Live and Let Die (James Bond #2). Cover Image. Book Details Not all Kindles or Kindle apps open stocuntutensa.tk files. PDF (tablet), stocuntutensa.tk HTML Zip. Title: Live and Let Die Author: Fleming, Ian [Ian Lancaster] () Date of first publication: Date first posted: 24 November Date last updated. PDF | Background Movie characters are often shown as engaging in unhealthy behaviours, such as smoking tobacco and drinking alcohol, in order to.
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LIVE AND LET DIE. From The United Artists Motion Picture “LIVE AND LET DIE". Words and Music by. PAUL MCCARTNEY and. LINDA MCCARTNEY. Slowly. PDF - Live And Let Die. Live and Let Die is the second novel in Ian Fleming's James Bond series, first published in the UK by Jonathan Cape on 5 April stocuntutensa.tk - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File . txt) or read online for free.
From the jazz joints of Harlem to the shark-infested waters of the Florida Everglades, Live and Let Die sends Bond headlong into the exotic. SlideShare Explore Search You. Submit Search. Successfully reported this slideshow. We use your LinkedIn profile and activity data to personalize ads and to show you more relevant ads. You can change your ad preferences anytime.
Upcoming SlideShare. Like this document? Why not share! Embed Size px. Start on. Show related SlideShares at end. WordPress Shortcode. LiveandLetDie Follow. Published in: Full Name Comment goes here. Are you sure you want to Yes No. They parted at the hotel and Bond went up to his room. It was four o'clock. He asked the telephone operator to call him at six. For a while he looked out of the window of his bedroom. To his left, the sun was setting in a blaze of colour. In the skyscrapers the lights were coming on, turning the whole town into a golden honeycomb.
Far below the streets were rivers of neon lighting, crimson, blue, green. The wind sighed sadly outside in the velvet dusk, lending his room still more warmth and security and luxury.
He drew the curtains and turned on the soft lights over his bed. Then he took off his clothes and climbed between the fine percale sheets. Very soon he was asleep. All his lines were quiet. Suddenly a light shone on the right of the board--an important light. He couldn't have spoken any louder if he had wished to. Now, he only had part of one lung left.
Three men. Tell them to watch particularly on First to Eight and the other Avenues. The night spots too, in case they're missed coming in. They're not to be molested. Call me when you get a sure fix. The voice went quiet. The operator took the whole handful of plugs, and soon the big switchboard was alive with winking lights.
Softly, urgently, he whispered on into the evening. He took a cold shower and dressed carefully. He put on a garishly striped tie and allowed a broad wedge of bandana to protrude from his breast pocket. He slipped the chamois leather holster over his shirt so that it hung three inches below his left armpit.
He whipped at the mechanism of the Beretta until all eight bullets lay on the bed. Then he packed them back into the magazine, loaded the gun, put up the safety-catch and slipped it into the holster. He picked up the pair of Moccasin casuals, felt their toes and weighed them in his hand. Then he reached under the bed and pulled out a pair of his own shoes he had carefully kept out of the suitcase full of his belongings the FBI had taken away from him that morning.
He put them on and felt better equipped to face the evening. Under the leather, the toe-caps were lined with steel. At six twenty-five he went down to the King Cole Bar and chose a table near the entrance and against the wall. A few minutes later Felix Leiter came in. Bond hardly recognized him. His mop of straw-coloured hair was now jet black and he wore a dazzling blue suit with a white shirt and a black-and-white polka-dot tie.
Leiter sat down with a broad grin. It'll come off in the morning. I hope,' he added. Leiter ordered medium-dry Martinis with a slice of lemon peel. He stipulated House of Lords gin and Martini Rossi. The American gin, a much higher proof than English gin, tasted harsh to Bond.
He reflected that he would have to be careful what he drank that evening. People don't go up there any more like they used to. Before the war, at the end of an evening, one used to go to Harlem just as one goes to Montmartre in Paris. They were glad to take one's money. One used to go to the Savoy Ballroom and watch the dancing. Perhaps pick up a high-yaller and risk the doctor's bills afterwards. Now that's all changed. Harlem doesn't like being stared at any more. Most of the places have closed and you go to the others strictly on sufferance.
Often you get tossed out on your ear, simply because you're white. And you don't get any sympathy from the police either. The bar was filling up. It was warm and companionable--a far cry, Leiter reflected, from the inimical, electric climate of the negro pleasure-spots they would be drinking in later.
I used to be a bit of an aficionado of Harlem. Wrote a few pieces on Dixieland Jazz for the Amsterdam News, one of the local papers. Did a series for the North American Newspaper Alliance on the negro theatre about the time Orson Welles put on his Macbeth with an all-negro cast at the Lafayette. So I know my way about up there.
And I admire the way they're getting on in the world, though God knows I can't see the end of it. Harlem's the capital of the negro world. In any half a million people of any race you'll get plenty of stinkeroos. And he must be pretty well organized up there. He shrugged his shoulders. After all, this is what we're paid for. We'll take a bus on Fifth Avenue. You won't find many cabs that want to go up there after dark.
It was raining. Bond turned up the collar of his coat and gazed up the Avenue to his right, towards Central Park, towards the dark citadel that housed The Big Man. Bond's nostrils flared slightly. He longed to get in there after him.
He felt strong and compact and confident. The evening awaited him, to be opened and read, page by page, word by word. In front of his eyes, the rain came down in swift, slanting strokes--italic script across the unopened black cover that hid the secret hours that lay ahead. They looked wet and bored.
They were. They had been watching the traffic on Fifth since the call went out at four-thirty. But he pulled his hat down over his eyes and climbed aboard, slotted his coins and moved down the bus, scanning the occupants.
He blinked as he saw the two white men, walked on and took the seat directly behind them. He examined the backs of their necks, their coats and hats and profiles.
Bond sat next to the window. The negro saw the reflection of his scar in the dark glass. He got up and moved to the front of the bus without looking back. At the next stop he got off the bus and made straight for the nearest drugstore.
He shut himself into the paybox. Whisper questioned him urgently, then broke the connection. He plugged in on the right of the board. The Limey with the scar. Got a friend with him, but he don't seem to fit the dope on the other two.
There was a pause. He glanced at his shorthand pad and whispered fluently and without a pause into the mouthpiece. His eyes bright, The Whisper took up a fistful of plugs and started talking to the town. In a world where they were naturally the focus of attention, neither Bond nor Leiter felt the hidden machine nor sensed the tension around them.
In the famous night spot the stools against the long bar were crowded, but one of the small booths against the wall was empty and Bond and Leiter slipped into the two seats with the narrow table between them. They ordered scotch-and-soda--Haig and Haig Pinchbottle. Bond looked the crowd over. It was nearly all men. There were two or three whites, boxing fans or reporters for the New York sports columns, Bond decided.
The atmosphere was warmer, louder than downtown. The walls were covered with boxing photographs, mostly of Sugar Ray Robinson and of scenes from his great fights. It was a cheerful place, doing great business. He stashed plenty away and now he's adding to his pile on the music halls.
His percentage of this place must be worth a packet and he owns a lot of real estate around here. He works hard still, but it's not the sort of work that sends you blind or gives you a haemorrhage of the brain.
He quit while he was still alive. One can't plan for everything. It isn't a bad life when it consists of sitting in a comfortable bar drinking good whisky.
How do you like this corner of the jungle?
From what I've heard they're straight out of "Nigger Heaven". The booth behind him contained a handsome young negro in an expensive fawn suit with exaggerated shoulders. He was lolling back against the wall with one foot up on the bench beside him. He was paring the nails of his left hand with a small silver pocket-knife, occasionally glancing in bored fashion towards the animation at the bar.
His head rested on the back of the booth just behind Bond and a whiff of expensive hair-straightener came from him. Bond took in the artificial parting traced with a razor across the left side of the scalp, through the almost straight hair which was a tribute to his mother's constant application of the hot comb since childhood.
The plain black silk tie and the white shirt were in good taste. Opposite him, leaning forward with concern on her pretty face, was a sexy little negress with a touch of white blood in her. Her jet-black hair, as sleek as the best permanent wave, framed a sweet almond-shaped face with rather slanting eyes under finely drawn eyebrows.
The deep purple of her parted, sensual lips was thrilling against the bronze skin. All that Bond could see of her clothes was the bodice of a black satin evening dress, tight and revealing across the firm, small breasts. She wore a plain gold chain round her neck and a plain gold band round each thin wrist. She was pleading anxiously and paid no heed to Bond's quick embracing glance.
Ah was fixin' tuh treat yuh tonight. Take yuh tuh Smalls Par'dise, mebbe. See dem high-yallers shakin' 'n truckin'. Yuh sleepin' wid him mebbe? Guess Ah gotta study 'bout dat little situayshun 'tween yuh an' Birdie Johnson. Mebbe git mahself a betterer gal. Ah jist don' lak gals which runs off ever' which way when Ah jist happen be busticated temporaneously. Ah gotta study 'bout dat little situayshun.
Ah done nuthen tuh give yuh recasion tuh ack dat way. Ah jist thunk you mebbe preshiate a ringside at da Par'dise 'nstead of settin' hyah countin' yo troubles. Why, honey, yuh all knows Ah wudden fall fo' dat richcrat ack' of Birdie Johnson. No sir. He don' mean nuthen tuh me. Him duh wusstes' man 'n Harlem, dawg bite me effn he ain't.
All da same, he permis me da bestess seats 'nda house 'n Ah sez let's us go set 'n dem, 'n have us a beer 'n a good time. Cmon, honey. Let's git out of hyah. Yuh done look so swell 'n Ah jist wan' mah frens tuh see usn together. But Ah mus' spressify dat yuh stays close up tuh me an keeps yo eyes off'n dat lowdown trash 'n his hot pants.
Bond heard the man's foot scrape off the seat to the ground. Thank God they're not genteel about it. The Methodists are almost their strongest sect.
Harlem's riddled with social distinctions, the same as any other big city, but with all the colour variations added.
Come on,' he suggested, 'let's go and get ourselves something to eat. As the waiter was picking up the change, Leiter suddenly said, 'Know where The Big Man's operating tonight? He leant forward and flicked the table down with his napkin.
He stacked the glasses on his tray and went back to the bar. The rain had stopped, but 'Hawkins', the bone-chilling wind from the north which the negroes greet with a reverent 'Hawkins is here', had come instead to keep the streets free of their usual crowds.
Leiter and Bond moved with the trickle of couples on the sidewalk. The looks they got were mostly contemptuous or frankly hostile.
One or two men spat in the gutter when they had passed. Bond suddenly felt the force of what Leiter had told him. They were trespassing. They just weren't wanted. Bond felt the uneasiness that he had known so well during the war, when he had been working for a time behind the enemy lines.
He shrugged the feeling away. He was struck by the number of barbers' saloons and 'beauticians'. They all advertised various forms of hair-straightener--'Apex Glossatina, for use with the hot comb', 'Silky Strate.
Leaves no redness, no burn'--or nostrums for bleaching the skin. Next in frequency were the haberdashers and clothes shops, with fantastic men's snakeskin shoes, shirts with small aeroplanes as a pattern, peg-top trousers with inch-wide stripes, zoot suits.
All the book shops were full of educational literature--how to learn this, how to do that--and comics. Confuses and Baffles Enemies'. Bond reflected it was no wonder that the Big Man found Voodooism such a powerful weapon on minds that still recoiled at a white chicken's feather or crossed sticks in the road--right in the middle of the shining capital city of the Western world.
One just doesn't catch the smell of all this in a country like England. We're a superstitious lot there of course--particularly the Celts--but here one can almost hear the drums. Their waiter seemed glad to see them and pointed out various celebrities, but when Leiter slipped in a question about Mr Big the waiter seemed not to hear. He kept away from them until they called for their bill.
Leiter repeated the question. They took a cab to the Savoy Ballroom, had a scotch-and-soda, and watched the dancers. All started on that floor. It's the Mecca of jazz and jive.
Bond was spellbound. He found many of the girls very beautiful. The music hammered its way into his pulse until he almost forgot what he was there for.
Better move along. We'll miss out Small's Paradise. Much the same as this, but not quite in the same class.
Think I'll take you to "Yeah Man", back on Seventh. After that we must get moving to one of Mr Big's own joints. Trouble is, they don't open till midnight. I'll pay a visit to the washroom while you get the check. See if I can get a line on where we're likely to find him tonight.
We don't want to have to go to all his places. Leiter drew him outside and they walked up the street looking for a cab. Small place on Lenox Avenue.
Quite close to his headquarters. Hottest strip in town. Girl called G-G Sumatra. We'll have another drink at "Yeah Man" and hear the piano. Move on at about twelve-thirty. Midnight had them entering Yeah Man. At twelve-thirty the final call came and then the board was silent. Mr Big spoke on the house-phone. First to the head waiter. Give them the Z table. He hurried across the dance-floor to a table away on the right, obscured from most of the room by a wide pillar. It was next to the Service entrance but with a good view of the floor and the band opposite.
It was occupied by a party of four, two men and two girls. Table's reserved. Newspaper men from downtown. Drinks is on the house.
Sam,' he beckoned to another waiter, 'clear the table. Two covers. Meanwhile Mr Big had made two more calls on the house-phone. One to the Master of Ceremonies. The other call was to four men who were playing craps in the basement. It was a long call, and very detailed. The thudding rhythm and the sour-sweet smell rocked them as they pushed through the heavy curtains inside the swing door.
The eyes of the hat-check girls glowed and beckoned. He seemed to decide. He put his pencil firmly through a space at the end of the card. Guess Ah cain't hold their res'vation all night. This way, please. They ordered scotch-and-soda and chicken sandwiches.
Bond sniffed. The music had stopped. The small four-piece band, clarinet, double-bass, electric guitar and drums, was moving out of the corner opposite. The dozen or so couples were walking and jiving to their tables and the crimson light was turned off under the glass dance-floor.
Instead, pencil-thin lights in the roof came on and hit coloured glass witchballs, larger than footballs, that hung at intervals round the wall. They were of different hues, golden, blue, green, violet, red. As the beams of light hit them, they glowed like coloured suns. The walls, varnished black, mirrored their reflections as did the sweat on the ebony faces of the men. Sometimes a man sitting between two lights showed cheeks of different colour, green on one side, perhaps, and red on the other.
The lighting made it impossible to distinguish features unless they were only a few feet away. Some of the lights turned the girls' lipstick black, others lit their whole faces in a warm glow on one side and gave the other profile the luminosity of a drowned corpse. The whole scene was macabre and livid, as if El Greco had done a painting by moonlight of an exhumed graveyard in a burning town.
It was not a large room, perhaps sixty foot square.
There were about fifty tables and the customers were packed in like black olives in a jar. It was hot and the air was thick with smoke and the sweet, feral smell of two hundred negro bodies.
The noise was terrific--an undertone of the jabber of negroes enjoying themselves without restraint, punctuated by sharp bursts of noise, shouts and high giggles, as loud voices called to each other across the room. It's Pinkus Hi Pinkus Lemme be, I'se telling ya Cmon G-G. Strut yo stuff Friends would clap the rhythm. There would be a burst of catcalls and whistles. If it was a girl, there would be cries of 'Strip, strip, strip,' 'Get hot, baby!
The sweat began to bead on Bond's forehead. Leiter leant over and cupped his hands. Service behind us. Behind the band.
At that moment he felt it didn't matter. This was nothing new to Leiter, but for Bond it was a close-up of the raw material on which The Big Man worked, the clay in his hands.
The evening was gradually putting flesh on the dossiers he had read in London and New York. If the evening ended now, without any closer sight of Mr Big himself, Bond still felt his education in the case would be almost complete.
He took a deep draught of his whisky. There was a burst of applause. The MC had come out on to the dance-floor, a tall negro in immaculate tails with a red carnation in his button hole.
He stood, holding up his hands. A single white spotlight caught him. The rest of the room went dark. There was silence.
He turned to the left of the floor, directly across from Leiter and Bond. He flung out his right hand. Another spot came on. Four grinning negroes in flame-coloured shirts and peg-top white trousers were revealed, squatting astride four tapering barrels with rawhide membranes.
The drums were of different sizes. The negroes were all gaunt and stringy. The one sitting astride the bass drum rose briefly and shook clasped hands at the spectators.
With the tips of their fingers the drummers began a slow, broken beat, a soft rumba shuffle. He began to clap. There was pandemonium in the room, a frenzy of applause. The door behind the drums burst open and two huge negroes, naked except for gold loincloths, ran out on to the floor carrying between them, her arms round their necks, a tiny figure, swathed completely in black ostrich feathers, a black domino across her eyes.
They put her down in the middle of the floor. They bowed down on either side of her until their foreheads met the ground. She took two paces forward. With the spotlight off them, the two negroes melted away into the shadows and through the door. The MC had disappeared. There was absolute silence save for the soft thud of the drums. The girl put her hand up to her throat and the cloak of black feathers came away from the front of her body and spread out into a five-foot black fan.
She swirled it slowly behind her until it stood up like a peacock's tail. She was naked except for a brief vee of black lace and a black sequined star in the centre of each breast and the thin black domino across her eyes. Her body was small, hard, bronze, beautiful. It was slightly oiled and glinted in the white light.
The audience was silent. The drums began to step up the tempo. The bass drum kept its beat dead on the timing of the human pulse.
Book Details. James Bond 2. Beautiful, fortune-telling Solitaire is the prisoner and tool of Mr Big—master of fear, artist in crime and Voodoo Baron of Death.
More than that, after tracking him through the jazz joints of Harlem, to the everglades and on to the Caribbean, has realized that Big is one of the most dangerous men that he has ever faced. Limit the size to characters. However, note that many search engines truncate at a much shorter size, about characters.
Your suggestion will be processed as soon as possible. Ian Lancaster Fleming 28 May — 12 August was an English author, journalist and naval intelligence officer, best known for his James Bond series of spy novels.