Live and Let Die: A James Bond Novel by Ian Fleming Page A

about twelve-thirty.’
The big switchboard, now only a few blocks away, was almost quiet. The two men had been checked in and out of Sugar Ray’s, Ma Frazier’s and the Savoy Ballroom.
Midnight
had them entering ‘Yeah Man’. At twelve-thirty the final call came and then the board was silent.
Mr. Big spoke on the house-phone. First to the head waiter.
‘Two white men coming in five minutes. Give them the Z table.’
‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said the head waiter. He hurried across the dance-floor to a table away on the right, obscured from most of the room by a wide pillar. It was next to the Service entrance but with a good view of the floor and the band opposite.
It was occupied by a party of four, two men and two girls
‘Sorry folks,’ said the head waiter. ‘Been a mistake. Table’s reserved. Newspaper men from downtown.’
One of the men began to argue.
‘Move, Bud,’ said the head waiter crisply. ‘Lofty, show these folks to table F. Drinks is on the house. Sam,’ he beckoned to another waiter, ‘clear the table. Two covers.’ The party of four moved docilely away, mollified by the prospect of free liquor. The head waiter put a Reserved sign on table Z, surveyed it and returned to his post at his table-plan on the high desk beside the curtained entrance.
Meanwhile Mr. Big had made two more calls on the house-phone. One to the Master of Ceremonies.
‘Lights out at the end of G-G’s act.’
‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said the MC with alacrity.
The other call was to four men who were playing craps in the basement. It was a long call, and very detailed.

Live and Let Die

CHAPTER VI
TABLE Z

At
twelve forty-five
Bond and Leiter paid off their cab and walked in under the sign which announced ‘The Boneyard’ in violet and green neon.
The thudding rhythm and the sour-sweet smell rocked them as they pushed through the heavy curtains inside the swing door. The eyes of the hat-check girls glowed and beckoned.
‘Have you reserved, Sir?’ asked the head waiter.
‘No,’ said Leiter. ‘We don’t mind sitting at the bar.’
The head waiter consulted his table-plan. He seemed to decide. He put his pencil firmly through a space at the end of the card.
‘Party hasn’t shown. Guess Ah cain’t hold their res’vation all night. This way, please.’ He held his card high over his head and led them round the small crowded dance-floor. He pulled out one of the two chairs and removed the ‘Reserved’ sign.
‘Sam,’ he called a waiter over. ‘Look after these gem-mums order.’ He moved away.
They ordered Scotch-and-soda and chicken sandwiches.
Bond sniffed. ‘Marihuana,” he commented.
‘Most of the real hep-cats smoke reefers,’ explained Leiter. ‘Wouldn’t be allowed most places.’
Bond looked round. The music had stopped. The small four-piece band, clarinet, double-bass, electric guitar and drums, was moving out of the corner opposite. The dozen or so couples were walking and jiving to their tables and the crimson light was turned off under the glass dance-floor. Instead, pencil-thin lights in the roof came on and hit coloured glass witchballs, larger than footballs, that hung at intervals round the wall. They were of different hues, golden, blue, green, violet, red. As the beams of light hit them, they glowed like coloured suns. The walls, varnished black, mirrored their reflections as did the sweat on the ebony faces of the men. Sometimes a man sitting between two lights showed cheeks of different colour, green on one side, perhaps, and red on the other. The lighting made it impossible to distinguish features unless they were only a few feet away. Some of the lights turned the girls’ lipstick black, others lit their whole faces in a warm glow on one side and gave the other profile the luminosity of a drowned corpse.
The whole scene was macabre and livid, as if El Greco had done a painting by moonlight of an exhumed graveyard in a burning town.
It was not a large room, perhaps sixty foot square. There