Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

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Текущая страница: 48 (всего у книги 190 страниц)

17 | ‘THANKS FOR THE RIDE’

The scene in the big gambling room had changed. It was much quieter. The orchestra had gone, and so had the droves of women, and there were only a few players at the tables. There were two or three ‘shills’ at the roulette, attractive girls in smart evening dresses who had been given fifty dollars with which to warm up the dead tables, and there was a very drunk man clinging on to the high surrounding wall of one of the crap tables and shouting exhortations to the dice.

And something else had changed. The dealer at the centre blackjack table nearest the bar was Tiffany Case.

So that was her job at The Tiara.

And then Bond saw that all the blackjack dealers were pretty women and that they were all dressed in the same smart Western outfit in grey and black – short grey skirt with a wide black metal-studded belt, grey blouse with a black handkerchief round the neck, a grey sombrero hanging down the back by a black cord, black half-Wellingtons over flesh-coloured nylons.

Bond looked at his watch again and moved slowly into the room. So Tiffany was going to false-deal him to win five thousand dollars. And of course they had chosen the moment when she had just come on duty and the first show of the big-name revue was still running in The Platinum Room. He would be alone with her at the table. No witnesses in case she muffed a deal from the bottom of the pack.

At exactly 10.5 Bond strolled easily up to the table and sat down facing her.

‘Good evening.’

‘Hi.’ She gave him a thin, correct smile.

‘What’s the maximum?’

‘A Grand.’

As Bond slapped the ten 100-dollar notes down across the betting line, the pit-boss strolled over and stood beside Tiffany Case. He barely glanced at Bond. ‘Mebbe the guy would like a new deck, Miss Tiffany,’ he said. He handed her a fresh pack.

The girl stripped the cover off it and handed him the used cards.

The pit-boss stood back a few paces and appeared to lose interest.

The girl snapped the pack with a fluid motion of the hands, broke it and put the two halves flat on the table and executed what appeared to be a faultless Scarne shuffle. But Bond saw that the two halves did not quite marry and that when she lifted the pack off the table and carried out an innocent reshuffle she would be getting the two halves of the pack back into their original order. She repeated the manoeuvre again and put the pack down in front of Bond in an invitation to cut. Bond cut the cards and watched with approval as she carried out the difficult single-handed Annulment, one of the hardest gambits in card-sharping.

So the ‘new’ deck was fixed and the only result of all this fair-play routine was to get all the cards back into the order in which they were arranged when they left the wrappers. But it was brilliant manipulation and Bond was full of admiration for the assurance of the girl’s hands.

He looked up into her grey eyes. Was there a hint of complicity in them, a hint of amusement at the odd game they were playing across the narrow green board?

She dealt him two cards and then gave two to herself. Suddenly Bond realized that he would have to be careful. He must play the exactly conventional game or he might upset the whole sequence in which the cards had been prepared.

Printed across the table were the words ‘The Dealer Must Draw on Sixteen and Stand on Seventeen’. They would presumably have given him fool-proof winning cards, but just in case there was another player or a kibitzer, they would have to make his winning seem a natural run of luck and not, for instance, just deal him twenty-one each time and seventeens to the girl.

He glanced at his two cards. A Knave and a ten. He looked up at the girl and shook his head. She turned up sixteen and drew a card, busting herself with a King. She had a rack beside her which contained only silver dollars and counters for twenty, but the pit-boss was quickly at her side with a 1000-dollar plaque. She took it and tossed it over to Bond. He put it over the line and pocketed his notes. She flipped out two more cards to him and two to herself. Bond had seventeen and again shook his head. She had twelve and drew a three and then a nine – twenty-four and bust again. Again the pit-boss stepped up with a plaque. Bond slipped it into his pocket and left his original stake. This time he had nineteen and she turned up a ten and seven on which, by the rule, she had to stand. Another plaque went into Bond’s pocket.

The wide doors at the far end of the room had opened and a stream of people were milling into the gambling room from the dinner revue. Soon they would be round the tables. This was his last play. After this he must get up from the table and leave her. She was looking at him impatiently. He picked up the two cards that she had given him. Twenty. And she also turned up two tens. Bond smiled at the refinement. She quickly dealt him two more cards just as three more players came up to the table and hitched themselves up on the stools. He had nineteen and she had sixteen.

And that was that. The pit-boss didn’t even bother to hand the girl the fourth plaque, but tossed it across the table to Bond with an expression on his face that was very like a sneer.

‘Jee-sus,’ said one of the new players, as Bond pocketed the plaque and stood up.

Bond looked across the table at the girl. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You deal beautifully.’

‘I’ll say!’ said the player who had spoken.

Tiffany Case looked hard at Bond. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. She held his eyes for a fraction of a second and then looked down at her cards, shuffled them thoroughly, and handed them to one of the new players for a cut.

Bond turned his back on the table and moved off round the room, thinking of her, and occasionally glancing across at the straight, imperious little figure in the exciting Western uniform. Others obviously found her as attractive as Bond did, for soon there were eight men sitting at her table and others standing watching her.

Bond felt a pang of jealousy. He walked over to the bar and ordered himself a Bourbon and branch-water to celebrate the five thousand dollars in his pocket.

The barman produced a corked bottle of water and put it beside Bond’s ‘Old Grandad’.

‘Where does this come from?’ asked Bond, remembering what Felix Leiter had said.

‘Over by Boulder Dam,’ said the barman seriously. ‘Comes in by truck every day. Don’t worry,’ he added. ‘It’s the real stuff.’

Bond threw a silver dollar on the bar. ‘I’m sure it is,’ he said with equal seriousness. ‘Keep the change.’

He stood with his back to the bar, and the glass in his hand, deciding his next move. So now he had been paid off, and Shady Tree had told him on no account to go back to the tables.

Bond finished his drink and walked straight across the room to the nearest roulette table. There was only a sprinkling of gamblers at it, playing small.

‘What’s the maximum here?’ he said to the stick-man, an elderly balding individual with dead eyes who was just picking the ivory ball out of the wheel.

‘Five Grand,’ said the man indifferently.

Bond took the four plaques and the ten 100-dollar notes out of his pocket and put them beside the croupier. ‘On Red.’

The croupier sat up straighter in his chair and squinted sideways at Bond. He tossed the four plaques one by one down on to the Red, catching them there with his stick. He counted out Bond’s notes, pushed them through a slot in the table, took a fifth plaque from the rack of counters beside him and tossed this down to join the others. Bond saw his knee go up under the table. The pit-boss heard the buzzer and strolled over to the table just as the croupier spun the wheel.

Bond took out a cigarette and lit it. His hand was steady. He felt a wonderful sense of freedom at having at last taken the initiative from these people. He knew he was going to win. He hardly glanced at the wheel as it slowed down and the little ivory ball rattled into its slot.

‘Thirty-six. Red. High and Even.’

The stick-man raked in a few losing counters and silver dollars and tossed some money down the table to the winners. Then he took a thin plaque as big as a prayer-book out of his rack and put it softly down beside Bond.

‘Black,’ said Bond. The man threw a single plaque for five thousand dollars down on to Black and raked in Bond’s stake from the Red.

There was a buzz of conversation round the table and several more people drifted up and stood watching. Bond felt the curious eyes on him, but he only looked across the table into the eyes of the pit-boss. They were as hostile as an adder’s, and yet somehow scared.

Bond smiled blandly at him as the wheel whirred and there was the whizz of the little ball as it set off on its journey.

‘Seventeen. Black. Low and Odd,’ said the stick-man. There was a sigh from the crowd and hungry eyes watched the big plaque being slipped out of the rack and placed in front of Bond.

Once more, thought Bond. But not this turn.

‘I’ll stay away,’ he said to the croupier. The man glanced up at Bond and then reached out with his rake and pulled in Bond’s stake and handed it to him.

And then there was another man inside the pit, standing beside the pit-boss, and he was looking at Bond with bright, hard eyes like camera lenses, and the fat cigar exactly in the centre of his red lips was pointing straight at Bond like a gun. The big square body in the midnight-blue tuxedo was quite motionless and a sort of tense quietness exuded from it. It was a tiger watching the tethered donkey and yet sensing danger. The face was ivory pale, but there was a likeness to the brother in London in the very straight, angry black brows and the short cliff of wiry hair cut en brosse, and in the ruthless jut of the jaw.

The wheel whirred again and the two pairs of eyes bent to watch it.

It fell into one of the two green slots in the wheel and Bond’s heart lifted at the escape he had had.

‘Double Zero,’ said the stick-man, raking in all the money on the table.

Now for the last throw, thought Bond – and then out of here with twenty thousand dollars of the Spang money. He looked across at his employer. The two camera lenses and the cigar were still trained on him, but the pale face was expressionless.

‘Red.’ He handed a 5000-dollar plaque to the croupier and watched it slither down the table.

Would the last coup be asking too much of the wheel? No, decided Bond with certitude. It would not.

‘Five. Red. Low and Odd,’ said the croupier obediently.

‘I’ll take the stake,’ said Bond. ‘And thanks for the ride.’

‘Come again,’ said the stick-man unemotionally.

Bond put his hand over the four fat plaques in his coat pocket and shouldered his way out of the crowd behind him and walked straight across the long room to the cashier’s desk. ‘Three bills of five thousand and five of ones,’ he said to the man with the green eyeshade behind the bars. The man took Bond’s four plaques and counted out the bills and Bond put them in his pocket and walked over to the reception desk. ‘Air mail envelope, please,’ he said. He moved to a writing-desk beside the wall and sat down and put the three big bills in the envelope and wrote on the front ‘Personal. The Managing Director, Universal Export, Regents Park, London, N.W.1, England.’ Then he bought stamps at the desk and slipped the envelope down the slot marked ‘U.S. Mail’ and hoped that there, in the most sacrosanct repository in America, it would be safe.

Bond glanced at his watch. It said five minutes to midnight. He surveyed the big room for the last time, noted that a new dealer had taken over at Tiffany Case’s table, and that there was no sign of Mr Spang, and then he walked out through the glass door into the hot stuffy night and over the lawns to the Turquoise building and let himself into his room and locked the door behind him.

18 | NIGHT FALLS IN THE PASSION PIT

‘How d’ya make out?’

It was the next evening and Ernie Cureo’s cab was rolling slowly along the Strip towards downtown Las Vegas. Bond had got tired of waiting for something to happen, and he had called up the Pinkerton man and suggested they get together for a talk.

‘Not bad,’ said Bond. ‘Took some money off them at roulette, but I don’t suppose that’ll worry our friend. They tell me he’s got plenty to spare.’

Ernie Cureo snorted. ‘I’ll say,’ he said. ‘That guy’s so loaded with the stuff he don’t need to wear spectacles when he’s out driving. Has the windshields of his Cadillacs ground to his eye-doctor’s prescription.’

Bond laughed. ‘What’s he spend it on besides that?’ he asked.

‘He’s daft,’ said the driver. ‘He’s crazy about the Old West. Bought himself a whole ghost town way out on Highway 95. He’s shored the place up – wooden sidewalks, a fancy saloon, clapboard hotel where he rooms the boys, even the old railroad station. Way back in ’05 or thereabouts, this dump – Spectreville it’s called seeing how it’s right alongside the Spectre range – was a rarin’ silver camp. For around three years they dug millions out of those mountains and a spur line took the stuff into Rhyolite, mebbe fifty miles away. That’s another famous ghost town. Tourist centre now. Got a house made out of whisky bottles. Used to be the railhead where the stuff got shipped to the coast. Well, Spang bought himself one of the old locos, one of the old ‘Highland Lights’ if y’ever heard of the engine, and one of the first Pullman state coaches, and he keeps them there in the station at Spectreville and week-ends he takes his pals for a run into Rhyolite and back. Drives the train himself. Champagne and caviar, orchestra, girls – the works. Must be something. But I never seen it. Ya can’t get near the place. Yessir,’ the driver let down the side window and spat emphatically into the road, ‘that’s how Mister Spang spends his money. Daft, like I said.’

So that explained it, thought Bond. That was why he had heard nothing from Mr Spang or his friends all through the day. Friday, and they would all be out at the boss’s place playing trains, while he had swum and slept and hung about the Tiara all day waiting for something to happen. It was true that he had caught an occasional eye shifting away from his, and there had always been a servant of some sort, or one of the uniformed sheriffs, hanging about in his neighbourhood, rather elaborately doing nothing in particular, but otherwise Bond might have been just any one of the hotel guests.

He had caught a single glimpse of the big man, and the circumstances had given him a perverse pleasure.

At about ten o’clock in the morning, after a swim and breakfast, Bond had decided to get a haircut at the barber’s shop. There were still very few people about, and the only other customer in the shop was a large figure in a purple terrycloth bathwrap whose face, as the man lay tilted back in the chair, was hidden beneath hot towels. His right hand, dangling down over the arm of the chair, was being attended to by a pretty manicurist. She had a pink and white doll’s face and a short mop of butter-coloured hair and she squatted beside him on a low stool with a bowl full of instruments balanced on the tips of her knees.

Bond, gazing into the mirror in front of his own chair, had watched with interest as the head barber delicately lifted up first one corner of the hot towels and then the other and with infinite precaution snipped the hair out of the customer’s ears with small, thin scissors. Before he replaced the edge of the towel over the second ear, he bent down and said deferentially into it, ‘And the nostrils, Sir?’

There was an affirmative grunt from behind the hot towels and the barber proceeded to open a window through the towels in the neighbourhood of the man’s nose. Then he again went cautiously to work with the thin scissors.

After this ceremony, there was dead silence in the small white-tiled room except for the soft clacking of the scissors round Bond’s head and the occasional ting as the manicurist dropped an instrument into her enamel bowl. And then there was a soft creaking as the head barber carefully wound the handle of the customer’s chair so that it came upright.

‘How’s that, Sir?’ said Bond’s barber holding a hand-mirror behind his head.

It was as Bond was inspecting the back of his head that it happened.

Perhaps, with the changing elevation of the chair, the girl’s hand slipped, but there was suddenly a muffled roar and the man in the purple dressing-gown sprang out of his chair, tore the towels off his face and plunged a finger into his mouth. Then he took it out and bent quickly down and slapped the girl hard across the cheek so that she was knocked off her stool and the enamel bowl of instruments went flying across the room. The man straightened himself and turned a furious face on the barber.

‘Fire that bitch,’ he snarled. He put the hurt finger back in his mouth and his slippers crunched amongst the scattered instruments as he strode blindly out of the door and disappeared.

‘Yes, Sir, Mr Spang,’ said the barber in a stunned voice. He started to bawl-out the sobbing girl. Bond turned his head and said quietly, ‘Stop that.’ He got up from his chair and unwrapped the towel from round his neck.

The barber gave him a surprised glance. Then he said quickly, ‘Yes, Sir, Mister,’ and bent to help the girl gather up her instruments.

While Bond paid for his haircut he heard the kneeling girl say plaintively: ‘It weren’t my fault, Mister Lucian. He was nervous today. His hands were trembling. Honest they were. Ain’t never seen him like that before. Tension, sort of.’

And Bond had had a moment of pleasure at the thought of Mr Spang’s tension.

Ernie Cureo’s voice broke sharply in on his thoughts. ‘We got ourselves a tail, Mister,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Two of ’em. Fore an’ aft. Don’t look back. See that black Chevvy sedan in front? With the two guys. They got two driving mirrors and they been watching us and keeping step for quite a whiles. Back of us there’s a little red sex-ship. Old sports model Jag with a rumble seat. Two more guys. With golf clubs in the back. But it just happens I know them guys. Detroit Purple Mob. Coupla lavender boys. You know, pansies. Golf ain’t their game. The only irons they can handle are in their pockets. Just swivel y’eyes round as if you was admiring the scenery. Watch their gunhands while I try ’em out. Ready?’

Bond did as he was told. The driver put his foot on the accelerator and simultaneously turned off the ignition switch. The exhaust let go like an .88 millimetre and Bond saw the two right hands dive into the two brightly-coloured sports jackets. Bond casually turned his head back. ‘You’re right,’ he said. He paused. ‘Better let me out, Ernie. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

‘Shucks,’ said the driver disgustedly. ‘They can’t do nuthen to me. Ya pay for any damage to the cab, and I’ll try and shake ’em. Okay?’

Bond took a 1000-dollar bill out of his note-case and leant over and stuffed it into the pocket of the driver’s shirt. ‘There’s a Grand to go on with,’ he said. ‘And thanks, Ernie. Let’s see what you can do.’

Bond slipped his Beretta out of the holster and cradled it in his hand. This, he thought to himself, was just what he had been waiting for.

‘Okay, feller,’ said the driver cheerfully. ‘I been looking for a chance to take a poke at the gang. I don’t like being leant on and they been leaning on me and some of my friends for too long. Hold tight. Let’s go.’

It was a straight stretch of road with not much traffic about. The distant tops of the mountains were yellow in the setting sun and the street was beginning to get blue with the fifteen minutes of dusk when you can’t make up your mind whether to switch on your lights.

They were riding easily along at forty with the low-slung Jaguar right on their tail and the black sedan a block ahead of them. Suddenly, so that Bond pitched forward, Ernie Cureo put his brakes full on and dry-skidded to a stop with a scream of his tyres. There was a shattering splinter of metal and glass as the Jaguar hit their fenders. The cab lurched forward against its brakes and then the driver jammed it into gear and, with a horrible tearing of iron, freed himself from the smashed radiator of the car behind and accelerated away down the road.

‘That’s —ed them proper,’ said Ernie Cureo with satisfaction. ‘How they making out?’

‘Bust radiator grill,’ said Bond, watching out of the rear window. ‘Both front wings flattened. Fender hanging off. Windshield starred, maybe broken.’ He lost the car in the dusk and turned round. ‘They’re out on the road trying to pull the front wings off the tyres. They may be able to go before long, but it was a good start. Got any more like that?’

‘Not so easy now,’ grunted the driver. ‘War’s been declared. Watch it. Better get down. The Chevvy’s pulled up at the side of the road. They may try some shootin’. Here we go.’

Bond felt the car surge forward. Ernie Cureo was half lying along the front seat, driving with one hand and with his eyes watching the road ahead from just above the dash.

There was a clang and two sharp cracks as they flashed past the Chevrolet. A handful of safety glass showered round Bond. Ernie Cureo swore and the car gave a swerve and then got back on its course.

Bond knelt on the back seat and knocked out the glass of the rear window with the butt of his gun. The Chevrolet was coming after them, its eyes blazing.

‘Hold it,’ said Cureo with an odd muffled voice. ‘Goin’ to do a sharp turn and stop under cover of the next block. Give y’a a clear shot as they come round after us.’

Bond braced himself as the tyres screamed and the car lurched on two wheels and then righted itself and stopped. Then he was out of the door and crouching with his gun up. The lights of the Chevrolet tore into the side road and there was a squeal of tortured rubber as it made the turn on the wrong side. Now, thought Bond, before he can straighten up.

Crack – a pause. Crack. Crack. Crack. Four bullets, at twenty yards, dead on the target.

The Chevrolet didn’t straighten up. It went over the kerb on the other side of the road, hit a tree broadside, bounced off it and smashed into a lamp standard and turned completely round and slowly toppled over on its side.

As Bond watched it, waiting for the echoes of the smashing metal to stop ringing in his ears, flames started to bleed slowly from the chromium mouth of the car. Someone was scrabbling at a window, trying to get out. At any moment the flames would find the vacuum pump and run the whole length of the chassis to the tank. And then it would be too late for the man inside.

Bond had started across the road when there was a groan from the front seat of the cab and he turned round to see Ernie Cureo slip from under the wheel to the floor. Bond forgot the burning car as he tore open the door of the cab and leant over the driver. There was blood everywhere and the whole of the driver’s left arm was soaked in it. Bond somehow hauled him into a sitting position on the seat and the driver’s eyes opened. ‘Oh, brother,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Get me out of here, Mister, and drive like hell. Next thing that Jag’ll be after us. Then get me to a medic.’

‘Okay, Ernie,’ said Bond slipping behind the wheel. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ He rammed the car into gear and moved fast off down the road and away from the blazing pyre and the frightened people who had materialized out of the dusk and were standing watching the flames, their hands up to their mouths.

‘Keep goin’, ’ muttered Ernie Cureo. ‘This’ll get y’out near the Boulder Dam road. See anything in the mirror?’

‘There’s a low-slung car with a spotlight coming after us fast,’ said Bond. ‘Could be the Jag. About two blocks away now.’ He stamped on the accelerator and the cab hissed through the deserted side street.

‘Keep goin’,’ said Ernie Cureo. ‘We gotta hide up some place and let them lose us. Tell ya what. There’s a “Passion Pit” just where this comes out on 95. Drive-in Movie. Here we come. Slow. Sharp right. See those lights. Get in there quick. Right. Straight over the sand and between those cars. Off lights. Easy. Stop.’

The cab came to rest in the back row of half a dozen ranks of cars lined up to face the concrete screen that soared up into the sky and on which a huge man was just saying something to a huge girl.

Bond turned and looked back down the lanes of metal standards, like parking meters, from which speakers could be connected with your car to pick up the sound. As he watched, one or two cars drove in and ranged themselves in the rear rank. Nothing low enough for a Jaguar. But it was dark now and difficult to see and he stayed slewed round in his seat, his eyes on the entrance.

An attendant came up, a pretty girl, dressed as a pageboy, with a tray slung round her neck. ‘That’ll be a dollar,’ she said, glancing into the car to see there was not a third customer on the floor of the cab. She had pick-ups coiled over her right arm and she took one off, plugged it into the nearest standard and hung the small speaker through the window on Bond’s side. The huge man and woman on the screen started talking heatedly.

‘Coco-Cola, cigarettes, candy?’ asked the girl taking the note Bond handed her.

‘No, thanks,’ said Bond.

‘You’re welcome,’ said the girl and sauntered off towards the other late arrivals.

‘Mister, for Chrissake willya switch off that crap?’ pleaded Ernie Cureo through his teeth. ‘And keep watching. We’ll give ’em a whiles more. Then get me to a doc. Dig out the slug.’ His voice was weak and now that the girl had gone he was half lying with his head against the door.

‘Won’t be long, Ernie. Try and stick it.’ Bond fiddled with the speaker, found the switch and silenced the wrangling voices. The huge man on the screen looked as if he was going to hit the woman and her mouth gaped in a noiseless scream.

Bond turned and strained his eyes across the dark expanse behind them. Still nothing. He glanced at the neighbouring cars. Two faces glued together. A shapeless huddle on a back seat. Two prim, rapt, elderly faces staring upwards. The glint of light on an upturned bottle.

And then a wave of musky after-shave lotion came up to his nose and a dark figure rose up from the ground and a gun was in his face, and a voice on the other side of the car beside Ernie Cureo whispered softly, ‘Okay, fellers. Take it easy.’

Bond looked into the suety face beside him. The eyes were smiling and cold. The wet lips parted and whispered, ‘Out, Limey, or your pal’s cold turkey. My friend has a silencer. You and we’re goin’ for a ride.’

Bond turned his head and saw the black sausage of metal against the back of Ernie Cureo’s neck. He made up his mind. ‘Okay, Ernie,’ he said, ‘better one than two. I’ll go with them. I’ll soon be back to get you to the doc. Take care of yourself.’

‘Funny guy,’ said suet-face. He opened the door, keeping his gun trained on Bond’s face.

‘Sorry, friend,’ said Ernie Cureo in a tired voice. ‘I guess ...’ but then there was a sharp thud as the gun hit him behind the ear and he slumped forward and was silent.

Bond gritted his teeth and his muscles lumped under his coat. He wondered if he could reach the Beretta. He glanced from one gun to the other, measuring, adding up odds. The four eyes above the two guns were greedy, longing for an excuse to kill him. The two mouths were smiling, wanting him to try something. He felt his blood cooling. He gave it another minute and then, with his hands in sight, he stepped slowly out of the car with murder tucked away in the back of his mind.

‘Go ahead to the gate,’ said suet-face softly. ‘Look natural. I got you covered.’ His gun had disappeared, but his hand was in his pocket. The other man joined them and his right hand was at the waist-band of his trousers. He ranged himself on Bond’s other side.

The three men walked swiftly towards the entrance and the moon rising over the mountains straddled their long shadows in front of them across the white sandy floor.