There was an affirmative grunt from behind the hot towels and the barber proceeded to open a window through the towels in the neighbourhood of the man’s nose. Then he again went cautiously to work with the thin scissors.
After this ceremony, there was dead silence in the small white-tiled room except for the soft clacking of the scissors round Bond’s head and the occasional ting as the manicurist dropped an instrument into her enamel bowl. And then there was a soft creaking as the head barber carefully wound the handle of the customer’s chair so that it came upright.
“How’s that, Sir?” said Bond’s barber holding a hand-minor
behind his head.
It was as Bond was inspecting the back of his head that it happened.
Perhaps, with the changing elevation of the chair, the girl’s hand slipped, but there was suddenly a muffled roar and the man in the purple dressing-gown sprang out of his chair, tore the towels off his face and plunged a finger into his mouth. Then he took it out and bent quickly down and slapped the girl hard across the cheek so that she was knocked off her stool and the enamel bowl of instruments went flying across the room. The man straightened himself and turned a furious face on the barber.
“Fire that bitch,” he snarled. He put the hurt finger back in his mouth and his slippers crunched amongst the scattered instruments as he strode blindly out of the door and disappeared.
“Yes, Sir, Mr Spang,” said the barber in a stunned voice. He started to bawl-out the sobbing girl. Bond turned his head and said quietly, “Stop that.” He got up from his chair and unwrapped the towel from round his neck.
The barber gave him a surprised glance. Then he said quickly, “Yes, Sir, Mister,” and bent to help the girl gather up her instruments.
While Bond paid for his haircut he heard the kneeling girl say plaintively: “It weren’t my fault, Mister Lucian. He was nervous today. His hands were trembling. Honest they were. Ain’t never seen him like that before. Tension, sort of.”
And Bond had had a moment of pleasure at the thought of Mr Spang’s tension.
Ernie Cureo’s voice broke sharply in on his thoughts. “We got ourselves a tail, Mister,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Two of ’em. Fore an’ aft. Don’t look back. See that black Chewy sedan in front? With the two guys. They got two driving mirrors and they been watching us and keeping step for quite a whiles. Back of us there’s a little red sex-ship. Old sports model Jag with a rumble seat. Two more guys. With golf clubs in the back. But it just happens I know them guys. Detroit Purple Mob. Coupla lavender boys. You know, pansies. Golf ain’t their game. The only irons they can handle are in their pockets. Just swivel y’eyes round as if you was admiring the scenery. Watch their gunhands while I try ’em out. Ready?”
Bond did as he was told. The driver put his foot on the accelerator and simultaneously turned off the ignition switch. The exhaust let go like an .88 millimetre and Bond saw the two right hands dive into the two brightly-coloured sports jackets. Bond casually turned his head back. “You’re right,” he said. He paused. “Better let me out, Ernie. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“Shucks,” said the driver disgustedly. “They can’t do nuthen to me. Ya pay for any damage to the cab, and I’ll try and shake ’em. Okay?”
Bond took a 1000-dollar bill out of his note-case and leant over and stuffed it into the pocket of the driver’s shirt. “There’s a Grand to go on with,” he said. “And thanks, Ernie. Let’s see what you can do.”
Bond slipped his Beretta out of the holster and cradled it in his hand. This, he thought to himself, was just what he had been waiting for.
“Okay, feller,” said the driver cheerfully. “I been looking for a chance to take a poke at the gang. I don’t like being leant on and they been leaning on me and some of my friends for too long. Hold tight. Let’s go.”