by Ian Fleming
The cab smelled of old cigar smoke and Bond pressed down the switch of the power-operated window. A furnace-blast of air made him close it again.
The driver half turned in his seat. ‘Don’t want to do that, Mister Bond,’ he said in a friendly voice. ‘Cab’s conditioned. May not seem so, but it’s better’n outside.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bond, and then: ‘I believe you’re a friend of Felix Leiter.’
‘Sure,’ said the driver, over his shoulder. ‘Nice guy. Told me to watch out for ya. Be glad if I can do anything while ya’re here. Staying long?’
‘I can’t say,’ said Bond. ‘Few days anyway.’
‘Tell ya what,’ said the driver. ‘Don’t think I’m trying to gyp ya, but if we’re going to do some work together and ya got some dough, mebbe ya better hire the cab by the day. Fifty bucks, but I got to make a living. It’ll make sense to the front boys at the hotels and so on. Don’t see otherwise how I’m to keep close. Like that they’ll understand me hanging about waiting for ya half the day. They’re a suspicious lot of bastards on the Strip.’
‘Couldn’t be better.’ Bond had at once liked and trusted the man. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘Okay.’ The driver expanded a little. ‘Ya see, Mister Bond. The folks round here don’t like anything out of the ord’nary. What I say. They’re suspicious. I mean. Ya look like anything ’cept a tourist who’s come to lose his wad and they get a bad case of nose trouble. Take yaself. Anyone can see ya’re a Limey even before ya start talking. Clothes and so forth. Well, what’s a Limey doing here? And what sort of a Limey is this? He looks kind of a tough guy. So let’s just take a good look at him.’ He half turned. ‘Did ya see a feller hangin’ around the terminal with a leather shaving kit under his arm?’
Bond remembered the man who had watched him at the Oxygen Bar. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said, and it was then he realized that the oxygen had made him careless.
‘Bet ya life he’s looking at ya pictures right now,’ said the driver. ‘Sixteen-millimetre camera in that shaving kit. Just pull down the zip and press y’arm against it and off it goes. He’ll have taken fifty feet. Straight and profile. And that’ll be with “Mug Identification” at Headquarters this afternoon, with a list of what ya got in ya bag. Ya don’t look as if ya’re carryin’ a gun. Mebbe it’s a flat holster job. But if ya’re, there’ll be another man with a gun alongside all the time ya’re in the rooms. Word’ll be sent down the line by this evening. Better watch out for any fellow with a coat on. Nobody wears ’em here save to house the artillery.’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Bond, annoyed with himself. ‘I can see I’ll have to keep a bit wider awake. Pretty good machine they seem to have here.’
The driver grunted affirmatively and drove on in silence.
They were just entering the famous ‘Strip’. The desert on both sides of the road, which had been empty except for occasional hoardings advertising the hotels, was beginning to sprout gas stations and motels. They passed a motel with a swimming pool which had built-up transparent glass sides. As they drove by, a girl dived into the bright green water and her body sliced through the tank in a cloud of bubbles. Then came a gas station with an elegant drive-in restaurant. GASETERIA, it said. FRESH-UP HERE! HOT DOGS! JUMBOBURGERS!! ATOMBURGERS!! ICE COOL DRINKS!!! DRIVE IN, and there were two or three cars being served by waitresses in high-heeled shoes and two-piece bathing suits.
The great six-lane highway stretched on through a forest of multi-coloured signs and frontages until it lost itself downtown in a dancing lake of heat waves. The day was as hot and sultry as a fire opal. The swollen sun burned straight down the middle of the frying concrete and there was no shade anywhere except under the few scattered palms in the forecourts of the motels. A glittering gunfire of light-splinters shot at Bond’s eyes from the windscreens of oncoming cars and from their blaze of chrome styling, and he felt his wet shirt clinging to his skin.
‘Coming into the Strip now,’ said the driver. ‘Otherwise known as the “Rue de la Pay”. Spelt p.a.y. Joke. See?’
‘Got it,’ said Bond.
‘On ya right, The Flamingo,’ said Ernie Cureo as they passed a low-lying modernistic hotel with a huge tower of neon, now dead, outside it. ‘Bugsy Siegel built that back in 1946. He came over to Vegas from the coast one day and took a look round. Had a lot of hot money looking for investment. Vegas was goin’ great guns. Town wide open. Gambling. Legalized cat-shops. Nice set-up. It didn’t take long for Bugsy to catch on. He saw the possibilities.’
Bond laughed at the pregnant phrase.
‘Yes, Sir,’ continued the driver, ‘Bugsy saw the possibilities and moved right in. Stayed with it until 1947 when they blew some of his head off with so many bullets the cops never got around to finding them all. Then here’s The Sands. Plenty of hot money behind that one. Don’t rightly know whose. Built a couple of years ago. Front guy’s a nice feller name of Jack Intratter. Used to be at the Copa in New York. Mebbe you heard of him?’
‘Afraid not,’ said Bond.
‘Well then, here’s The Desert Inn. Wilbur Clark’s place. But the money came from the old Cleveland-Cincinatti combination. And that dump with the flat-iron sign is The Sahara. Latest thing. Listed owners are a bunch of small-time gamblers from Oregon. Funny thing, they lost $50,000 on their opening night. Would ya believe it! All the big shots come along with their pockets full of dough to make some courtesy play, make the fust night a success, y’unnerstand. It’s a custom here for the rival outfits to gather round at an opening. But boy, the cards just wouldn’t co-operate and the opposition guys walked off with fifty Grand! Town’s laffing about it still. Then,’ he waved to the left where the neon was wrought into a twenty-foot covered wagon at full gallop, ‘Ya get The Last Frontier. That’s a dummy Western town on the left. Worth seein’. And over there’s The Thunderbird, and across the road’s The Tiara. Snazziest joint in Vegas. Guess ya know about Mister Spang and all that?’ He slowed down and halted opposite the Spang hotel, which was topped by a ducal coronet of brilliant lights that winked on and off in a lost battle with the glaring sun and the reflections from the highway.
‘Yes, I know the outlines,’ said Bond. ‘But I’d be glad for you to fill them in some time. And now what?’
‘Whatever ya say, Mister.’
Bond suddenly felt he had had enough of the ghastly glitter of The Strip. He only wanted to get indoors and out of the heat, have some lunch and perhaps a swim and take things easy until the night. He said so.
‘Suits me,’ said Cureo. ‘Guess ya shouldn’t get into much trouble ya first night. Take it easy though and act kinda natural. If ya got work to do in Vegas ya better wait till ya know ya way around. And watch the gambling, friend.’ He chuckled. ‘Y’ever hear of those Silence Towers they have in India? They say it takes those vultures only twenty minutes to strip a guy to the bones. Guess they take a bit longer at The Tiara. Mebbe the Unions slow ’em down.’ The driver banged the gear lever into first. ‘All ’a same,’ he said, watching the traffic in his driving mirror, ‘there was one guy left Vegas with a hundred Grand.’ He paused, waiting for a chance to cross the parkway. ‘Only thing, he had half a million when he started to play.’
The car swung across the traffic and under the pillared portico in front of the wide glass doors of the sprawling, pink stucco building. The bell captain, in a sky blue uniform, opened the cab door and reached in for Bond’s bag. Bond stepped out into the heat.
As he shouldered his way through the glass doors he heard Ernie Cureo say to the captain: ‘Some crazy Limey. Hired me for fifty bucks a day! Whaddya know about that?’
And then the door swung to behind him and the beautiful cold air welcomed him with a chill kiss into the glittering palace of the man called Seraffimo Spang.
16 ....... ‘THE TIARA’
BOND HAD lunch in the air-conditioned ‘Sunburst Room’ beside the big kidney-shaped swimming pool (LIFESAVER: BOBBY BILBO – POOL SCOURED DAILY BY HYDRO-JET, said a sign) an
d having decided that only about one per cent of the customers were fit to wear bathing suits, walked very slowly through the heat across the twenty yards of baked lawn that separated his building from the central establishment, took off his clothes and threw himself naked on his bed.
There were six buildings containing the bedrooms of The Tiara and they were named after jewels. Bond was on the ground floor of ‘The Turquoise’. Its motif was egg-shell blue with furnishing materials of dark blue and white. His room was extremely comfortable and equipped with expensive and well-designed modern furniture of a silvery wood that might have been birch. There was a radio beside his bed and a television set with a seventeen-inch screen beside the broad window. Outside the window there was a small enclosed breakfast patio. It was very quiet and there was no sound from the thermostat-controlled air-conditioning and Bond was almost instantly asleep.
He slept for four hours, and during this time the wire-recorder, concealed in the base of the bedside table, wasted several hundred feet of wire on dead silence.
When he awoke it was seven. The wire-recorder noted that he picked up the telephone and asked for Miss Tiffany Case and after a pause said, ‘Would you please tell her that Mr James Bond called’ and put back the receiver. It then picked up the noise of Bond moving about the room, the hiss of the shower and, at 7.30, the click of his key in the lock as he went out and shut the door.
Half an hour later the recorder heard a knock on his door and then, after a pause, the noise of the door opening. A man dressed like a waiter, with a basket of fruit bearing a note saying, ‘With the Compliments of the Management’, came into the room and walked quickly over to the bedside table. He undid two screws, removed the reel of fine wire on the recorder’s turntable, replaced it with a fresh reel, put the basket of fruit on the dressing table and went out and closed the door.
And then for several hours the recorder whirred silently on, recording nothing.
Bond sat at the long bar of the Tiara and sipped a Vodka Martini and examined the great gambling room with a professional eye.
The first thing he noticed was that Las Vegas seemed to have invented a new school of functional architecture, ‘The Gilded Mousetrap School’ he thought it might be called, whose main purpose was to channel the customer-mouse into the central gambling trap whether he wanted the cheese or not.
There were only two entrances, one from the street outside, and one from the bedroom buildings and the swimming pool. Once you had come in through either of these, whether you wanted to buy a paper or cigarettes at the news stand, have a drink or a meal in one of the two restaurants, get your hair cut or have a massage in the ‘Health Club’, or just visit the lavatories, there was no way of reaching your objective without passing between the banks of slot machines and gambling tables. And when you were trapped in the vortex of the whirring machines, amongst which there sounded always, from somewhere, the intoxicating silvery cascade of coins into a metal cup, or occasionally the golden cry of ‘Jackpot!’ from one of the change-girls, you were lost. Besieged by the excited back-chat from the three big crap tables, the seductive whirl of the two roulette wheels, and the clank of silver dollars across the green pools of the blackjack tables, it would be a mouse of steel who could get through without a tentative nibble at this delicious chunk of lucky cheese.
But, reflected Bond, it could only be a trap for peculiarly insensitive mice – mice who would be tempted by the coarsest cheese. It was an inelegant trap, obvious and vulgar, and the noise of the machines had a horrible mechanical ugliness which beat at the brain. It was like the steady clanking of the engines of some old iron freighter on its way to the knacker’s yard, unoiled, uncared for, condemned.
And the gamblers stood and tore at the handles of the machines as if they hated what they were doing. And, once they had seen their fate in the small glass window, they didn’t wait for the wheels to stop spinning but rammed in another coin and reached up a right arm that knew exactly where to go. Crank-clatter-ting. Crank-clatter-ting.
And, when there was the occasional silvery waterfall, the metal cup would overflow with coins and the gambler would have to go down on her knees to scrabble about under the machines for a rolling coin. For, as Leiter had said, they were mostly women, elderly women of the prosperous housewife class, and the droves of them stood at the banks of machines like hens in an egg battery, conditioned by the delicious coolness of the room and the music of the spinning wheels, to go on laying it on the line until their wad was gone.
Then, as Bond watched, a change-girl’s voice bawled ‘Jackpot!’ and some of the women raised their heads and the picture changed. Now they reminded Bond of Dr Pavlov’s dogs, the saliva drooling down from their jaws at the treacherous bell that brought no dinner, and he shuddered at the thought of the empty eyes of these women and their skins and their wet half-open mouths and their bruised hands.
Bond turned his back on the scene and sipped at his Martini, listening with half his mind to the music from the famous-name band at the end of the room next to the half-dozen shops. Over one of the shops there was a pale blue neon sign which said ‘The House of Diamonds’. Bond beckoned to the barman. ‘Mr Spang been around tonight?’
‘Ain’t seen him,’ said the barman. ‘Mostly comes in after the first show. Around eleven. You know him?’
‘Not personally.’
Bond paid his check and drifted over to the blackjack tables. He stopped at the centre one. This one would be his. At exactly five minutes past ten. He glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty.
The table was a small, flat kidney of green baize. Eight players sat on high stools facing the dealer, who stood with his stomach against the edge of the table and dealt two cards into the eight numbered spaces on the cloth in front of the stakes. The stakes were mostly five or ten silver dollars, or counters worth twenty. The dealer was a man of about forty. He had a pleasant half-smile on his face. He wore the dealer’s uniform – white shirt buttoned at the wrists, a thin black Western gambler’s tie, a green eyeshade, black trousers. The front of the trousers was protected from rubbing against the table by a small green baize apron. ‘Jake’ was embroidered in one corner.
The dealer dealt and handled the stakes with unruffled smoothness. There was no talk at the table except when a player ordered a ‘courtesy’ drink or cigarettes from one of the waitresses in black silk pyjamas who circulated in the central space inside the ring of tables. From this central space, the run of the play was watched over by two tough lynx-eyed pit-bosses with guns at their waists.
The game was quick and efficient and dull. It was as dull and mechanical as the slot machines. Bond watched for a while and then moved away towards the doors marked ‘Smoking Room’ and ‘Powder Room’ on the far side of the Casino. On his way he passed four ‘Sheriffs’ in smart grey Western uniform. The legs of their trousers were tucked into half-Wellingtons. These men were standing about unobtrusively, looking at nothing but seeing everything. At each hip they carried a gun in an open holster and the polished brass of fifty cartridges shone at their belts.
Plenty of protection around, thought Bond, as he pushed his way through the swing door of the ‘Smoking Room’. Inside, on the tiled wall, was a notice which said, ‘Stand up Closer. It’s Shorter than you Think’. Western humour! Bond wondered if he dared include it in his next written report to M. He decided it would not appeal. He went out and walked back through the tables to the door beneath a neon sign which said ‘The Opal Room’.
The low circular restaurant in pink and white and grey was half full. The ‘Hostess’ swept over and piloted him to a corner table. She bent over to arrange the flowers in the middle of the table and to show him that her fine bosom was at least half real, gave him a gracious smile and went away. After ten minutes, a waitress with a tray appeared and put a roll on his plate and a square of butter. She also set down a dish containing olives and some celery lined with orange cheese. Then a second and older waitress bustled over and gave him the menu and
said ‘Be right with you.’
Twenty minutes after he had sat down, Bond was able to order a dozen cherrystone clams and a steak, and, since he expected a further long pause, a second Vodka dry Martini. ‘The wine waiter will be right over,’ said the waitress primly and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Long on courtesy and short on service,’ reflected Bond, and resigned himself to the gracious ritual.
During the excellent dinner that finally materialized, Bond wondered about the evening ahead and about how he could force the pace of his assignment. He was thoroughly bored with his role as a probationary crook who was about to be paid off for his first trial job and might then, if he found favour in the eyes of Mr Spang, be given regular work with the rest of the teenage adults who made up the gang. It irked him not to have the initiative – to be ordered to Saratoga and then to this hideous sucker-trap at the say-so of a handful of big-time hoodlums. Here he was, eating their dinner and sleeping in their bed, while they watched him, James Bond, and weighed him up and debated whether his hand was steady enough, his appearance trustworthy enough and his health adequate to some sleazy job in one of their rackets.
Bond munched his steak as if it was Mr Seraffimo Spang’s fingers and cursed the day he had taken on this idiotic role. But then he paused and went on eating more calmly. What the hell was he worrying about? This was a big assignment which so far had gone well. And now he had penetrated right to the end of the pipeline, right into the parlour of Mr Seraffimo Spang who, with his brother in London, and with the mysterious A B C, ran the biggest smuggling operation in the world. What did Bond’s feelings matter? It was only a moment of self-disgust, a touch of nausea brought on by being a stranger who had spent too many days too close to these sordidly powerful American gangs, too close to the gunpowder-scented ‘gracious life’ of gangland aristocracy.
