The James Bond Anthology

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.’