[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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
dinnerr-jacketed men in the aisles, every nod or raised pencil among, the tiers of
46
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 wilt 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 doublecross. 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.
12
THE PERPETUITIES
BOND 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 maitre 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
47
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. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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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
dinnerr-jacketed men in the aisles, every nod or raised pencil among, the tiers of
46
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 wilt 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 doublecross. 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.
12
THE PERPETUITIES
BOND 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 maitre 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
47
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. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]