Live and Let Die (James Bond - Extended Series Book 2)

by Ian Fleming

  Opposite him, leaning forward with concern on her pretty face, was a sexy little negress with a touch of white blood in her. Her jet-black hair, as sleek as the best permanent wave, framed a sweet almond-shaped face with rather slanting eyes under finely drawn eyebrows. The deep purple of her parted, sensual lips was thrilling against the bronze skin. All that Bond could see of her clothes was the bodice of a black satin evening dress, tight and revealing across the firm, small breasts. She wore a plain gold chain round her neck and a plain gold band round each thin wrist.

  She was pleading anxiously and paid no heed to Bond’s quick embracing glance.

  ‘Listen and see if you can get the hang of it,’ said Leiter. ‘It’s straight Harlem – Deep South with a lot of New York thrown in.’

  Bond picked up the menu and leant back in the booth, studying the Special Fried Chicken Dinner at $3.75.

  ‘Cmon, honey,’ wheedled the girl. ‘How come yuh-all’s actin’ so tahd tonight?’

  ‘Guess ah jist nacherlly gits tahd listenin’ at yuh,’ said the man languidly. ‘Why’nt yuh hush yo’ mouff ’n let me ’joy mahself ’n peace ’n qui-yet.’

  ‘Is yuh wan’ me tuh go ’way, honey?’

  ‘Yuh kin suit yo sweet self.’

  ‘Aw honey,’ pleaded the girl. ‘Don’ ack mad at me, honey. Ah was fixin’ tuh treat yuh tonight. Take yuh tuh Smalls Par’dise, mebbe. See dem high-yallers shakin’ ’n truckin’. Dat Birdie Johnson, da maitre d’, he permis me a ringside whenebber Ah come nex’. ’

  The man’s voice suddenly sharpened. ‘Wha’ dat Birdie he mean tuh yuh, hey?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Perzackly,’ he paused to let the big word sink in, ‘perzackly wha’ goes ’tween yuh ’n dat lowdown ornery wuthless Nigguh? Yuh sleepin’ wid him mebbe? Guess Ah gotta study ’bout dat little situayshun ’tween yuh an’ Birdie Johnson. Mebbe git mahself a bet-terer gal. Ah jist don’ lak gals which runs off ever’ which way when Ah jist happen be busticated temporaneously. Yesmam. Ah gotta study ’bout dat little situay-shun.’ He paused threateningly. ‘Sure have,’ he added.

  ‘Aw honey,’ the girl was anxious, ‘’dey ain’t no use tryin’ tuh git mad at me. Ah done nuthen tuh give yuh recasion tuh ack dat way. Ah jist thunk you mebbe preshiate a ringside at da Par’dise ’nstead of settin’ hyah countin’ yo troubles. Why, honey, yuh all knows Ah wudden fall fo’ dat richcrat ack’ of Birdie Johnson. No sir. He don’ mean nuthen tuh me. Him duh wusstes’ man ’n Harlem, dawg bite me effn he ain’t. All da same, he permis me da bestess seats ’nda house ’n Ah sez lets us go set ’n dem, ’n have us a beer ’n a good time. Cmon, honey. Let’s us git out of hyah. Yuh done look so swell ’n Ah jist wan’ mah frens tuh see usn together.’

  ‘Yuh done look okay yoself, honeychile,’ said the man, mollified by the tribute to his elegance, ‘an’ dat’s da troof. But Ah mus’ spressify dat yuh stays close up tuh me an keeps yo eyes off’n dat lowdown trash ’n his hot pants. ’N Ah may say,’ he added threateningly, ‘dat ef Ah ketches yuh makin’ up tuh dat dope Ah’ll jist nachrally whup da hide off’n yo sweet ass.’

  ‘Shoh ting, honey,’ whispered the girl excitedly.

  Bond heard the man’s foot scrape off the seat to the ground.

  ‘Cmon, baby, lessgo. Waiduh!’

  Bond put down the menu. ‘Got the gist of it,’ he said. ‘Seems they’re interested in much the same things as everyone else – sex, having fun, and keeping up with the Jones’s. Thank God they’re not genteel about it.’

  ‘Some of them are,’ said Leiter. ‘Tea cups, aspidistras and tut-tutting all over the place. The Methodists are almost their strongest sect. Harlem’s riddled with social distinctions, the same as any other big city, but with all the colour variations added. Come on,’ he suggested, ‘let’s go and get ourselves something to eat.’

  They finished their drinks and Bond called for the check.

  ‘All this evening’s on me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a lot of money to get rid of and I’ve brought three hundred dollars of it along with me.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Leiter, who knew about Bond’s thousand dollars.

  As the waiter was picking up the change, Leiter suddenly said, ‘Know where The Big Man’s operating tonight?’

  The waiter showed the whites of his eyes.

  He leant forward and flicked the table down with his napkin.

  ‘I’ve got a wife ’n kids, Boss,’ he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. He stacked the glasses on his tray and went back to the bar.

  ‘Mr Big’s got the best protection of all,’ said Leiter. ‘Fear.’

  They went out on to Seventh Avenue. The rain had stopped, but ‘Hawkins’, the bone-chilling wind from the north which the negroes greet with a reverent ‘Hawkins is here’, had come instead to keep the streets free of their usual crowds. Leiter and Bond moved with the trickle of couples on the sidewalk. The looks they got were mostly contemptuous or frankly hostile. One or two men spat in the gutter when they had passed.

  Bond suddenly felt the force of what Leiter had told him. They were trespassing. They just weren’t wanted. Bond felt the uneasiness that he had known so well during the war, when he had been working for a time behind the enemy lines. He shrugged the feeling away.

  ‘We’ll go to Ma Frazier’s, further up the Avenue,’ said Leiter. ‘Best food in Harlem, or at any rate it used to be.’

  As they went along Bond gazed into the shop windows.

  He was struck by the number of barbers’ saloons and ‘beauticians’. They all advertised various forms of hair-straightener – ‘Apex Glossatina, for use with the hot comb’, ‘Silky Strate. Leaves no redness, no burn’ – or nostrums for bleaching the skin. Next in frequency were the haberdashers and clothes shops, with fantastic men’s snakeskin shoes, shirts with small aeroplanes as a pattern, peg-top trousers with inch-wide stripes, zoot suits. All the book shops were full of educational literature – how to learn this, how to do that – and comics. There were several shops devoted to lucky charms and various occultisms – Seven Keys to Power, ‘The Strangest book ever written’, with subtitles such as: ‘If you are CROSSED, shows you how to remove and cast it back.’ ‘Chant your desires in the Silent Tongue.’ ‘Cast a Spell on Anyone, no matter where.’ ‘Make any person Love you.’ Among the charms were ‘High John the Conqueror Root’, ‘Money Drawing Brand Oil’, ‘Sachet Powders, Uncrossing Brand’, ‘Incense, Jinx removing Brand’, and the ‘Lucky Whamie Hand Charm, giving Protection from Evil. Confuses and Baffles Enemies’.

  Bond reflected it was no wonder that the Big Man found Voodooism such a powerful weapon on minds that still recoiled at a white chicken’s feather or crossed sticks in the road – right in the middle of the shining capital city of the Western world.

  ‘I’m glad we came up here,’ said Bond. ‘I’m beginning to get the hang of Mr Big. One just doesn’t catch the smell of all this in a country like England. We’re a superstitious lot there of course – particularly the Celts – but here one can almost hear the drums.’

  Leiter grunted. ‘I’ll be glad to get back to my bed,’ he said. ‘But we need to size up this guy before we decide how to get at him.’

  Ma Frazier’s was a cheerful contrast to the bitter streets. They had an excellent meal of Little Neck Clams and Fried Chicken Maryland with bacon and sweet corn. ‘We’ve got to have it,’ said Leiter. ‘It’s the national dish.’

  It was very civilized in the warm restaurant. Their waiter seemed glad to see them and pointed out various celebrities, but when Leiter slipped in a question about Mr Big the waiter seemed not to hear. He kept away from them until they called for their bill.

  Leiter repeated the question.

  ‘Sorry, Sah,’ said the waiter briefly. ‘Ah cain’t recall a gemmun of dat name.’

  By the time they left the restaurant it was ten-thirty and the Avenue was almost deserted. They took a cab to the Savoy Ballroom, had a Scotch-and-soda, and watched the dancers.

  ‘Most modern dances were inve
nted here,’ said Leiter. ‘That’s how good it is. The Lindy Hop, Truckin’, the Susie Q, the Shag. All started on that floor. Every big American band you’ve ever heard of is proud that it once played here – Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Cab Calloway, Noble Sissle, Fletcher Henderson. It’s the Mecca of jazz and jive.’

  They had a table near the rail round the huge floor. Bond was spellbound. He found many of the girls very beautiful. The music hammered its way into his pulse until he almost forgot what he was there for.

  ‘Gets you, doesn’t it?’ said Leiter at last. ‘I could stay here all night. Better move along. We’ll miss out Small’s Paradise. Much the same as this, but not quite in the same class. Think I’ll take you to “Yeah Man“, back on Seventh. After that we must get moving to one of Mr Big’s own joints. Trouble is, they don’t open till midnight. I’ll pay a visit to the washroom while you get the check. See if I can get a line on where we’re likely to find him tonight. We don’t want to have to go to all his places.’

  Bond paid the check and met Leiter downstairs in the narrow entrance hall.

  Leiter drew him outside and they walked up the street looking for a cab.

  ‘Cost me twenty bucks,’ said Leiter, ‘but the word is he’ll be at The Boneyard. Small place on Lenox Avenue. Quite close to his headquarters. Hottest strip in town. Girl called G-G Sumatra. We’ll have another drink at “Yeah Man“ and hear the piano. Move on at about twelve-thirty.’

  The big switchboard, now only a few blocks away, was almost quiet. The two men had been checked in and out of Sugar Ray’s, Ma Frazier’s and the Savoy Ballroom. Midnight had them entering ‘Yeah Man’. At twelve-thirty the final call came and then the board was silent.

  Mr Big spoke on the house-phone. First to the head waiter.

  ‘Two white men coming in in five minutes. Give them the Z table.’

  ‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said the head waiter. He hurried across the dance floor to a table away on the right, obscured from most of the room by a wide pillar. It was next to the Service entrance but with a good view of the floor and the band opposite.

  It was occupied by a party of four, two men and two girls.

  ‘Sorry folks,’ said the head waiter. ‘Been a mistake. Table’s reserved. Newspaper men from downtown.’

  One of the men began to argue.

  ‘Move, Bud,’ said the head waiter crisply. ‘Lofty, show these folks to table F. Drinks is on the house. Sam,’ he beckoned to another waiter, ‘clear the table. Two covers.’ The party of four moved docilely away, mollified by the prospect of free liquor. The head waiter put a Reserved sign on table Z, surveyed it and returned to his post at his table-plan on the high desk beside the curtained entrance.

  Meanwhile Mr Big had made two more calls on the house-phone. One to the Master of Ceremonies.

  ‘Lights out at the end of G-G’s act.’

  ‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said the MC with alacrity.

  The other call was to four men who were playing craps in the basement. It was a long call, and very detailed.

  6 ....... TABLE Z

  AT TWELVE forty-five Bond and Leiter paid off their cab and walked in under the sign which announced ‘The Boneyard’ in violet and green neon.

  The thudding rhythm and the sour-sweet smell rocked them as they pushed through the heavy curtains inside the swing door. The eyes of the hat-check girls glowed and beckoned.

  ‘Have you reserved, Sir?’ asked the head waiter.

  ‘No,’ said Leiter. ‘We don’t mind sitting at the bar.’

  The head waiter consulted his table-plan. He seemed to decide. He put his pencil firmly through a space at the end of the card.

  ‘Party hasn’t shown. Guess Ah cain’t hold their res’vation all night. This way, please.’ He held his card high over his head and led them round the small crowded dance floor. He pulled out one of the two chairs and removed the ‘Reserved’ sign.

  ‘Sam,’ he called a waiter over. ‘Look after these gemmums order.’ He moved away.

  They ordered Scotch-and-soda and chicken sandwiches.

  Bond sniffed. ‘Marihuana,’ he commented.

  ‘Most of the real hep-cats smoke reefers,’ explained Leiter. ‘Wouldn’t be allowed most places.’

  Bond looked round. The music had stopped. The small four-piece band, clarinet, double-bass, electric guitar and drums, was moving out of the corner opposite. The dozen or so couples were walking and jiving to their tables and the crimson light was turned off under the glass dance floor. Instead, pencil-thin lights in the roof came on and hit coloured glass witchballs, larger than footballs, that hung at intervals round the wall. They were of different hues, golden, blue, green, violet, red. As the beams of light hit them, they glowed like coloured suns. The walls, varnished black, mirrored their reflections as did the sweat on the ebony faces of the men. Sometimes a man sitting between two lights showed cheeks of different colour, green on one side, perhaps, and red on the other. The lighting made it impossible to distinguish features unless they were only a few feet away. Some of the lights turned the girls’ lipstick black, others lit their whole faces in a warm glow on one side and gave the other profile the luminosity of a drowned corpse.

  The whole scene was macabre and livid, as if El Greco had done a painting by moonlight of an exhumed graveyard in a burning town.

  It was not a large room, perhaps sixty foot square. There were about fifty tables and the customers were packed in like black olives in a jar. It was hot and the air was thick with smoke and the sweet, feral smell of two hundred negro bodies. The noise was terrific – an undertone of the jabber of negroes enjoying themselves without restraint, punctuated by sharp bursts of noise, shouts and high giggles, as loud voices called to each other across the room.

  ‘Sweet Jeessus, look who’s hyar …’

  ‘Where you been keepin yoself, baby …’

  ‘Gawd’s troof. It’s Pinkus … Hi Pinkus …’

  ‘Cmon over …’

  ‘Lemme be … Lemme be, I’se telling ya …’ (The noise of a slap.)

  ‘Where’s G-G. Cmon G-G. Strut yo stuff …’

  From time to time a man or girl would erupt on to the dance floor and start a wild solo jive. Friends would clap the rhythm. There would be a burst of catcalls and whistles. If it was a girl, there would be cries of ‘Strip, strip, strip,’ ‘Get hot, baby!’ ‘Shake it, shake it,’ and the MC would come out and clear the floor amidst groans and shouts of derision.

  The sweat began to bead on Bond’s forehead. Leiter leant over and cupped his hands. ‘Three exits. Front. Service behind us. Behind the band.’ Bond nodded. At that moment he felt it didn’t matter. This was nothing new to Leiter, but for Bond it was a close-up of the raw material on which The Big Man worked, the clay in his hands. The evening was gradually putting flesh on the dossiers he had read in London and New York. If the evening ended now, without any closer sight of Mr Big himself, Bond still felt his education in the case would be almost complete. He took a deep draught of his whisky. There was a burst of applause. The MC had come out on to the dance floor, a tall negro in immaculate tails with a red carnation in his button hole. He stood, holding up his hands. A single white spotlight caught him. The rest of the room went dark.

  There was silence.

  ‘Folks,’ announced the MC with a broad flash of gold and white teeth. ‘This is it.’

  There was excited clapping.

  He turned to the left of the floor, directly across from Leiter and Bond.

  He flung out his right hand. Another spot came on.

  ‘Mistah Jungles Japhet ’n his drums.’

  A crash of applause, catcalls, whistles.

  Four grinning negroes in flame-coloured shirts and peg-top white trousers were revealed, squatting astride four tapering barrels with rawhide membranes. The drums were of different sizes. The negroes were all gaunt and stringy. The one sitting astride the bass drum rose briefly and shook clasped hands at the spectators.

  ‘Voodoo drumm
ers from Haiti,’ whispered Leiter.

  There was silence. With the tips of their fingers the drummers began a slow, broken beat, a soft rumba shuffle.

  ‘And now, friends,’ announced the MC, still turned towards the drums, ‘G-G …’ he paused, ‘SUMATRA.’

  The last word was a yell. He began to clap. There was pandemonium in the room, a frenzy of applause. The door behind the drums burst open and two huge negroes, naked except for gold loincloths, ran out on to the floor carrying between them, her arms round their necks, a tiny figure, swathed completely in black ostrich feathers, a black domino across her eyes.

  They put her down in the middle of the floor. They bowed down on either side of her until their foreheads met the ground. She took two paces forward. With the spotlight off them, the two negroes melted away into the shadows and through the door.

  The MC had disappeared. There was absolute silence save for the soft thud of the drums.

  The girl put her hand up to her throat and the cloak of black feathers came away from the front of her body and spread out into a five-foot black fan. She swirled it slowly behind her until it stood up like a peacock’s tail. She was naked except for a brief vee of black lace and a black sequin star in the centre of each breast and the thin black domino across her eyes. Her body was small, hard, bronze, beautiful. It was slightly oiled and glinted in the white light.

  The audience was silent. The drums began to step up the tempo. The bass drum kept its beat dead on the timing of the human pulse.

  The girl’s naked stomach started slowly to revolve in time with the rhythm. She swept the black feathers across and behind her again, and her hips started to grind in time with the bass drum. The upper part of her body was motionless. The black feathers swirled again, and now her feet were shifting and her shoulders. The drums beat louder. Each part of her body seemed to be keeping a different time. Her lips were bared slightly from her teeth. Her nostrils began to flare. Her eyes glinted hotly through the diamond slits. It was a sexy, pug-like face – chienne was the only word Bond could think of.