Live and Let Die: A James Bond Novel by Ian Fleming Read Free Book Online Page A

Pinch-bottle. Bond looked the crowd over. It was nearly all men.
There were two or three whites, boxing fans or reporters for the
New York
sports columns, Bond decided. The atmosphere was warmer, louder than downtown. The walls were covered with boxing photographs, mostly of Sugar Ray Robinson and of scenes from his great fights. It was a cheerful place, doing great business.
‘He was a wise guy, Sugar Ray,’ said Leiter. ‘Let’s hope we both know when to stop when the time comes. He stashed plenty away and now he’s adding to his pile on the music halls. His percentage of this place must be worth a packet and he owns a lot of real estate around here. He works hard still, but it’s not the sort of work that sends you blind or gives you a haemorrhage of the brain. He quit while he was still alive.’
‘He’ll probably back a Broadway show and lose it all,’ said Bond. ‘If I quit now and went in for fruit-farming in
Kent
, I’d most likely hit the worst weather since the
Thames
froze over, and be cleaned out. One can’t plan for everything.’
‘One can try,’ said Leiter. ‘But I know what you mean -better the frying-pan you know than the fire you don’t. It isn’t a bad life when it consists of sitting in a comfortable bar drinking good whisky. How do you like this corner of the jungle?’ He leant forward. ‘Just listen in to the couple behind you. From what I’ve heard they’re straight out of “Nigger Heaven”.’
Bond glanced carefully over his shoulder.
The booth behind him contained a handsome young negro in an expensive fawn suit with exaggerated shoulders. He was lolling back against the wall with one foot up on the bench beside him. He was paring the nails of his left hand with a small silver pocket-knife, occasionally glancing in bored fashion towards the animation at the bar. His head rested on the back of the booth just behind Bond and a whiff of expensive hair-straightener came from him. Bond took in the artificial parting traced with a razor across the left side of the scalp, through the almost straight hair which was a tribute to his mother’s constant application of the hot comb since childhood. The plain black silk tie and the white shirt were in good taste.
Opposite him, leaning forward with concern on her pretty face, was a sexy little negress with a touch of white blood in her. Her jet-black hair, as sleek as the best permanent wave, framed a sweet almond-shaped face with rather slanting eyes under finely drawn eyebrows. The deep purple of her parted, sensual lips was thrilling against the bronze skin. All that Bond could see of her clothes was the bodice of a black satin evening dress, tight and revealing across the firm, small breasts. She wore a plain gold chain round her neck and a plain gold band round each thin wrist.
She was pleading anxiously and paid no heed to Bond’s quick embracing glance.
‘Listen and see if you can get the hang of it,’ said Leiter. ‘It’s straight
Harlem
—
Deep South
with a lot of
New York
thrown in.’
Bond picked up the menu and leant back in the booth, studying the Special Fried Chicken Dinner at $3.75.
‘Cmon, honey,’ wheedled the girl. ‘How come yuh-all’s actin’ so tahd tonight?’
‘Guess ah jist nacherlly gits tahd listenin’ at yuh,’ said the man languidly. ‘Why’nt yuh hush yo’ mouff’n let me ‘joy mahself ‘n peace ‘n qui-yet.’
‘Is 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. Terzackly,’ he paused to let the big word sink in, ‘perzackly wha’ goes’tween yuh ‘n dat lowdown ornery wuthless