“Wint,” said Leiter flatly. “And the other guy was Kidd. Always work together. They’re the top torpedoes for the Spangs. Wint is a mean bastard. A real sadist. Likes it. He’s always sucking at that wart on his thumb. He’s called ‘Windy’. Not to his face, that is. All these guys have crazy names. Wint can’t bear to travel. Gets sick in cars and trains and thinks planes are death traps. Has to be paid a special bonus if there’s a job that means moving around the country. But he’s cool enough when his feet are on the ground. Kidd’s a pretty boy. His friends call him ‘Boofy’. Probably shacks up with Wint. Some of these homos make the worst killers. Kidd’s got white hair although he’s only thirty. That’s one of the reasons they like to work in hoods. But one day that fellow Wint is going to be sorry he didn’t have that wart burned away. I thought of him as soon as you mentioned it. Guess I’ll get along to the cops and tip them off. Won’t mention you, of course. But I’ll give them the low-down on Shy Smile, and they can work it out for themselves. Wint and his friend’ll be taking a train in Albany by now, but no harm in getting some heat on.” Leiter turned at the door. “Take it easy, James. Be back in an hour and we’ll go and get ourselves a good dinner. I’ll find out where they’ve taken Tinga-ling and we’ll mail the dough to him there. Might cheer him up a bit, the poor little bastard. Be seeing you.”
Bond stripped and spent ten minutes under the shower, lathering himself all over and washing his hair to get rid of the last filthy memory of the Acme Baths. Then he dressed in trousers and shirt and went over to the telephone booth in the reception hall and put in a call to Shady Tree.
“The line is busy, Sir,” chanted the operator. “Will I keep the call in?”
“Yes, please,” said Bond, relieved that the hunchback was still in his office and that now he would be able to say truthfully that he had tried to get through earlier. He had an impression that Shady might be wondering why he hadn’t called up to complain about Shy Smile. After seeing what had happened to the jockey Bond was more inclined to treat the Spangled Mob with respect.
The telephone gave the dry muted burr that serves for a ring on the American system.
“Were you wanting Wisconsin 7-3697?”
“Yes.”
“I have your party now, Sir. Go ahead, New York,” and the high, thin voice of the hunchback : “Yes. Who’s calling?”
“James Bond. I tried to reach you earlier.”
“Yes?”
“Shy Smile didn’t pay off.”
“I know. The jockey bitched it. So what?”
“Money,” said Bond.
There was silence at the other end. Then, “Okay, we start again. I’ll wire you a Grand, the Grand you won off of me. Remember?”
“Yes.”
“Stand by the phone. I’ll call you back in a few minutes and tell you what to do with it. Where you staying?”
Bond told him. “Okay. You’ll get the money in the morning. Be calling you shortly.” The phone went dead.
Bond walked over to the reception counter and glanced over the rack of paper-backs. He was amused and rather impressed by the meticulous accounting of these people and the care they took to have each step of their operations protected by a legitimate cover plan. They were right, of course. Where would he, an Englishman, be able to get $5000 except by gambling? And what would the next gamble be?
The telephone crooked a mechanical finger at him and he went into the box and closed the door and picked up the receiver.
“That you, Bond? Now listen carefully. You’re to get it at Las Vegas. Come down to New York and pick up a plane. Charge the ticket to me. I’ll okay it. Through service to Los Angeles and there’s a local plane every half hour to Vegas. You have a reservation at the Tiara. Find your way around and-now listen to this carefully-at just five after ten on Thursday evening go to the centre of the three blackjack tables at the Tiara on the side of the room near the bar. Got that?”