The James Bond Anthology

‘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.’

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!