The Identity Thief by C. Forsyth Page A

artists, to his way of thinking, and he considered himself a purveyor, not a consumer of flimflammery.
    However, for someone attempting to pull a disappearing act, The Pink Panther was all you could hope for. The establishment was jam-packed, dark and noisy, with rock music alternating with hip-hop blasting over man-size speakers. On six stages curvaceous cuties swung on poles and enthusiastically shook their tails. These were Venuses of all ethnicities, heights, sizes, natural boobs or synthetic - a beauty to suit whatever one's favorite flavor.
    Flashing neon lights poured down on the stages, three bars and scores of tiny drink tables covered with dainty pink tablecloths. X gazed out across over an ocean of bare-breasted temptresses writhing in the laps of patrons, while dozens of other vixens, clad in lingerie, roamed like famished sharks in search of cash-laden prey.
    As he entered the club, he passed a drunken man being led out by three buddies, in what X immediately recognized as the aftermath of a raucous bachelor party. X deliberately bumped into the foursome and slipped the Tucson cop's cell phone into the besotted bridegroom's pocket. It was only a matter of time before the identity thief's pursuers used it to track him down. X was by no means an expert on police manhunts, but he knew that much from the movies.
    He sank onto a stool at the bar and ordered an $8 Heineken. Like his alter ego, the notorious Al Nazeer, X was a teetotaler. Not for religious reasons; although raised a Catholic, X hadn't seen the inside of a church in more than a decade. It was simply that he preferred to be in control at all times. So he nursed his "greenie" - as beer connoisseurs call the brand - and consumed a modest sip every few moments. On a TV over the nearest bar, CNN was reporting a late-breaking story. The sound was either muted or completely overwhelmed by the eardrum-busting music, but the words were close-captioned at the bottom of the screen.
    "A spokesman for the Department of Homeland Security has announced that it is close to capturing Ali Nazeer, described as the No. 2 man in the Jihadist Brotherhood, one of the world's most dangerous terrorist organizations."
    His own face, apparently lifted from a casino surveillance camera, filled the screen, and X winced. Fortunately, none of his fellow patrons were paying attention to the TV. All eyes were fixed on a comely dancer on stage, as she spun around a pole upside down with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.
    He read on.
    "For years the Kuwaiti national posed as an international playboy, authorities allege, while secretly pursuing a double life as a terrorist leader.
    "He allegedly funded a string of audacious attacks such as the raid on the Afghan army barracks in Kandahar as well as last year's bombing of Mount Rushmore, which as we all know, resulted in the destruction of Teddy Roosevelt's nose. A reward of $5 million is being offered for information leading to his capture."
    This just gets better and better, X thought grimly.
    Onto the stage strutted a pale dancer with silicone breasts and a waist-long head of curly red hair that looked suspiciously like a wig. Nature had endowed her with the most perfect ass X had ever beheld, a pair of succulent ripe melons. It appeared to have a life of its own from the way it moved left, right, up and down to the thumping beat. The redhead planted her legs wide apart, bent over at the waist and stuck her magnificent, milk-white rear end in the air, then gleefully smacked it. Looking backward between her legs, she caught him gawking and winked.
    X turned away in embarrassment. On CNN, the anchor continued: "In a related story, Abdul Gamel, leader of the Warriors of Allah terror network and known as The Chief - identified by the Director of the CIA as Osama Bin Laden's 'puppeteer' - has released a new video. In it he defends his declaration of a fatwa - a death warrant against all Americans."
    A bearded man - who surprisingly resembled an