The Israel Bond Omnibus by Sol Weinstein Read Free Book Online Page A

those Junoesque breasts pointing to only heaven knew what mystical horizons, that frigidly wonderful, sullen face ...
    She faced him now, those frosty lips opening, spitting out word icicles: “Mr. Bond, I presume? My name is Poontang Plenty. Mr. Saxon here insists on calling me Peepee. You may if you wish. I don’t give a flying f—”
    “Well, now,” Bond laughed, cutting her off diplomatically. “I rather like your given name ... Poontang Plenty. Fraught with promise.”
    Her top lip curled into an adorable sneer. “Forget it, he-man! The name is all that’s been given.”
    The bitch has spirit! “Drink, Poontang?”
    “What are you creeps having?”
    “Mr. Saxon here is Tom Collinsing. I’m enjoying a rather far-out little libation with the picturesque nomenclature ‘Lhasa Lizard.’ One takes the right eye of—”
    “Oh, crap!” she said in a blasé tone.
    “The way we’re cutting each other off, Poontang, this whole conversation is turning into a circumcision!”
    “Cheap one-liner, Mr. He-Man. And badly delivered.”
    This girl’s got me backtracking, he admitted inwardly. And she knows it.
    “F.Y.I., Mr. Bond, I’ve been drinking Lizards since I was six. And ...” she looked at his drink “... no iguana eyes, either. It’s got to have the right eye from a Siamese rain forest chameleon or it’s utter, utter garbage.”
    He tried to keep his admiration for her out of his voice. “You’ve been around, Poontang.”

    Saxon yawned. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to peck out each other’s eyes. So long, Peepee, see you later.” He bent his gaunt frame to buss her cheek.
    “Put those Tussaud Waxworks lips on me and I’ll kick you right in the—”
    Mumbling an insincere farewell, Saxon exited hastily. Gratefully, too, Bond thought. At least the fish-eyed P.R. man was no competition.
    “That water lily!” Her voice was pure cobra venom. “I hate him, him with those putrid eyes and that stinking suit—eeech!” She shuddered, toying with something in her right hand. Whatever it was it made a clicking sound like two marbles tapped together.
    “Ah,” said Bond, resorting to his usual lighter-than-air touch. It’s as good as any other gambit in this game d’amour, he reasoned. “Ah, Captain Queeg! Playing with your balls again, I see.”
    “That’s right, buster,” her voice came up hard and gritty. “Know what these are?” She thrust her hand dramatically into his face, opening it. Two marbles, deep highlights radiating from their exotically striated cores, lay in her palm.
    “Why, yes, Poontang. Marbles, aren’t they? Some childish carryover?”
    “Think marbles is a childish sport, Mr. He-Man with the faggot sandals?” A smile, but hate-filled. “Care to ... uh ... take me on in a little game, maybe?”
    “Oh,” said Bond, taken aback a trifle. “I don’t know if ...”
    “You gutless bastard!” Three words scourging his pride. “Just like the rest of your oafish breed. Nice shoulders on you, Mr. Bond. Trim waist. That romantic scar. I’ll wager a carload of matzoh-stuffed matrons have rolled over in the clover for that combination, right, Mr. Bond? But you’re gutless. Yellow—like all the rest.”
    Smile, Bond, smile. You’re stung, but you can’t show that to this adorable hellcat. Can’t let her hear your teeth grinding in rage. He dragged on his Raleigh.
    “Care for legends, Poontang? No? Oh, you’ll like this one. Any girl who psychologically craves balls would dig this one. It’s all about brave little Peter, the Dutch boy who saved his homeland by sticking his finger in a dyke. Remember? Well, Holland has long since forgotten Peter, but, you know something ... that dyke is still crazy about him.”

    Now it was her turn to be stung. She bit her marvelously red, full lips. “Your seamy little allegory wasn’t lost on me, Mr. Bond. I’ve heard the same old tired insults before from other alleged ‘men’ who can’t make the grade with me, so they hurl