The Man With the Golden Gun (James Bond) (10 page)

Mr. Hendriks said, "I will pass on your saying, Mr. Scaramanga. It will not cause pleasure. Now there is this business of the hotel. How is she standing, if you pliss? I think we are all wishing to know the true situation, isn't it?"

There was a growl of assent.

Scaramanga went off into a long dissertation which was only of passing interest to Bond. Felix Leiter would in any case be getting it all on the tape in a drawer of his filing cabinet. He had reassured Bond on this score. The neat American, Leiter had explained, filling him in with the essentials, was in fact a certain Mr. Nick Nicholson of the C.I.A. His particular concern was Mr. Hendriks, who, as Bond had suspected, was a top man of the K.G.B. The K.G.B. favours oblique control—a man in Geneva being the Resident Director for Italy, for instance—and Mr. Hendriks at The Hague was in fact Resident Director for the Caribbean and in charge of the Havana centre. Leiter was still working for Pinkerton's, but was also on the reserve of the C.I.A., who had drafted him for this particular assignment because of his knowledge, gained in the past mostly with James Bond, of Jamaica. His job was to get a breakdown of The Group and find out what they were up to. They were all well-known hoods who would normally have been the concern of the F.B.I., but Gengerella was a
capo Mafioso
and this was the first time the Mafia had been found consorting with the K.G.B.—a most disturbing partnership which must at all costs be quickly broken up, by physical elimination if need be. Nick Nicholson, whose "front" name was Stanley Jones, was an electronics expert. He had traced the main lead to Scaramanga's recording device under the floor of the central switch room and had bled off the microphone cable to his own tape recorder in the filing cabinet. So Bond had not much to worry about. He was listening to satisfy his own curiosity and to fill in on anything that might transpire in the lobby or out of range of the bug in the telephone on the conference room table. Bond had explained his own presence. Leiter had given a long low whistle of respectful apprehension. Bond had agreed to keep well clear of the other two men and to paddle his own canoe, but they had arranged an emergency meeting place and a postal "drop" in the uncompleted and
out of order
men's room off the lobby. Nicholson had given him a passkey for this place and all other rooms, and then Bond had had to hurry off to his meeting. James Bond was immensely reassured by finding these unexpected reinforcements. He had worked with Leiter on some of his most hazardous assignments. There was no man like him when the chips were down. Although Leiter had only a steel hook instead of a right arm—a memento of one of those assignments—he was one of the finest lefthanded one-armed shots in the States and the hook itself could be a devastating weapon at close quarters.

Scaramanga was finishing his exposition. "So the net of it is, gentlemen, that we need to find ten million bucks. The interests I represent, which are the majority interests, suggest that this sum should be provided by a note issue, bearing interest at ten percent and repayable in ten years, such an issue to have priority over all other loans."

The voice of Mr. Rotkopf broke in angrily. "The hell it will! Not on your life, mister. What about the seven percent second mortgage put up by me and my friends only a year back? What do you think I'd get if I went back to Vegas with that kind of parley? The old heave-ho! Arid at that I'm being optimistic."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Ruby. It's that or close. What have you other fellows got to say?"

Hendriks said, "Ten percent on a first charge is good pizzness. My friends and I will take one million dollars. On the understanding, it is natural, that the conditions of the issue are, how shall I say, more substantial, less open to misunderstandings, than the second mortgage of Mr. Rotkopf and his friends."

"Of course. And I and my friends will also take a million. Sam?"

Mr. Binion said reluctantly, "Okay, okay. Count us in for the same. But by golly this has got to be the last touch."

"Mr. Gengerella?"

"It sounds a good bet. I'll take the rest."

The voices of Mr. Garfinkel and Mr. Paradise broke in excitedly, Garfinkel in the lead. "Like hell you will! I'm taking a million."

"And so am I," shouted Mr. Paradise. "Cut the cake equally. But dammit. Let's be fair to Ruby. Ruby, you oughta have first pick. How much do you want? You can have it off the top."

"I don't want a damned cent of your phoney notes. As soon as I get back, I'm going to reach for the best damned lawyers in the States—all of them. You think you can scrub a mortgage just by saying so, you've all got another think coming."

There was silence. The voice of Scaramanga was soft and deadly. "You're making a big mistake, Ruby. You've just got yourself a nice fat tax loss to put against your Vegas interests. And don't forget that when we formed this Group, we all took an oath. None of us was to operate against the interests of the others. Is that your last word?"

"It damn well is."

"Would this help you change your mind? They've got a slogan for it in Cuba—
Rapido! Seguro! Economica!
This is how the system operates."

The scream of terror and the explosion were simultaneous. A chair crashed to the floor and there was a moment's silence. Then someone coughed nervously. Mr. Gengerella said calmly, "I think that was the correct solution of an embarrassing conflict of interests. Ruby's friends in Vegas like a quiet life. I doubt if they will even complain. It is better to be a live owner of some finely engraved paper than to be a dead holder of a second mortgage. Put them in for a million, Pistol. I think you behaved with speed and correctness. Now then, can you clean this up?"

"Sure, sure." Scaramanga's voice was relaxed, happy. "Ruby's left here to go back to Vegas. Never heard of again. We don't know nuthin'. I've got some hungry crocs out back there in the river. They'll give him free transportation to where he's going—and his baggage if it's good leather. I shall need some help tonight. What about you, Sam? And you, Louie?"

The voice of Mr. Paradise pleaded. "Count me out, Pistol. I'm a good Catholic."

Mr. Hendriks said, "I will take his place. I am not a Catholic person."

"So it be then. Well, fellers, any other business? If not, we'll break up the meeting and have a drink."

Hal Garfinkel said nervously, "Just a minute, Pistol. What about that guy outside the door? That limey feller? What's he going to say about the fireworks and all?"

Scaramanga's chuckle was like the dry chuckle of a gekko. "Just don't you worry your liny head about the limey, Hal. He'll be looked after when the weekend's over. Picked him up in a bordello in a village nearby. Place where I go get my weed and a bit of local tail. Got only temporary staff here to see you fellers have a good tune over the weekend. He's the temporariest of the lot. Those crocs have a big appetite. Ruby'll be the main dish, but they'll need a dessert. Just you leave him to me. For all I know he may be this James Bond man Mr. Hendriks has told us about. I should worry. I don't like limeys. Like some good Yankee once said, 'For every Britisher that dies, there's a song in my heart.' Remember the guy? Around the time of the Israeli war against them. I dig that viewpoint. Stuck-up bastards. Stuffed shirts. When the time comes, I'm going to let the stuffing out of this one. Just you leave him to me. Or let's just say leave him to this."

Bond smiled a thin smile. He could imagine the golden gun being produced and twirled round the finger and stuck back in the waistband. He got up and moved his chair away from the door and poured champagne into the useful glass and leant against the buffet and studied the latest handout from the Jamaica Tourist Board.

The click of Scaramanga's passkey sounded in the lock. Scaramanga looked at Bond from the doorway. He ran a finger along the small moustache. "Okay, fellow. I guess that's enough of the house champagne. Cut along to the manager and tell him Mr. Ruby Rotkopf'll be checking out tonight. I'll fix the details. And say a major fuse blew during the meeting and I'm going to seal off this room and find out why we're having so much bad workmanship around the place. Okay? Then drinks and dinner and bring on the dancing girls. Got the picture?"

James Bond said that he had. He weaved slightly as he went to the lobby door and unlocked it. E.& O.E. (errors and omissions excepted) as the financial prospectuses say, he thought that he had indeed now "got the picture." And it was an exceptionally clear print in black and white without fuzz.

10

Belly-Lick, etc.

In
the back office, James Bond went quickly over the highlights of the meeting. Nick Nicholson and Felix Leiter agreed they had enough on the tape, supported by Bond, to send Scaramanga to the chair. That night, one of them would do some snooping while the body of Rotkopf was being disposed of and try and get enough evidence to have Garfinkel and, better still, Hendriks indicted as accessories. But they didn't at all like the outlook for James Bond. Felix commanded him, "Now don't you move an inch without that old equalizer of yours. We don't want to have to read that obituary of yours in
The Times
all over again. All that crap about what a great guy you are nearly made me throw up when I saw it picked up in our papers. I damn nearly fired off a piece to the
Trib
putting the record straight."

Bond laughed. He said, "You're a fine friend, Felix.

When I think of all the trouble I've been to to set you a good example all these years." He went off to his room, swallowed two heavy slugs of bourbon, had a cold shower, and lay on his bed and looked at the ceiling until it was 8:30 and time for dinner. The meal was less stuffy than luncheon. Everyone seemed satisfied with the way the business of the day had gone, and all except Scaramanga and Mr. Hendriks had obviously had plenty to drink. Bond found himself excluded from the happy talk. Eyes avoided his and replies to his attempts at conversation were monosyllabic. He was bad news. He had been dealt the death card by the boss. He was certainly not a man to be pally with.

Dinner—the conventional "expensive" dinner of a cruise ship—was as predictable as such things usually are. The waiters brought on the desiccated smoked salmon with a thimbleful of small-grained black caviar, fillets of some unnamed native fish (possibly silk fish) in a cream sauce, a
"poulet supreme"
(a badly roasted broiler with a thick gravy), and the
bombe surprise.
And while the meal moved sluggishly on, the dining-room was being turned into a "tropical jungle" with the help of potted plants, piles of oranges and coconuts, and an occasional stem of bananas —this was a backdrop for the calypso band, which, in wine-red and gold-frilled shirts assembled in due course and began playing "Linstead Market" too loud. The tune closed. An acceptable but heavily clad girl appeared and began singing "Belly-Lick" with the printable words. She wore a false pineapple as a headdress. Bond saw a "cruise ship" evening stretching ahead. He decided that he was either too old or too young for the worst torture of all, boredom, and got up and went to the head of the table. He said to Scaramanga, "I've got a headache. I'm going to bed."

Scaramanga looked up at him under lizard eyelids. "No. If you figure the evening's not going so good, make it go better. That's what you're being paid for. You act as if you know Jamaica. Okay. Get those people off the pad."

It was many years since James Bond had accepted a dare. He felt the eyes of The Group on him. What he had drunk had made him careless—perhaps wanting to show off, like the man at the party who insists on playing the drums. Stupidly, he wanted to assert his personality over this bunch of tough guys who rated him insignificant. He didn't stop to think that it was bad tactics, that he would be better off being the ineffectual limey. He said, "All right, Mr. Scaramanga. Give me a hundred dollar bill and your gun."

Scaramanga didn't move. He looked up at Bond with surprise and controlled uncertainty. Louie Paradise shouted thickly, "C'mon, Pistol! Let's see some action! Maybe the guy can produce."

Scaramanga reached for his hip pocket, took out his billfold, and thumbed out a bill. Next he slowly reached to his waistband and took out his gun. The subdued light from the spot on the girl glowed on its gold. He laid the two objects on the table side by side. James Bond, his back to the cabaret, picked up the gun and hefted it. He thumbed back the hammer and twirled the cylinder with a flash of his hands to verify that it was loaded. Then he suddenly whirled, dropped on his knee so that his aim would be above the shadowy musicians in the background, and, his arm at full length, let fly. The explosion was deafening in the confined space. The music died. There was a tense silence. The remains of the false pineapple hit something in the dark background with a soft thud. The girl stood under the spot and put her hands up to her face and slowly folded to the dance floor like something graceful out of
Swan Lake.
The maitre d'hotel came running from among the shadows.

As chatter broke out among The Group, James Bond picked up the hundred dollar bill and walked out into the spotlight. He bent down and lifted the girl up bv her arm. He pushed the bill down into her cleavage. He said, "That was a fine act we did together, sweetheart. Don't worry. You were in no danger. I aimed for the top half of the pineanple. Now run off and get ready for your next turn." He turned her round and gave her a sharp pat in the behind. She gave him a horrified glance and scurried off into the shadows.

Bond strolled on and came up with the band. "Who's in charge here? Who's in command of. the show?"

The guitarist, a tall, gaunt Negro, got slowly to his feet. The whites of his eyes showed, He squinted at the golden gun in Bond's hand. He said uncertainly, as if signing his own death warrant, "Me, sah."

"What's your name?"

"Kong Tiger, sah."

"All right then, King. Now listen to me. This isn't a Salvation Army fork supper. Mr. Scaramanga's friends want some action. And they want it hot. I'll be sending plenty of rum over to loosen things up. Smoke weed if you like. We're private here. No one's going to tell on you. And get that pretty girl back, but with only half the clothes on, and tell her to come up close and sing. "Belly-Lick" very clearly with the blue words. And, by the end of the show, she and the other girls have got to end up stripped. Understand? Now get cracking, or the evening'll fold and there'll be no tips at the end. Okay? Then let's go."