched Carter study the women.
The beer came down hard in front of Carter. It sloshed over the side of the mug. The women looked up.
"Nice night," Carter observed, smiling curiously at the surly bartender.
"You looking for someone?" the bartender demanded.
He had brutal eyes, a short pugnacious nose, and cauliflower ears. He'd never been to the Olympics, just on street-corners with too much time on his hands and no common sense. Now he was older and knew better, but he wouldn't pass up a challenge he could create.
"As a matter of fact, I am," Carter said.
"You won't find her here," the bartender said.
The barkeep had it all figured out. In New Zealand, a lady was to be protected. Unlike the United States where the identifying line between lady and streetwalker was blurred by sometimes indistinguishable dress, in New Zealand a whore looked like a tart, and a lady looked like someone's mother. The two women at the bar were either mothers, or wanted to be. Their brows were raised in alarm.
"Your sister?" Carter asked, glancing at the closest of the two women.
"Cousin," the bartender said gruffly. "Drink your beer and get out."
Carter put a twenty on the bar. The bartender was good at jumping to conclusions. Maybe he'd jump a different way if the motivation changed.
The bartender's hand came down on the twenty.
But before he could slide the bill away to the cash drawer, Carter's hand came down hard on top. Surprised, the bartender flinched and tried to pull the money and his hand out from under.
The hand was immobilized.
The barkeep's eyes narrowed. He thought about the situation, his brow wrinkled with effort.
With his free hand, Carter casually picked up his beer and drank.
Again the bartender tried to yank away, but Carter's steely muscles held the fighter to the spot.
Carter put his beer mug down.
"I said I was looking for someone," he said.
"So?"
The bartender wouldn't concede an iota. But his hand had started to sweat. He made occasional furtive attempts to regain his dignity by slipping away.
The four people at the bar stared, not quite sure what was going on.
The bartender knew. He'd played games of intimidation before, his cagey eyes said, but he'd always made sure he had the right role — the bully's role.
"An American flyer," Carter went on. "When he talks, he sounds English."
The bartender licked his lips. Mesmerized, he watched Carter's free hand play easily with his beer, as if there were no strain involved in keeping the New Zealander pinned.