And then there was another man inside the pit, standing beside the pit-boss, and he was looking at Bond with bright, hard eyes like camera lenses, and the fat cigar exactly in the centre of his red lips was pointing straight at Bond like a gun. The big square body in the midnight-blue tuxedo was quite motionless and a sort of tense quietness exuded from it. It was a tiger watching the tethered donkey and yet sensing danger. The face was ivory pale, but there was a likeness to the brother in London in the very straight, angry black brows and the short cliff of wiry hair cut
The wheel whirred again and the two pairs of eyes bent to watch it.
It fell into one of the two green slots in the wheel and Bond’s heart lifted at the escape he had had.
‘Double Zero,’ said the stick-man, raking in all the money on the table.
Now for the last throw, thought Bond – and then out of here with twenty thousand dollars of the Spang money. He looked across at his employer. The two camera lenses and the cigar were still trained on him, but the pale face was expressionless.
‘Red.’ He handed a 5000-dollar plaque to the croupier and watched it slither down the table.
Would the last coup be asking too much of the wheel? No, decided Bond with certitude. It would not.
‘Five. Red. Low and Odd,’ said the croupier obediently.
‘I’ll take the stake,’ said Bond. ‘And thanks for the ride.’
‘Come again,’ said the stick-man unemotionally.
Bond put his hand over the four fat plaques in his coat pocket and shouldered his way out of the crowd behind him and walked straight across the long room to the cashier’s desk. ‘Three bills of five thousand and five of ones,’ he said to the man with the green eyeshade behind the bars. The man took Bond’s four plaques and counted out the bills and Bond put them in his pocket and walked over to the reception desk. ‘Air mail envelope, please,’ he said. He moved to a writing-desk beside the wall and sat down and put the three big bills in the envelope and wrote on the front ‘Personal. The Managing Director, Universal Export, Regents Park, London, N.W.1, England.’ Then he bought stamps at the desk and slipped the envelope down the slot marked ‘U.S. Mail’ and hoped that there, in the most sacrosanct repository in America, it would be safe.
Bond glanced at his watch. It said five minutes to midnight. He surveyed the big room for the last time, noted that a new dealer had taken over at Tiffany Case’s table, and that there was no sign of Mr Spang, and then he walked out through the glass door into the hot stuffy night and over the lawns to the Turquoise building and let himself into his room and locked the door behind him.
18 | NIGHT FALLS IN THE PASSION PIT
‘How d’ya make out?’
It was the next evening and Ernie Cureo’s cab was rolling slowly along the Strip towards downtown Las Vegas. Bond had got tired of waiting for something to happen, and he had called up the Pinkerton man and suggested they get together for a talk.
‘Not bad,’ said Bond. ‘Took some money off them at roulette, but I don’t suppose that’ll worry our friend. They tell me he’s got plenty to spare.’
Ernie Cureo snorted. ‘I’ll say,’ he said. ‘That guy’s so loaded with the stuff he don’t need to wear spectacles when he’s out driving. Has the windshields of his Cadillacs ground to his eye-doctor’s prescription.’
Bond laughed. ‘What’s he spend it on besides that?’ he asked.
‘He’s daft,’ said the driver. ‘He’s crazy about the Old West. Bought himself a whole ghost town way out on Highway 95. He’s shored the place up – wooden sidewalks, a fancy saloon, clapboard hotel where he rooms the boys, even the old railroad station. Way back in ’05 or thereabouts, this dump – Spectreville it’s called seeing how it’s right alongside the Spectre range – was a rarin’ silver camp. For around three years they dug millions out of those mountains and a spur line took the stuff into Rhyolite, mebbe fifty miles away. That’s another famous ghost town. Tourist centre now. Got a house made out of whisky bottles. Used to be the railhead where the stuff got shipped to the coast. Well, Spang bought himself one of the old locos, one of the old ‘Highland Lights’ if y’ever heard of the engine, and one of the first Pullman state coaches, and he keeps them there in the station at Spectreville and week-ends he takes his pals for a run into Rhyolite and back. Drives the train himself. Champagne and caviar, orchestra, girls – the works. Must be something. But I never seen it. Ya can’t get near the place. Yessir,’ the driver let down the side window and spat emphatically into the road, ‘that’s how Mister Spang spends his money. Daft, like I said.’
