Not bothering to open the low door of the MG, the girl swung one brown leg and then the other over the side of the car, showing her thighs under the pleated cream cotton skirt almost to her waist, and slipped to the pavement. By now the cab was alongside. The cabby reined in. He was mollified by the gaiety and beauty of the girl. He said, “Missy, you done almost shaved de whiskers off of Old Dreamy here. You wanna be more careful.”
The girl put her hands on her hips. She didn’t like being told anything by anyone. She said sharply, “Old Dreamy yourself. Some people have got work to do. Both of you ought to be put out to grass instead of cluttering up the streets getting in everyone’s way.”
The ancient Negro opened his mouth, thought better of it, said a pacifying “Hokay, Missy. Hokay,” flicked at his horse, and moved on, muttering to himself. He turned on his seat to get another look at the she-devil, but she had already disappeared into the shop. “Dat’s a fine piece of gal,” he said inconsequentially, and put his horse into an ambling trot.
Twenty yards away, James Bond had witnessed the whole scene. He felt the same way about the girl as the cabby did. He also knew who she was. He quickened his step and pushed through the striped sun blinds into the blessed cool of the tobacconist’s.
The girl was standing at a counter arguing with one of the assistants. “But I tell you I don’t want Senior Service. I tell you I want a cigarette that’s so disgusting that I shan’t want to smoke it. Haven’t you got a cigarette that stops people smoking? Look at all that.” She waved a hand toward the stacked shelves. “Don’t tell me some of those don’t taste horrible.”
The man was used to crazy tourists, and anyway the Nassavian doesn’t get excited. He said, “Well, Ma’am . . .” and turned and languidly looked along the shelves.
Bond said sternly to the girl, “You can choose between two kinds of cigarette if you want to smoke less.”
She looked sharply up at him. “And who might you be?” “My name’s Bond, James Bond. I’m the world’s authority on giving up smoking. I do it constantly. You’re lucky I happen to be handy.”
The girl looked him up and down. He was a man she hadn’t seen before in Nassau. He was about six feet tall and somewhere in his middle thirties. He had dark, rather cruel good looks and very clear blue-gray eyes that were now observing her inspection sardonically. A scar down his right cheek showed pale against a tan so mild that he must have only recently come to the island. He was wearing a very dark blue lightweight single-breasted suit over a cream silk shirt and a black knitted silk tie. Despite the heat, he looked cool and clean, and his only concession to the tropics appeared to be the black saddle-stitched sandals on his bare feet. It was an obvious attempt at a pick-up. He had an exciting face, and authority. She decided to go along. But she wasn’t going to make it easy. She said coldly, “All right. Tell me.”
“The only way to stop smoking is to stop it and not start again. If you want to pretend to stop for a week or two, it’s no good trying to ration yourself. You’ll become a bore and think about nothing else. And you’ll snatch at a cigarette every time the hour strikes or whatever the intervals may be. You’ll behave greedily. That’s unattractive. The other way is to have cigarettes that are either too mild or too strong. The mild ones are probably the best for you.” Bond said to the attendant, “A carton of Dukes, king-size with filter.” Bond handed them to the girl. “Here, try these. With the compliments of Faust.”
“Oh, but I can’t. I mean . . .”
But Bond had already paid for the carton and for a packet of Chesterfields for himself. He took the change and followed her out of the shop. They stood together under the striped awning. The heat was terrific. The white light on the dusty street, the glare reflected back off the shop fronts opposite and off the dazzling limestone of the houses made them both screw up their eyes. Bond said, “I’m afraid smoking goes with drinking. Are you going to give them both up or one by one?”