Bond 13 - The Man With the Golden Gun

by Ian Fleming

  The voice of Scaramanga cut through the ensuing hubbub. ‘Fellers! Fellers!’ A reluctant silence fell. ‘When we formed the Co-operative, it was agreed that the first object was to co-operate with one another. Okay, then. Mr Hendriks. Let me put you more fully in the picture. So far as the total finances of The Group are concerned, we have a fine situation coming up. As an investment group, we have good bets and bad bets. Sugar is a good bet and we should ride that bet even though certain members of The Group have chosen not to be on the horse. Get me? Now hear me through. There are six ships controlled by The Group at this moment riding at anchor outside New York and other U.S. harbours. These ships are loaded with raw sugar. These ships, Mr Hendriks, will not dock and unload until sugar futures, July futures, have risen another ten cents. In Washington, the Department of Agriculture and the Sugar Lobby know this. They know that we have them by the balls. Meantimes the liquor lobby is leaning on them – let alone Russia. The price of molasses is going up with sugar and the rum barons are kicking up hell and want our ships let in before there’s a real shortage and the price goes through the roof. But there’s another side to it. We’re having to pay our crews and our charter bills and so on, and squatting ships are dead ships, dead losses. So something’s going to give. In the business, the situation we’ve developed is called the Floating Crop Game – our ships lying offshore, lined up against the Government of the United States. All right. So now four of us stand to win or lose ten million bucks or so – us and our backers. And we’ve got this little business of the Thunderbird on the red side of the sheet. So what do you think, Mr Hendriks? Of course we burn the crops where we can get away with it. I got a good man in with the Rastafaris – that’s a beat sect here that grows beards and smokes ganja and mostly lives on a bit of land outside Kingston called the Dungle – the Dunghill – and believes it owes allegiance to the King of Ethiopia, this King Zog or what-have-you, and that that’s their rightful home. So I’ve got a man in there, a man who wants the ganja for them, and I keep him supplied in exchange for plenty fires and troubles on the cane lands. So all right, Mr Hendriks. You just tell your superiors that what goes up must come down and that applies to the price of sugar like anything else. Okay?’

  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.

  Mr 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 Pinkertons, 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 Mafiosi 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 Mr 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 pass key 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 left-handed 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 per cent 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 per cent 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! And at that I’m being optimistic.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Ruby. It’s that or close. What do you other fellers have to say?’

  Hendriks said, ‘Ten per cent 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 dam’ is.’

  ‘Would this help you change your mind? They’ve got a slogan for it in Cuba – Rapido! Seguro! Economico! 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.’ Mr Scaramanga’s voice was relaxed, happy. ‘Ruby’s left here to go back to Vegas. Never heard of again. We don’t know nuthen’. 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 be it 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?’

  Mr Scaramanga’s chuckle was like the dry chuckle of a gekko. ‘Just don’t you worry your tiny head about the limey, Hal. He’ll be looked after when the week-end’s over. Picked him up in a bordello in a village nearby. Place where I go get my weed and a bit of black tail. Got only temporary staff here to see you fellers have a good time over the week-end. 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. Jes’ 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. Jes’ you leave him to me. Or let’s jes’ 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 hand-out from the Jamaica Tourist Board.

  The click of Scaramanga’s pass key sounded in the lock. Scaramanga looked at Bond from the doorway. He ran a finger along the small moustache. ‘Okay, feller. 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.’Kay? Then drinks and dinner and bring on the dancing girls. Got the photo?’

  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 photo’. 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 splendid feller you are nearly made me throw up when I saw it reprinted in the American blatts. I dam’ 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. While the meal moved sluggishly on – the conventional ‘expensive’ dinner of a cruise ship, desiccated smoked salmon with a thimbleful of small-grained black caviar, fillets of some unnamed native fish, possibly silk fish, in a cream sauce, ‘poulet suprême’, a badly roasted broiler with a thick gravy, and bombe surprise, was as predictable as such things are – 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, as a backdrop for the calypso band which, in wine-red and gold frilled shirts, in due course assembled 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 head-dress. 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 Mr Scaramanga, ‘I’ve got a headache. I’m going to bed.’

  Mr 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 these 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! Mebbe the guy can produce.’

  Scaramanga reached for his hip pocket, took out his billfold and thumbed out a note. 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 to her face and slowly folded to the dance floor like something graceful out of Swan Lake. The maître d’hôtel came running from among the shadows.

  As chatter broke out among The Group, James Bond picked up the hundred-dollar note and walked out into the spotlight. He bent down and lifted the girl up by her arm. He pushed the dollar 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 pineapple. Now run off and get ready for your next turn.’ He turned her round and gave her a sharp pat on 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?’

  ‘King 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 t
hings 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.’

  There was nervous laughter and whispered exhortation to King Tiger from the six-piece combo. King Tiger grinned broadly. ‘Okay, Captain, sah.’ He turned to his men. ‘Give’ em “Iron Bar”, but hot. An’ I’ll go get some steam up with Daisy and her friends.’ He strode to the service exit and the band crashed into its stride.

  Bond walked back and laid the pistol down in front of Scaramanga, who gave Bond a long, inquisitive look and slid it back into his waistband. He said flatly, ‘We must have a shooting match one of these days, Mister. How about it? Twenty paces and no wounding?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bond, ‘but my mother wouldn’t approve. Would you have some rum sent over to the band? These people can’t play dry.’ He went back to his seat. He was hardly noticed. The five men, or rather four of them because Hendriks sat impassively through the whole evening, were straining their ears to catch the lewd words of the Fanny Hill version of ‘Iron Bar’ that were coming across clearly from the soloist. Four girls, plump, busty little animals wearing nothing but white sequined G-strings, ran out on to the floor, and, advancing towards the audience, did an enthusiastic belly dance that brought sweat to the temples of Louie Paradise and Hal Garfinkel. The number ended amidst applause, the girls ran off and the lights were dowsed, leaving only the circular spot in the middle of the floor. The drummer, on his calypso box, began a hasty beat like a quickened pulse. The service door opened and shut and a curious object was wheeled into the circle of light. It was a huge hand, perhaps six feet tall at its highest point, upholstered in black leather. It stood, half open on its broad base, with the thumb and fingers outstretched as if ready to catch something. The drummer hastened his beat. The service door sighed. A glistening figure slipped through and, after pausing in the darkness, moved into the pool of light round the hand with a strutting jerk of belly and limbs. There was Chinese blood in her and her body, totally naked and shining with palm oil, was almost white against the black hand. As she jerked round the hand she caressed its outstretched fingers with her hands and arms and then, with well-acted swooning motions, climbed into the palm of the hand and proceeded to perform langorous, but explicit and ingenious acts of passion with each of the fingers in turn. The scene, the black hand, now shining with her oil and seeming to clutch at the squirming white body, was of an incredible lewdness, and Bond, himself aroused, noticed that even Scaramanga was watching with rapt attention, his eyes narrow slits. The drummer had now worked up to his crescendo. The girl, in well-simulated ecstasy, mounted the thumb, slowly expired upon it and then, with a last grind of her rump, slid down it and vanished through the exit. The act was over. The lights came on and everyone, including the band, applauded loudly. The men came out of their separate animal trances. Scaramanga clapped his hand for the band leader, took a note out of his case and said something to him under his breath. The chieftain, Bond suspected, had chosen his bride for the night!