There was only a sharp wet slap from the blow, but the buckets crashed to the floor as the negro’s two hands leapt up and clutched at himself. He let out a soft moan and sagged forward on to his knees, his glistening shaven head bowing down almost to the man’s shoes so that he appeared to be worshipping him.
The man drew back a foot. ‘Where’s the jock?’ he said menacingly. ‘Bell. Which box?’
The negro’s right arm shot out.
The man with the gun brought his foot down. He turned and walked across to where Bond was lying toe to head with Tingaling Bell.
He came up and looked first down at Bond’s face. He seemed to stiffen. Two glittering eyes looked down through the diamond slits in the black hood. Then the man moved to the left and stood over the jockey.
For a moment he stood motionless, then he took a quick jump and hoisted himself up so that he was sitting on the lid of Tingaling’s box, looking down into his eyes.
‘Well, well. Damifitaint Tingaling Bell.’ There was a ghastly friendliness in his voice.
‘Whatsamatter?’ The jockey’s voice was shrill and terrified.
‘Why, Tingaling.’ The man was reasonable. ‘What would be the matter? Got anything on your mind?’
The jockey gulped.
‘Mebbe you never heard of a horse called “Shy Smile”, Tingaling? Mebbe you weren’t there when he was rode foul at around 2.30 this afternoon?’ The voice ended on a hard edge.
The jockey started to cry softly. ‘Jeesus, Boss. That weren’t my fault. Happen to anybody.’ It was the whimper of a child who is going to be punished. Bond winced.
‘My friends figure it may have been a doublecross.’ The man was leaning close over the jockey and his voice was gaining heat. ‘My friends figure a jock like you could only done something like that intentional. My friends looked over your room and found a Grand plugged away in a lamp socket. My friends wish me to inquire where that lettuce come from.’
The sharp slap and the shrill cry were simultaneous.
‘Give, you bastard, or I’ll blow your brains out.’ Bond heard the click of the hammer going back.
A stammering scream came out of the box. ‘My wad. All I got. Hid it away in the lamp. My wad. I swear it. Christ, you gotta believe me. You gotta.’ The voice sobbed and implored.
The man gave a disgusted grunt and lifted his gun so that it came into Bond’s line of vision. A thumb with a big angry wart on the first joint eased the hammer back. The man slipped down off the box. He looked into the jockey’s face and his voice went slimy.
‘You been riding too much lately, Tingaling,’ he almost whispered. ‘You’re in bad shape. Need a rest. Plenty of quiet. Like in a sanitarium or sumpn.’ The man slowly moved back across the floor. He went on talking quietly and solicitously. Now he was out of the jockey’s line of vision. Bond saw him reach down and pick up one of the steaming buckets of mud. The man came back, holding the bucket low, still talking, still reassuring.
He came up to the jockey’s box and looked down.
Bond stiffened and felt the mud stir heavily on his skin.
‘Like I said, Tingaling. Plenty of quiet. Nothing to eat for a whiles. Nice shady room with the drapes drawn to keep out the light.’
The soft voice droned on in the dead silence. Slowly the arm came up. Higher, higher.
And then the jockey could see the bucket and he knew what was going to happen and he started moaning.
‘No, no, no, no, no.’
Although it was hot in the room, the black stuff steamed as it poured sluggishly out of the bucket.
The man stepped swiftly aside and hurled the empty bucket at the man with the cauliflower ear, who stood still and let it hit him. Then he moved fast across the room to where the other man with the gun stood near the door.
He turned. ‘No funny business. No cops. Phone’s busted.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Better dig the guy out before his eyeballs fry.’
The door banged, and there was silence except for a bubbling sound and the noise of the water gushing in the shower.
14 | ‘WE DON’T LIKE MISTAKES’
‘Then what happened?’
Leiter was sitting in Bond’s chair in the motel and Bond was pacing up and down the room, stopping every now and then to take a drink from the glass of whisky and water by the bed.
‘Bloody chaos,’ said Bond. ‘Everybody yammering to be let out of his box and the man with the cauliflower ear hosing the stuff off Tingaling’s face and shouting for help to the two men in the next room. The negro moaning on the floor and the naked guys from the showers teetering about like chickens with their heads cut off. The two card-playing men came busting in and they took the lid off Tingaling’s box and unwrapped him and carried him under the shower. I guess he was nearly gone. Half suffocated. Whole face puffed up with the burns. Ghastly sight. Then one of the naked men pulled himself together and went round opening the boxes and letting the people out and then there we were, twenty men covered with mud and only one shower to spare. It gradually got sorted out. One of the help went off to drive into town for an ambulance. Someone poured some water over the negro, and he gradually came to life. Without seeming too interested, I tried to find out if anyone had any idea who the two gunmen were. No one had a clue. It was thought they were from an out-of-town mob. Nobody cared now that no one had got hurt except the jockey. All they wanted to do was get the mud off themselves and get the hell out of there.’ Bond took another swallow of whisky and lit a cigarette.
‘Was there anything that struck you about these two guys?’ asked Leiter. ‘Height, clothes, anything else?’
‘I couldn’t see much of the man by the door,’ said Bond. ‘He was smaller than the other and thinner. Wearing dark trousers and a grey shirt with no tie. Gun looked like a .45. Might have been a Colt. The other man, the one who did the job, was a big, fattish guy. Quick moving but deliberate. Black trousers. Brown shirt with white stripes. No coat or tie. Black shoes, neat, expensive. .38 Police Positive. No wrist-watch. Oh, yes,’ Bond suddenly remembered. ‘He had a wart on the top joint of his right thumb. Red-looking as if he had sucked it.’
‘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 Tingaling 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.