The James Bond Anthology

Scaramanga came up and leant against the counter. The description in Records was exact, but it had not caught the cat-like menace of the big man, the extreme breadth of the shoulders and the narrow waist, or the cold immobility of the eyes that now examined Bond with an expression of aloof disinterest. He was wearing a well-cut, single-breasted tan suit and ‘co-respondent’ shoes in brown and white. Instead of a tie, he wore a high stock in white silk secured by a gold pin the shape of a miniature pistol. There should have been something theatrical about the get-up but, perhaps because of the man’s fine figure, there wasn’t.

He said, ‘I sometimes make ’em dance. Then I shoot their feet off.’ There was no trace of a foreign accent underneath the American.

Bond said, ‘That sounds rather drastic. What do you do it for?’

‘The last time it was five thousand dollars. Seems like you don’t know who I am. Didn’t the cool cat tell you?’

Bond glanced at Tiffy. She was standing very still, her hands by her sides. The knuckles were white.

Bond said, ‘Why should she? Why would I want to know?’

There was a quick flash of gold. The small black hole looked directly at Bond’s navel. ‘Because of this. What are you doing here, stranger? Kind of a coincidence finding a city slicker at 3½. Or at Sav’ La Mar for the matter of that. Not by any chance from the police? Or any of their friends?’

‘Kamerad!’ Bond raised his hands in mock surrender. He lowered them and turned to Tiffy. ‘Who is this man? A one-man takeover bid for Jamaica? Or a refugee from a circus? Ask him what he’d like to drink. Whoever he is, it was a good act.’ James Bond knew that he had very nearly pulled the trigger of the gun. Hit a gunman in his vanity … He had a quick vision of himself writhing on the floor, his right hand without the power to reach for his own weapon. Tiffy’s pretty face was no longer pretty. It was a taut skull. She stared at James Bond. Her mouth opened but no sound came from the gaping lips. She liked him and she knew he was dead. The kling-klings, Joe and May, smelled the same electricity. With a tremendous din of metallic squawks, they fled for the open window like black thieves escaping into the night.

The explosions from the Colt .45 were deafening. The two birds disintegrated against the violet back-drop of the dusk, the scraps of feathers and pink flesh blasting out of the yellow light of the café into the limbo of the deserted street like shrapnel.

There was a moment of deafening silence. James Bond didn’t move. He sat where he was, waiting for the tension of the deed to relax. It didn’t. With an inarticulate scream, that was half a filthy word, Tiffy took James Bond’s bottle of Red Stripe off the counter and clumsily flung it. There came a distant crash of glass from the back of the room. Then, having made her puny gesture, Tiffy fell to her knees behind the counter and went into sobbing hysterics.

James Bond drank down the rest of his beer and got slowly to his feet. He walked towards Scaramanga and was about to pass him when the man reached out a languid left arm and caught him at the biceps. He held the snout of his gun to his nose, sniffing delicately. The expression in the dead brown eyes was far-away. He said, ‘Mister, there’s something quite extra about the smell of death. Care to try it?’ He held out the glittering gun as if he was offering James Bond a rose.

Bond stood quite still. He said, ‘Mind your manners. Take your hand off me.’

Scaramanga raised his eyebrows. The flat, leaden gaze seemed to take in Bond for the first time.

He released his grip.

James Bond went on round the edge of the counter. When he came opposite the other man, he found the eyes were now looking at him with faint, scornful curiosity. Bond stopped. The sobbing of the girl was the crying of a small dog. Somewhere down the street a ‘Sound System’ – a loudspeaker record player – began braying calypso.

Bond looked the man in the eye. He said, ‘Thanks. I’ve tried it. I recommend the Berlin vintage. 1945.’ He smiled a friendly, only slightly ironical smile. ‘But I expect you were too young to be at that tasting.’

6 | THE EASY GRAND

Bond knelt down beside Tiffy and gave her a couple of sharp slaps on the right cheek. Then on the left. The wet eyes came back into focus. She put her hand up to her face and looked at Bond with surprise. Bond got to his feet. He took a cloth and wetted it at the tap, then leant down and put his arm round her and wiped the cloth gently over her face. Then he lifted her up and handed her her bag that was on a shelf behind the counter. He said, ‘Come on, Tiffy. Make up that pretty face again. Business’ll be warming up soon. The leading lady’s got to look her best.’