A flush of worry rose up the bartender's bull neck. Even though he used the excuse, he didn't fight for women, honor, or patriotism. He fought because he expected to win. The destruction of others proved that he was real.
"Already got too many bloody Americans around here," the bartender growled.
"English accent," Carter repeated. "Tall man, about my sue Rangy. Likes martinis with a dash of Pernod. Also likes the ladies." Carter nodded politely at the two staring women at the bar. They'd have a fresh story to tell their less venturesome friends, this one about a bearded, uppity Yank. "Sorry, but he's got a big reputation. Very successful at picking women up and getting them to bed. Name's Rocky Diamond." He smiled at the bartender. "I want to find this man," he said pointedly.
The bartender shrugged.
Carter ground the hand painfully into the counter. The bartender tried to bite back a grunt of pain.
"I'd appreciate any leads you can give me," Carter told him. "Either to him, or to someone who saw or knows him."
The bartender clenched his teeth.
"Never heard of him," he hissed.
Then the bartender's hand lashed out. It was a scarred hand, marked by battles more often won than lost.
Carter sighed.
He smashed his free hand into the bartender's jaw. It was a single, perfect punch.
The fighter's eyes widened with surprise. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The beaten bartender crashed back into the Modigliani nude. Bottles of bourbon, rum, and gin smashed to the floor. Flying glass embedded itself into the cheap oil painting.
The barkeep sat down abruptly in the middle of the mess. He fell back against the collapsed liquor shelves. His head, framed by the cauliflower ears, drooped to his chest.
Fascinated, the patrons leaned over the bar to watch as the unconscious man slowly keeled over. His head landed on an unbroken bottle of crème de menthe. He seemed to smile.
Still leaning over, the four turned their faces to look at Carter. They sat back on their stools.
"Any of you see Rocky Diamond? Hear anything about him?" Carter asked.
They shook their heads.
"Don't recognize the name," one man said.
"A lot of tourists here," the other added.
"Sorry," the woman who was the cousin said. Then she smiled. Slightly, but still a smile. She hadn't liked the cousin much either.
Carter grinned. He drained his beer.
"I'll be at the Wellington Arms if you hear anything." He gave them the name he'd registered under.
The bartender on the floor moaned. No one looked.
Carter reknotted his tie.
"What about the money?" the first male patron asked, glancing at the bar.
Carter put another twenty on top of the first.
"Tell him to get boxing lessons."
The wind was a howling gale through the Wellington night. The stars were hidden behind a furling layer of gray and charcoal clouds.
Over the next several hours Carter worked his chilly way up and down Broadway and its sidestreets, going from bar to bar. He ordered a beer at every stop, but finished none of them. He needed to be alert.
It was at times like this that he wished he had a force of agents at his disposal. Or at least an assistant. Anyone to help share the legwork of giving the simple description, and asking the simple question. Have you seen or heard of this man?
His feet were growing numb from the nighttime cold. His nose was frosty. He was again feeling his lack of sleep, but still he persevered through the windy night.
Often a mission was lost simply because of poor foot work. Answers seldom arrived on silver platters. Most often they had to be dug out with a seasoned trowel.
The bartenders, waitresses, and patrons he approached in the Wellington bars and restaurants around the airport tended to be suspicious and closemouthed. Part of it was his scruffy beard. But mostly it was the standard — and normal — reaction.
So, consequently, each time he had to find what would loosen their tongues — bribery, sympathy, coercion, or sometimes, for a lonely drinker, a friendly chat.
The questioning took time, energy, and money, and he was running low on all three. And no one he talked with had met or heard of Rocky Diamond.
It was a half hour before closing time, and Carter ducked his head to reenter the wind-blasted night. The bar he was leaving was the Plow and Angel. The one he would go to next was the Moon Face, two doors away.
His leather-soled shoes snapped on the cold pavement. He dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders as the wind pummeled him down the empty sidewalk. Most Wellington citizens had enough sense to be home on a night like this. And to think it was summer.
There was an alley to his left. A black rectangular hole. He rushed past, propelled by the gale.
Still, with his peripheral vision, he saw the momentary flash of the knife's blade within the blackness of the alley's entrance.
He kept moving. Only one more store, a jewelry shop with hand-hammered gold and silver necklaces displayed in the window, then he'd be at the next bar. The Moon Face.
Whoever was in the alley would have to be a lot quicker if he expected to catch someone to rob on this windy night.
Then he heard the feet.
They ran out of the alley, thundering. Ten of them. Dressed in black jump suits. Their faces darkened against the city's lights. Dressed and camouflaged just like the group that had attacked the mountain jail.
Carter grabbed Wilhelmina from the small of his back.
One of them lunged at Carter's legs.
He kicked him off.
They circled.
Carter spun, swinging the Luger.
He caught another one in the neck. His hand was so cold that he hardly felt the violent blow.
The man's eyes rolled up into his head, and he went down uncomplainingly.
But the others attacked, a circle of determination.
Too many. They could afford to have reflexes a little slower than the Killmaster's.
They came in high and low.
Carter lashed with his gun, his elbows, hands, and feet.
It was like fighting an avalanche.
He kneed one in the belly. The attacker doubled over and vomited.
He whipped another across the cheek. The black makeup scraped off a fish-belly-white face that quickly turned red with blood.
They grabbed his aims. Ripped Wilhelmina from his hand. Pinned him against a brick wall. There were too many of them.
Quickly before he broke free, one belted him in the jaw. Another blasted two hard punches to the spleen.
Red and black pain erupted behind Carter's eyes.
"Forget Diamond!" one man snarled.
It was a low voice. Rusty, disguised. English, but a Russian accent.
"What?" He wanted to hear the voice again.
"Go home!" rasped another.
They were black wraiths in the night. Each looked like the other. Thin lipped carbon copies wearing black jump suits padded against the wind. They had revolvers strapped to their legs. They worked in unison, well trained and enthusiastic.
"Silver Dove!" Carter said.
That did it. With machine-gun repetition, the fists hit Carter's face, neck, chest, and belly. Over and over. Punishing him for his knowledge.
He struggled.
They hit harder, an exploding series of pains that left him gasping against the rough brick wall.
"Don't try to follow Diamond!" a new voice warned, finality in the words. "Next time, you're dead!"
To emphasize the point, another attacker grabbed Carter's head and slammed it back into the brick wall.
Hands released Carter. He slid down, every muscle in his body screaming. Warm, sticky blood oozed from the back of his head. The Wellington street revolved crazily. He felt the faintness of the few seconds before unconsciousness.