There was silence in the room except for the sound of water falling in the shower cubicles. Each cubicle contained a naked man. They peered out into the room through the veil of water, their mouths gulping for air and the hair streaming into their eyes. The man with the cauliflower ear was a motionless pillar. His eyes shifted whitely and the hose in his hand poured water over his feet.
The moving man with the gun was now in the middle of the floor by the steaming pails of mud. He stopped in front of the negro, who was standing with a full bucket in each hand. The negro quivered slightly so that the handle on one of the buckets gave out a slight rattle.
While the man with the gun held the negro’s eyes in his, Bond saw him turn the gun round in his hand so that he was holding it by the barrel. Suddenly, with a back-handed blow that had all his shoulder behind it, he lashed the butt of the revolver into the centre of the negro’s huge belly.
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?’
