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.
‘The line is busy, Sir,’ chanted the operator. ‘Will I keep the call in?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Bond, relieved that the hunchback was still in his office and that now he would be able to say truthfully that he had tried to get through earlier. He had an impression that Shady might be wondering why he hadn’t called up to complain about ‘Shy Smile’. After seeing what had happened to the jockey Bond was more inclined to treat the Spangled Mob with respect.
The telephone gave the dry muted burr that serves for a ring on the American system.
‘Were you wanting Wisconsin 7-3697?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have your party now, Sir. Go ahead, New York,’ and the high, thin voice of the hunchback: ‘Yes. Who’s calling?’
‘James Bond. I tried to reach you earlier.’
‘Yes?’
‘ “Shy Smile” didn’t pay off.’
‘I know. The jockey bitched it. So what?’
‘Money,’ said Bond.
There was silence at the other end. Then, ‘Okay, we start again. I’ll wire you a Grand, the Grand you won off of me. Remember?’
‘Yes.’
