Bond 04 - Diamonds Are Forever (13 page)

As if they had been waiting for the sign, three men appeared from among the trees away to the left, and one of them was leading a big chestnut with a blaze face and four white stockings.

‘Don’t look at them,’ said Leiter softly. ‘Turn your back on the track and watch that file of horses coming up. That old bent man with them is “Sunny Jim” Fitzsimmons, greatest trainer in America. And those are the Woodward horses. Most of them will be winners this meeting. Just look casual and I’ll keep an eye on our friends. Wouldn’t do to seem too interested. Now let’s see, there’s a stable-boy leading “Shy Smile” and that’s Budd all right and my old friend “Lame-brain” in a beautiful lavender shirt. Always a dresser. Nice-looking horse. Powerful shoulders. They’ve taken the blanket off him and he doesn’t like the cold. Bucking around like mad with the stable-boy hanging on. Sure hope he doesn’t kick Mr Pissaro in the face. Now Budd’s got him and he’s quietened down. Budd’s given the boy a leg up. Leading him on to the track. Now he’s cantering slowly up the far side of the track to one of the furlong posts. The hoodlums have got their watches out, they’re looking round. They’ve spotted us. Just look casual, James. Once the horse gets going they won’t be interested in us. Yeah. You can turn round now. “Shy Smile’s” on the far side of the track and they’ve got their glasses on him to be ready for the off. And it will be four furlongs. Pissaro’s just by the fifth post.’

Bond turned and looked along the rail to his left at the two stocky intent figures with the sun glinting on their glasses and on the watches in their hands and, although he didn’t believe in these people, the dusk seemed to seep out around them from under the golden elms.

‘He’s off.’ Far away Bond could see a flying brown horse rounding the top end of the track and turning into the long stretch towards them. At that distance, not a sound came to them, but quickly there was a soft drumming on the tan track that grew until, with a swift thunder of hooves, the horse rounded the bend in front of them, right up against the far rails, and hurtled on the last furlong towards the watching men.

A tingle of excitement ran down Bond’s spine as the chestnut flashed by, its teeth bared and its eyes wild with the effort, its gleaming quarters pounding and the breath snorting out of its wide nostrils, the boy on its back arched like a cat in the stirrups, his face low down and almost touching the horse’s neck. And then they had gone in a spray of sound and upflung earth and Bond’s eyes moved to the two watching men, now crouching, and he saw the two arms jerk downwards as they jammed down the stops on their watches.

Leiter touched him on the arm and they moved casually away and back under the trees towards the car.

‘Moving damn well,’ commented Leiter. ‘Better than the real “Shy Smile” ever did. No idea what the time was, but he was certainly burning up the track. If he can do that for a mile and a quarter he’ll get home. And he’ll have an allowance of six pounds seeing as how he hasn’t won a race this year. And that’ll give him an extra edge. Now let’s go and have the hell of a breakfast. It’s given me an appetite seeing these crooks so early in the morning.’ And then he added softly, almost to himself, ‘And then I’m going to see how much Master Bell will take to ride foul and get himself disqualified.’

After breakfast, and after hearing some more of Leiter’s plans, Bond idled away the morning and then had lunch at the track and watched the indifferent racing that Leiter had warned him he would see on the first afternoon of the meeting.

But it was a beautiful day and Bond enjoyed absorbing the Saratoga idiom, the mixture of Brooklyn and Kentucky in the milling crowds, the elegance of the owners and their friends in the tree-shaded paddock, the efficient mechanics of the
parimutuel
and the big board with its flashing lights recording the odds and the money invested, the trouble-free starts through the tractor-drawn starting-gate, the toy lake with its six swans and the anchored canoe and, everywhere, that extra exotic touch of the negroes who, except as jockeys, are so much a part of American racing.

The organization looked better than in England. There seemed less chance of crookedness where so much crookedness had been insured against, but, back of it all, Bond knew that the illegal wire services were relaying the results of each race throughout the States, cutting the tote odds to a maximum of 20-8-4, twentys for a win, eights for first or second, and fours for a place, and that millions of dollars every year were going straight into the pockets of gangsters to whom racing was just another source of revenue like prostitution or drugs.

Bond tried out the system made famous by ‘Chicago’ O’Brien. He backed every firm favourite for a place, or ‘to show’ as his first ticket-hatch told him to call it, and he had somehow made fifteen dollars and some cents by the end of the eighth race and the day’s meeting. He walked home with the crowds, had a shower and some sleep and then found his way to a restaurant near the sales ring and spent an hour drinking the drink that Leiter had told him was fashionable in racing circles – Bourbon and branch-water. Bond guessed that in fact the water was from the tap behind the bar, but Leiter had said that real Bourbon drinkers insist on having their whisky in the traditional style, with water from high up in the branch of the local river where it will be purest. The barman didn’t seem surprised when he asked for it, and Bond was amused at the conceit. Then he ate an adequate steak and, after a final Bourbon, walked over to the sales ring, which Leiter had fixed as a rendezvous.

It was a white-painted wooden enclosure, roofed but without walls, in which tiered benches descended to a circle of mock greensward enclosed with silver-painted ropes in front of the auctioneer’s platform. As each horse was led in under the glare of the neon lighting, the auctioneer, the redoubtable Swinebroad from Tennessee, would give the history of the horse and start the bidding at what he thought a likely figure, and run it up through the hundreds in a kind of rhythmic chant, catching, with the help of two dinner-jacketed men in the aisles, every nod or raised pencil among the tiers of smartly dressed owners and agents.

Bond sat down behind a scrawny woman in evening dress and mink whose wrists clanked and glittered with jewellery every time she bid. Beside her sat a bored man in a white dinner-jacket and a dark red evening tie who might have been her husband or her trainer.

A nervous bay came chassying into the ring with the number 201 pasted carelessly on his rump. The harsh chant began. ‘I’m bid six thousand now seven thousand will yer? I’m bid seven thousand and three and four and five only seven and a half for this good-looking colt by Tehran, eight thousand thank you sir and nine will yer do it? Eight thousand five hundred I am bid will yer give me nine eight five will yer give me nine and six and seven and who’ll bid the big figure?’

A pause, a bang of the hammer, a look of sincere reproach towards the ringside seats where the big money sat. ‘Folks, this two-year-old is too cheap. I’m selling more winning colt for this amount of money than I’ve sold all summer long. Now, eight thousand seven hundred and who’ll give me nine? Where’s nine, nine, nine?’ (The mummified hand in the rings and bracelets took the gold-and-bamboo pencil out of the bag and scribbled a calculation on the programme which Bond could see said ‘34th Annual Saratoga Yearling Sales. No. 201. A Bay Colt.’ Then the leaden eyes of the woman looked across the silver ropes into the electric eyes of the horse and she raised the gold pencil.) ‘And nine thousand is bid nine will yer give me ten will yer do it? Any increase on nine thousand do I hear nine one nine one nine one?’ (A pause and a last questing look round the crammed white seats and then a bang of the hammer.) ‘Sold for nine thousand dollars. Thank you, ma’am.’

And the heads turned round and craned and the woman looked bored and said something to the man beside her who shrugged his shoulders.

And 201, ‘A Bay Colt’, was led from the ring and 202 came sidling in to stand for a moment trembling with the shock of the lights, and the wall of unknown faces, and the fog of strange smells.

And there was a movement in the row of seats behind Bond, and Leiter’s face came forward alongside his and Leiter’s mouth said into his ear, ‘It’s done. It’s cost three thousand bucks but he’ll play the double-cross. Foul riding in the last furlong just as he’s due to make his winning sprint. Oh Boy! See you in the morning.’ And the whisper ended, and Bond didn’t look round but went on watching the sales for a while and then slowly walked home under the elms, feeling sorry for a jockey called Tingaling Bell who was playing such a desperately dangerous game, and for a big chestnut called ‘Shy Smile’ who was now not only a Ringer but was going to be ridden foul into the bargain.

B
OND  SAT
high up in the grandstand and through hired glasses watched ‘Shy Smile’s’ owner eating soft-shell crabs.

The gangster was sitting in the restaurant enclosure four rows below Bond. Opposite him sat Rosy Budd forking down frankfurters and sauerkraut and drinking beer out of a stein. Although most of the other luncheon tables were occupied, there were two waiters hovering round this one and the maître d’hotel made frequent visits to see that all was going well.

Pissaro looked like a gangster in a horror-comic. He had a round bladder-like head in the middle of which the features were crowded together – two pin-point eyes, two black nostrils, a pursed wet pink mouth above the hint of a chin, and a fat body in a brown suit and a white shirt with a long-pointed collar and a figured chocolate bow tie. He paid no attention to the preparations for the first race but concentrated on his food, occasionally glancing across at his companion’s plate as if he might reach across and fork something off it for himself.

Rosy Budd was broad and hard-looking, with a square immobile poker player’s face in which pale eyes were buried deep under thin fair eyebrows. He was wearing a striped seersucker suit and a dark blue tie. He ate slowly and rarely looked up from his plate. When he had finished, he picked up a race programme and studied it, turning over the pages carefully. Without looking up, he gave a curt shake of the head when the maître d’hotel offered him the menu.

Pissaro picked his teeth until a mound of ice cream arrived, and then he bent his head again and started spooning the ice cream rapidly up into his small mouth.

Through his glasses, Bond examined the two men and wondered about them. What did these people amount to? Bond remembered cold, dedicated, chess-playing Russians; brilliant, neurotic Germans; silent, deadly, anonymous men from Central Europe; the people in his own Service – the double-firsts, the gay soldiers of fortune, the men who counted life well lost for a thousand a year. Compared with such men, Bond decided, these people were just teenage pillow-fantasies.

The results went up for the third race, and now there was only half an hour to go before The Perpetuities. Bond put down his glasses and picked up his programme, waiting for the big board on the other side of the track to start flickering as the money went on the tote and the odds began to move.

He took a final look at the details. ‘Second Day. August 4’, said the programme. ‘The Perpetuities Stakes. $25,000 added. 52nd Running. For Three-Year-Olds. By subscription of $50 each, to accompany the nomination. Starters to pay $250 additional. With the $25,000 added of which $5,000 to second, $2,500 to third and $1,250 to fourth. A trophy to be presented to the owner of the winner. One Mile and a Quarter.’ And then the list of twelve horses with owners, trainers and jockeys and the
Morning Line
forecast of the odds.

The joint favourites, No. 1, Mr C. V. Whitney’s ‘Come Again’, and No. 3, Mr William Woodward’s ‘Pray Action’, were both forecast at six to four on. Mr P. Pissaro’s ‘Shy Smile’, trainer R. Budd, jockey T. Bell, was forecast at 15 to 1, the bottom horse in the betting. His number was 10.

Bond turned his glasses on the restaurant enclosure. The two men had gone. Bond’s eyes followed on across the track to where the lights were flashing on the big board. The favourite was now No. 3, at 2 to 1 on. ‘Come Again’ had gone out to evens. ‘Shy Smile’ was quoted at 20 to 1, but he went down to 18s as Bond watched the board.

Another quarter of an hour to go. Bond sat back and lit a cigarette, going over again in his mind what Leiter had told him, wondering if it was going to work.

Leiter had tracked the jockey down to his rooming house and had flashed his private detective’s licence at him. And then he had quite calmly blackmailed him into throwing the race. If ‘Shy Smile’ won, Leiter would go to the Stewards, expose the Ringer, and Tingaling Bell would never ride again. But there was one chance for the jockey to save himself. If he took it, Leiter promised to say nothing about the Ringer. ‘Shy Smile’ must win the race but be disqualified. This could be achieved if, in the final sprint, the jockey interfered with the running of the horse closest to him so that it could be shown that he had prevented this other horse from being the winner. Then there would be an objection, which had to be upheld. It would be easy for Bell, at the last corner before the run in, to do this in such a way that he could argue to his employers that it had just been a bit of over-keen riding, that another horse had crowded him over to the left, that his horse had stumbled. There was no conceivable reason why he should not wish to win (Pissaro had promised him an extra $1000 if he did) and it was just one of those strokes of bad luck that happen in racing. And Leiter would now give Tingaling $1000 and there would be another $2000 for him if he did what he was told.

And Bell had bought it. Without any hesitation. And he had asked for the $2000 to be passed to him after the day’s racing in the ‘Acme Mud and Sulphur Baths’ where he went every evening to take a mud bath to keep his weight down. Six o’clock. And Leiter had promised that this would be done. And Bond now had the $2000 in his pocket and he had reluctantly agreed to help Leiter out by going to the Acme Baths to make the pay-off if ‘Shy Smile’ failed to win the race.