Bond 02 - Live and Let Die by Ian Fleming Read Free Book Online Page B

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