He had caught a single glimpse of the big man, and the circumstances had given him a perverse pleasure.
At about ten o’clock in the morning, after a swim and breakfast, Bond had decided to get a haircut at the barber’s shop. There were still very few people about, and the only other customer in the shop was a large figure in a purple terrycloth bathwrap whose face, as the man lay tilted back in the chair, was hidden beneath hot towels. His right hand, dangling down over the arm of the chair, was being attended to by a pretty manicurist. She had a pink and white doll’s face and a short mop of butter-coloured hair and she squatted beside him on a low stool with a bowl full of instruments balanced on the tips of her knees.
Bond, gazing into the mirror in front of his own chair, had watched with interest as the head barber delicately lifted up first one corner of the hot towels and then the other and with infinite precaution snipped the hair out of the customer’s ears with small, thin scissors. Before he replaced the edge of the towel over the second ear, he bent down and said deferentially into it, ‘And the nostrils, Sir?’
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-mirror 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 Chevvy 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.’
It was a straight stretch of road with not much traffic about. The distant tops of the mountains were yellow in the setting sun and the street was beginning to get blue with the fifteen minutes of dusk when you can’t make up your mind whether to switch on your lights.
They were riding easily along at forty with the low-slung Jaguar right on their tail and the black sedan a block ahead of them. Suddenly, so that Bond pitched forward, Ernie Cureo put his brakes full on and dry-skidded to a stop with a scream of his tyres. There was a shattering splinter of metal and glass as the Jaguar hit their fenders. The cab lurched forward against its brakes and then the driver jammed it into gear and, with a horrible tearing of iron, freed himself from the smashed radiator of the car behind and accelerated away down the road.
‘That’s —ed them proper,’ said Ernie Cureo with satisfaction. ‘How they making out?’
‘Bust radiator grill,’ said Bond, watching out of the rear window. ‘Both front wings flattened. Fender hanging off. Windshield starred, maybe broken.’ He lost the car in the dusk and turned round. ‘They’re out on the road trying to pull the front wings off the tyres. They may be able to go before long, but it was a good start. Got any more like that?’
‘Not so easy now,’ grunted the driver. ‘War’s been declared. Watch it. Better get down. The Chevvy’s pulled up at the side of the road. They may try some shootin’. Here we go.’
Bond felt the car surge forward. Ernie Cureo was half lying along the front seat, driving with one hand and with his eyes watching the road ahead from just above the dash.
There was a clang and two sharp cracks as they flashed past the Chevrolet. A handful of safety glass showered round Bond. Ernie Cureo swore and the car gave a swerve and then got back on its course.
Bond knelt on the back seat and knocked out the glass of the rear window with the butt of his gun. The Chevrolet was coming after them, its eyes blazing.
‘Hold it,’ said Cureo with an odd muffled voice. ‘Goin’ to do a sharp turn and stop under cover of the next block. Give y’a a clear shot as they come round after us.’
Bond braced himself as the tyres screamed and the car lurched on two wheels and then righted itself and stopped. Then he was out of the door and crouching with his gun up. The lights of the Chevrolet tore into the side road and there was a squeal of tortured rubber as it made the turn on the wrong side. Now, thought Bond, before he can straighten up.
Crack – a pause. Crack. Crack. Crack. Four bullets, at twenty yards, dead on the target.
The Chevrolet didn’t straighten up. It went over the kerb on the other side of the road, hit a tree broadside, bounced off it and smashed into a lamp standard and turned completely round and slowly toppled over on its side.