Read Online The Man With the Golden Gun (James Bond) by Ian Fleming - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Fleming
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questions. Like I said, are you from the police? You've sure got the smell of cops around you. If not, what are you doing hereabouts?"
Bond said, "People don't tell me what to do. I tell them." He walked on into the middle of the room and sat down at a table. He said. "Come and sit down and stop trying to lean on me. I'm unleanable-on."
Scaramanga shrugged. He took two long strides, picked up one of the metal chairs, twirled it round and thrust it between his legs, and sat ass-backwards, his left arm lying along the back of the chair. His right arm rested on his thigh, inches from the pistol butt that showed above the waistband of his trousers. Bond recognized that it was a good working position for a gunman, the metal back of the chair acting as a shield for most of the body. This was certainly a most careful and professional man.
Bond, both hands in full view of the tabletop, said cheerfully, "No. I'm not from the police. My name's Mark Hazard. I'm from a company called Transworld Consortium. I've been doing a job up at Frome, the WISCO sugar place. Know it?"
"Sure I know it. What you been doing there?"
"Not so fast, my friend. First of all, who are you and what's your business?"
"Scaramanga. Francisco Scaramanga. Labour relations. Ever heard of me?"
Bond frowned. "Can't say I have. Should I have?"
"Some people who hadn't are dead."
"A lot of people who haven't heard of me are dead." Bond leaned back. He crossed one leg over the other, above the knee, and grasped the ankle in a clubman pose. "I do wish you'd stop talking in heroics. For instance, seven hundred million Chinese have certainly heard of neither of us. You must be a frog in a very small pool."
Scaramanga did not rise to the jibe. He said reflectively, "Yeah. I guess you could call the Caribbean a pretty small pool. But there's good pickin's to be had from it. The Man with the Golden Gun. That's what they call me in these parts."
"It's a handy tool for solving labour problems. We could do with you up at Frome."
"Been having trouble up there?" Scaramanga looked bored.
"Too many cane fires."
"Was that your business?"
"Sort of. One of the jobs of my company is insurance investigation."
"Security work. I've come across guys like you before. Thought I could smell the cop-smell." Scaramanga looked satisfied that his guess had been right. "Did you get anywhere?"
"Picked up a few Rastafari. I'd have liked to get rid of the lot of them. But they went crying to their union that they were being discriminated against because of their religion, so we had to call a halt. So the fires'll begin again soon. That's why I say we could do with a good enforcer up there." Bond added blandly, "I take it that's another name for your profession?"
Again Scaramanga dodged the sneer. He said, "You carry a gun?"
"Of course. You don't go after the Rastas without one."
"What kind of a gun?"
"Walther PPK. Seven sixty-five millimetre."
"Yes, that's a stopper all right." Scaramanga turned towards the counter. "Hey, cool cat. Couple of Red Stripes, if you're in business again." He turned back and the blank eyes looked hard at Bond. "What's your next job?"
"Don't know. I'll have to contact London and find out if they've got any other problems in the area. But I'm in no hurry. I work for them more or less on a free-lance basis. Why? Any suggestions?"
The other man sat quiet while Tiffy came out from behind the counter. She came over to the table and placed the tin tray with the bottles and glasses in front of Bond. She didn't look at Scaramanga. Scaramanga uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He reached inside his coat and took out all alligator-skin billfold. He extracted a hundred-dollar bill and threw it on the table. "No hard feelings, cool cat. You'd be okay if you didn't always keep your legs together. Go buy yourself some more birds with that. I like to have smiling people around me."
Tiffy picked up the bill. She said, "Thanks, mister. You'd be surprised what I'm going
Bond said, "People don't tell me what to do. I tell them." He walked on into the middle of the room and sat down at a table. He said. "Come and sit down and stop trying to lean on me. I'm unleanable-on."
Scaramanga shrugged. He took two long strides, picked up one of the metal chairs, twirled it round and thrust it between his legs, and sat ass-backwards, his left arm lying along the back of the chair. His right arm rested on his thigh, inches from the pistol butt that showed above the waistband of his trousers. Bond recognized that it was a good working position for a gunman, the metal back of the chair acting as a shield for most of the body. This was certainly a most careful and professional man.
Bond, both hands in full view of the tabletop, said cheerfully, "No. I'm not from the police. My name's Mark Hazard. I'm from a company called Transworld Consortium. I've been doing a job up at Frome, the WISCO sugar place. Know it?"
"Sure I know it. What you been doing there?"
"Not so fast, my friend. First of all, who are you and what's your business?"
"Scaramanga. Francisco Scaramanga. Labour relations. Ever heard of me?"
Bond frowned. "Can't say I have. Should I have?"
"Some people who hadn't are dead."
"A lot of people who haven't heard of me are dead." Bond leaned back. He crossed one leg over the other, above the knee, and grasped the ankle in a clubman pose. "I do wish you'd stop talking in heroics. For instance, seven hundred million Chinese have certainly heard of neither of us. You must be a frog in a very small pool."
Scaramanga did not rise to the jibe. He said reflectively, "Yeah. I guess you could call the Caribbean a pretty small pool. But there's good pickin's to be had from it. The Man with the Golden Gun. That's what they call me in these parts."
"It's a handy tool for solving labour problems. We could do with you up at Frome."
"Been having trouble up there?" Scaramanga looked bored.
"Too many cane fires."
"Was that your business?"
"Sort of. One of the jobs of my company is insurance investigation."
"Security work. I've come across guys like you before. Thought I could smell the cop-smell." Scaramanga looked satisfied that his guess had been right. "Did you get anywhere?"
"Picked up a few Rastafari. I'd have liked to get rid of the lot of them. But they went crying to their union that they were being discriminated against because of their religion, so we had to call a halt. So the fires'll begin again soon. That's why I say we could do with a good enforcer up there." Bond added blandly, "I take it that's another name for your profession?"
Again Scaramanga dodged the sneer. He said, "You carry a gun?"
"Of course. You don't go after the Rastas without one."
"What kind of a gun?"
"Walther PPK. Seven sixty-five millimetre."
"Yes, that's a stopper all right." Scaramanga turned towards the counter. "Hey, cool cat. Couple of Red Stripes, if you're in business again." He turned back and the blank eyes looked hard at Bond. "What's your next job?"
"Don't know. I'll have to contact London and find out if they've got any other problems in the area. But I'm in no hurry. I work for them more or less on a free-lance basis. Why? Any suggestions?"
The other man sat quiet while Tiffy came out from behind the counter. She came over to the table and placed the tin tray with the bottles and glasses in front of Bond. She didn't look at Scaramanga. Scaramanga uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He reached inside his coat and took out all alligator-skin billfold. He extracted a hundred-dollar bill and threw it on the table. "No hard feelings, cool cat. You'd be okay if you didn't always keep your legs together. Go buy yourself some more birds with that. I like to have smiling people around me."
Tiffy picked up the bill. She said, "Thanks, mister. You'd be surprised what I'm going