“Yes.”
“Sit down and play the maximum, that’s a Grand, five times. Then get up and quit the table. And don’t gamble any more. D’you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Your check is paid at the Tiara. After the game, hang around and wait for further instructions. Got that? Repeat.”
Bond did so.
“Check,” said the hunchback. “Don’t talk and don’.t make a mistake. We don’t like mistakes. You’ll find that when you read tomorrow’s paper.”
There was a soft click. Bond put down the receiver and walked thoughtfully across the lawn to his room.
Blackjack! The old 21 of childhood days. It brought back memories of big teas in other children’s playrooms; of grownups counting out the coloured bone counters in piles so that each child had a shilling’s worth; the excitement of turning up a ten and an ace and being paid double; the thrill of that fifth card when one already had seventeen and wanted a four or less for ‘Five and Under’.
And now he was going to play the nursery game again. Only this time the dealer would be a crook and the coloured counters of his bet would be worth £300 on each hand. He had grown up and now this would be a real grown-up game.
Bond lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. As he waited for Felix Leiter, his mind was already reaching ahead to the famous gambling town, wondering what it was going to be like, wondering how much he would be able to see of Tiffany Case.
Five cigarette ends had piled up in the plastic ashtray before he heard Leiter’s limping step on the gravel path outside. They walked across the lawn together to the Studillac and as they drove down the avenue Leiter brought him up to date.
The Spangled boys had all checked out-Pissaro, Budd, Wint, Kidd. Even Shy Smile was already off on the first leg of his long journey by horsebox right across the continent to the ranch in Nevada.
“The FBI are on the case now,” said Leiter, “but it will only be one more short story in their collected works of Spang. Without you as a witness, nobody’s going to have any idea who the two gunmen were, and I’d be surprised if the FBI get very worked up about Pissaro and his horse. They’ll leave that to me and my outfit. I’ve talked to head office and they’ve told me to get out to Vegas and somehow find out where the remains of the real Shy Smile are buried. I’ve got to lay my hands on his teeth. How d’ya like that?”
Before Bond had time to comment, they had drawn up outside the ‘Pavilion’, the only smart restaurant in Saratoga. They got out and left the car to be parked by the doorman.
“It’s good that we can have a meal together again,” said Leiter. “You’ve never eaten broiled Maine lobster with melted butter like they do it here. But it wouldn’t taste so good if there was a chance that one of the Spang boys might be munching spaghetti with Caruso sauce at the next table.”
It was late and most of the diners had finished their meal and gone off to the sales ring. They had a corner table to themselves and Leiter told the head waiter not to hurry with the lobsters but to bring two very dry Martinis made with Cresta Blanca Vermouth.
“So you’re going to Las Vegas,” said Bond. “Funny coincidence department.” He told Leiter about his conversation with Shady Tree.
“Sure,” said Leiter. “No coincidence about it. We’re both travelling bad roads and all bad roads lead to the bad town. I’ve got some cleaning up to do here in Saratoga first. And a pile of reports to write. That’s half my life with Pinkertons, writing reports. But I’ll be over in Vegas before the end of the week, sniffing around. Shan’t be able to see much of you right under the Spang nose, but maybe we could meet up from time to time and exchange notes. Tell you what,” he added. “We’ve got a good man there. Undercover. Cab-driver by the name of Cureo, Ernie Cureo. Good guy, and I’ll pass the word you’re coming and he’ll look after you. He knows all the dirt, where the big fixes are, who’s in town from the outside mobs. He even knows where you can find the one-armed bandits that pay the best percentages. And the slots that pay best is the most valuable secret on the whole goddam Strip. And Boy, you’ve seen nothing until you’ve seen that Strip. Five solid miles of gambling joints. Neon lighting that makes Broadway look like a kid’s Christmas tree. Monte Carlo!” Letter snorted. “Steam-age stuff.”