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Apr 23, 2014

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Ah that makes way more sense. I'm just mentally picturing all these elegant scenes or eating and it's just a haze of smoke and residual smoke smell.

Accounts of the 50s say that's basically how it was. Everyone smoked, to the point where not smoking would be considered unusual (especially for a masculine man) and people would simply change to filtered cigarettes instead of stopping when told to improve their health. You know the smell of a smoker's house or car? Imagine pretty much everywhere and everything smelling like that.

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Lemniscate Blue
Apr 21, 2006

Here we go again.

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The cigarette companies shipped millions of packs to the troops during WWII, so drat near every servicemember smoked like a chimney and it spread from their return. Not smoking, especially by a man, would be associated with not having served, like a coward.

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Wheat Loaf
Feb 13, 2012


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I assume it's at least not going to get up to HP Lovecraft levels of racism

They're both equally racist but Fleming comes off more like your racist grandfather than Lovecraft's mortal terror of everyone who isn't white.

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May 28, 2007

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I assume it's at least not going to get up to HP Lovecraft levels of racism

Just wait till we get to Dr No’s “Chigroes”.

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free uncensored sex chat Chapter 2: Interview with M.


The grey Bentley convertible, the 1933 4½-litre with the Amherst-Villiers supercharger, had been brought round a few minutes earlier from the garage where he kept it and the engine had kicked directly he pressed the self-starter. He had turned on the twin fog lights and had driven gingerly along King’s Road and then up Sloane Street into Hyde Park.

M.’s Chief of Staff had telephoned at midnight to say that M. wanted to see Bond at nine the next morning. ‘Bit early in the day,’ he had apologized, ‘but he seems to want some action from somebody. Been brooding for weeks. Suppose he’s made up his mind at last.’

‘Any line you can give me over the telephone?’

‘A for Apple and C for Charlie,’ said the Chief of Staff, and rang off.

That meant that the case concerned Stations A and C, the sections of the Secret Service dealing respectively with the United States and the Caribbean. Bond had worked for a time under Station A during the war, but he knew little of C or its problems.

Curious that Bond knows little of the Caribbean station when he loves Jamaica so much and knows so much about it that it was his first choice for a cover in Royale. You'd think he would be in at least some form of contact with the folks there.

Bond's interview with M is the first one he's had since the end of the summer, after Vesper's death. M put him on leave and ordered Q to get Bond a skin graft to cover over the Russian letter carved into the back of his hand. He had told M that he wanted revenge against SMERSH after what happened in France and is hoping that this interview is the opportunity.


He drew up in the mews behind the gaunt high building, handed his car over to one of the plain-clothes drivers from the pool and walked round to the main entrance. He was taken up in the lift to the top floor and along the thickly carpeted corridor he knew so well to the door next to M.’s. The Chief of Staff was waiting for him and at once spoke to M. on the intercom.

‘007’s here now, Sir.’

‘Send him in.’

The desirable Miss Moneypenny, M.’s all-powerful private secretary, gave him an encouraging smile and he walked through the double doors. At once the green light came on, high on the wall in the room he had left. M. was not to be disturbed as long as it burned.

A reading lamp with a green glass shade made a pool of light across the red leather top of the broad desk. The rest of the room was darkened by the fog outside the windows.

‘Morning, 007. Let’s have a look at the hand. Not a bad job. Where did they take the skin from?’

‘High up on the forearm, Sir.’

‘Hm. Hairs’ll grow a bit thick. Crooked too. However. Can’t be helped. Looks all right for the time being. Sit down.’

M, the head of the Secret Service, is based on a few characters that Fleming knew in real life, most prominently Rear Admiral John Godfrey; Godfrey outlived Fleming and complained after his death at being turned into such an "unsavory character". Fleming's biographer, John Pearson, also stated that Fleming often called his own mother "M" and she was the only person he ever feared.

M was most prominently played by Bernard Lee from superbowl interupted by porn Dr. No in 1962 all the way to tube free porno video Moonraker in 1979, dying of stomach cancer just two years later before he could start his next scenes. Lee had a long and happy marriage until January 1972, when his wife tragically died in a house fire that he unsuccessfully attempted to rescue her from, and he was mugged by two youths just a month later. The stress and lack of work turned him into a depressed alcoholic and put him in debt, but Richard Burton wrote him a check for $6000 to clear his debts after finding him bereft in a pub and helped him overcome his depression. He still took a role playing M in the French Bond spoof sex with lara croft From Hong Kong with Love in 1975.

Out of respect for Lee's passing, the filming of dr laura schlessinger naked For Your Eyes Only continued with M being written out and said to be "on leave". For the next film, cameran diaz sex tape Octopussy in 1983, he was replaced by Robert Brown. Brown had previously appeared in santonio holmes naked shower The Spy Who Loved Me as Admiral Hargreaves and some have theorized that they could canonically be the same character, with Hargreaves taking over for the retired or deceased M. Brown appears to have retired from acting after 1989's no pay porn site License to Kill and two episodes of the 1991 TV series porn video stream sites Merlin of the Crystal Cave and died in 2003.

With the arrival of free psp porn streams Goldeneye after the Cold War ended, EON decided to flip some things around to reflect the new geopolitical scheme. M was now female, played spectacularly by Dame Judi Dench. Dench's M was colder and stricter than her predecessors, initially despising Bond as a "sexist, misogynist dinosaur, a relic of the Cold War." Dench was the only actor to be kept in her role after the black cocks white pussy Casino Royale reboot, in which she took on a more complex role as a pseudo-maternal figure to Bond while struggling to deal with his impulsive and violent methods. She became the only M to die on screen, being killed at the end of rihanna nude pics free Skyfall.

With the death of the only female M, she's replaced in i like you naked Spectre by Gareth Mallory, played by Ralph Fiennes. Mallory was a former SAS operative who was held captive during the Troubles in North Ireland, following in the footsteps of Moneypenny and Q in becoming more action-oriented as he personally joins Bond in the field and kills his evil counterpart, C of the Joint Intelligence Service.


‘Ever seen one of these?’ M. abruptly fished something out of his waistcoat pocket. He tossed it halfway across the desk towards Bond. It fell with a faint clang on the red leather and lay, gleaming richly, an inch-wide, hammered gold coin.

Bond picked it up, turned it over, weighed it in his hand.

‘No, Sir. Worth about five pounds, perhaps.’

‘Fifteen to a collector. It’s a Rose Noble of Edward IV.’

M. fished again in his waistcoat pocket and tossed more magnificent gold coins on to the table in front of Bond. As he did so, he glanced at each one and identified it.

‘Double Excellente, Spanish, Ferdinand and Isabella, 1510; Ecu au Soleil, French, Charles IX, 1574; Double Ecu d’or, French, Henry IV, 1600; Double Ducat, Spanish, Philip II, 1560; Ryder, Dutch, Charles d’Egmond, 1538; Quadruple, Genoa, 1617; Double louis, à la mèche courte, French, Louis XIV, 1644. Worth a lot of money melted down. Much more to collectors, ten to twenty pounds each. Notice anything common to them all?’

Bond reflected. ‘No, Sir.’

‘All minted before 1650. Bloody Morgan, the pirate, was Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Jamaica from 1674 to 1683. The English coin is the joker in the pack. Probably shipped out to pay the Jamaica garrison. But for that and the dates, these could have come from any other treasure-trove put together by the great pirates – L’Ollonais, Pierre le Grand, Sharp, Sawkins, Blackbeard. As it is, and both Spinks and the British Museum agree, this is almost certainly part of Bloody Morgan’s treasure.’

One thing Fleming also girls naked in bikinis really liked was pirates.

M tells Bond that nearly a thousand coins like these have shown up in the United States in the past few months. They're mostly turning up at pawn shops, but they're appearing everywhere from banks to bullion dealers. The FBI is concerned that putting out an alert on the coins as stolen property would cause the source to switch to melting them down into virtually untraceable bullion, so they're keeping the investigation quiet. M provides a case demonstrating the usual way these coins seem to be distributed:


‘Zachary Smith, 35, Negro, Member of the Sleeping Car Porters Brotherhood, address 90b West 126th Street, New York City.’ (M. looked up: ‘Harlem,’ he said.) ‘Subject was identified by Arthur Fein of Fein Jewels Inc., 870 Lenox Avenue, as having offered for sale on November 21st last four gold coins of the sixteenth and seventeenth century (details attached). Fein offered a hundred dollars which was accepted. Interrogated later, Smith said they had been sold to him in Seventh Heaven Bar-B-Q (a well-known Harlem bar) for twenty dollars each by a negro he had never seen before or since. Vendor had said they were worth fifty dollars each at Tiffany’s, but that he, the vendor, wanted ready cash and Tiffany’s was too far anyway. Smith bought one for twenty dollars and on finding that a neighbouring pawnbroker would offer him twenty-five dollars for it, returned to the bar and purchased the remaining three for sixty dollars. The next morning he took them to Fein’s. Subject has no criminal record.’

90 W. 126th Street is in Harlem, a building currently home to the Red Rooster restaurant and Gin Fizz cocktail bar. Lenox Avenue was co-named Malcom X. Boulevard in 1987, something that would likely give Bond a conniption had he not been smoking and drinking so much that he'd probably die about ten years after this book's publication if we're being realistic.

M explains that the coins seem to be mostly distributed among the black population of America. Occasionally some middlemen have been caught who bought a handful or two of coins for reselling, with the next link always being an educated white-collar black man who described the treasure as part of Blackbeard's haul.


‘This Blackbeard story would stand up to most investigations,’ continued M., ‘because there is reason to believe that part of his hoard was dug up around Christmas Day, 1928, at a place called Plum Point. It’s a narrow neck of land in Beaufort County, North Carolina, where a stream called Bath Creek flows into the Pamlico River. Don’t think I’m an expert,’ he smiled, ‘you can read all about this in the dossier. So, in theory, it would be quite reasonable for those lucky treasure-hunters to have hidden the loot until everyone had forgotten the story and then thrown it fast on the market. Or else they could have sold it en bloc at the time, or later, and the purchaser has just decided to cash in. Anyway it’s a good enough cover except on two counts.’

M paused and relit his pipe.

‘Firstly, Blackbeard operated from about 1690 to 1710 and it’s improbable that none of his coin should have been minted later than 1650. Also, as I said before, it’s very unlikely that his treasure would contain Edward IV Rose Nobles, since there’s no record of an English treasure-ship being captured on its way to Jamaica. The Brethren of the Coast wouldn’t take them on. Too heavily escorted. There were much easier pickings if you were sailing in those days “on the plundering account“ as they called it.

‘Secondly,’ and M. looked at the ceiling and then back at Bond, ‘I know where the treasure is. At least I’m pretty sure I do. And it’s not in America. It’s in Jamaica, and it is Bloody Morgan’s, and I guess it’s one of the most valuable treasure-troves in history.’

Fleming loving mature male porn stars loved pirates. The wording about Blackbeard's haul is naked girls stripping nude from a 1936 newspaper article, in fact!

M says Station C has been tracking a yacht, the lindey lohan sex tape Secatur, which has been running regularly between an island in northern Jamaica to St. Petersburg, which M describes as a "sort of pleasure resort" near Tampa. As an Orlando goon who's been to St. Pete twice, that is probably the most wrong description possible.

The yacht and island are owned by Mr. Big, a gangster in Harlem that Bond hasn't heard of.


‘And curiously enough,’ M.’s voice was softer and quieter, ‘a twenty-dollar bill which one of these casual negroes had paid for a gold coin and whose number he had noted for Peaka Peow, the Numbers game, was paid out by one of Mr Big’s lieutenants. And it was paid,’ M. pointed the stem of his pipe at Bond, ‘for information received, to an F.B.I. double-agent who is a member of the Communist Party.’

Bond whistled softly.

‘In short,’ continued M., ‘we suspect that this Jamaican treasure is being used to finance the Soviet espionage system, or an important part of it, in America. And our suspicion becomes a certainty when I tell you who this Mr Big is.’

This is our only real connection to the SMERSH storyline. Otherwise it's basically a pulp detective novel dealing with the 1950s American underworld.

Peaka Peow is the Jamaican term for the numbers racket that's been run by gangsters worldwide for a very long time, especially Italian mobsters in places like New York City. You're given a selection of numbers and place a bet (which can be as little as 1 to 5 cents, making the game very popular with the poor), and the numbers are drawn and winnings given to anyone who bet correctly. Good numbers games often use numbers that can't be faked without way too much effort, like digits off a section of the US Treasury report or the results of a horse race. Others have dice rolled in a hidden room. The important part is that the chance of picking the right numbers are incredibly slim, making it virtually impossible to win and thus guaranteed gang profit.


‘Mr Big,’ said M., weighing his words, ‘is probably the most powerful negro criminal in the world. He is,’ and he enumerated carefully, ‘the head of the Black Widow Voodoo cult and believed by that cult to be the Baron Samedi himself. (You’ll find all about that here,’ he tapped the folder, ‘and it’ll frighten the daylights out of you.) He is also a Soviet agent. And finally he is, and this will particularly interest you, Bond, a known member of SMERSH.’

‘Yes,’ said Bond slowly, ‘I see now.’

‘Quite a case,’ said M., looking keenly at him. ‘And quite a man, this Mr Big.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a great negro criminal before,’ said Bond, ‘Chinamen, of course, the men behind the opium trade. There’ve been some big-time Japs, mostly in pearls and drugs. Plenty of negroes mixed up in diamonds and gold in Africa, but always in a small way. They don’t seem to take to big business. Pretty law-abiding chaps I should have thought except when they’ve drunk too much.’

At least we can take solace in Bond viewing black people as "Law-abiding until they get drunk", which is better than a lot of Republicans and cops in modern America.

M is...less charitable.


‘Our man’s a bit of an exception,’ said M. ‘He’s not pure negro. Born in Haiti. Good dose of French blood. Trained in Moscow, too, as you’ll see from the file. And the negro races are just beginning to throw up geniuses in all the professions – scientists, doctors, writers. It’s about time they turned out a great criminal. After all, there are 250,000,000 of them in the world. Nearly a third of the white population. They’ve got plenty of brains and ability and guts. And now Moscow’s taught one of them the technique.’

Ah, of course. The secret is that Mr. Big has white person blood in him, and those darn negro races have only just started to catch up in their evolution!


‘I’d like to meet him,’ said Bond. Then he added, mildly, ‘I’d like to meet any member of SMERSH.’

‘All right then, Bond. Take it away.’ M. handed him the thick brown folder. ‘Talk it over with Plender and Damon. Be ready to start in a week. It’s a joint C.I.A. and F.B.I. job. For God’s sake don’t step on the F.B.I.’s toes. Covered with corns. Good luck.’

Bond had gone straight down to Commander Damon, Head of Station A, an alert Canadian who controlled the link with the Central Intelligence Agency, America’s Secret Service.

Damon looked up from his desk. ‘I see you’ve bought it,’ he said, looking at the folder. ‘Thought you would. Sit down,’ he waved to an armchair beside the electric fire. ‘When you’ve waded through it all, I’ll fill in the gaps.’

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Ah, of course. The secret is that Mr. Big has white person blood in him, and those darn negro races have only just started to catch up in their evolution!

My immediate reaction was "Oh, he's not a pure negro, he has in him the taint of the detestable Frenchman and its attendant criminality!"

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There's also a kind of grim humor in "Well, Negros are advancing in all the fields we used to think only whites could, medicine, literature. About time they throw up a criminal mastermind as well.

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Wheat Loaf
Feb 13, 2012


I suspect Fleming never met many African-Americans. Most of the black people he knew were Jamaican. I think there's a subtle distinction in his attitudes towards African-Americans and Jamaicans which comes through in his writing.

To be clear, he's enormously racist towards both of them (when I say subtle, I mean men in porn movies very subtle) but there's a different attitude underlying it. It's actually potentially a worse one because his position seems to be that black Americans have been dealt a bad hand by history and they have the potential to be as successful as whites but black Jamaicans are naturally happier to live under the wise and enlightened rule of the British.

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get me off porn Chapter 3: A Visiting Card


And now it was ten days later and the talk with Dexter and Leiter had not added much, reflected Bond as he awoke slowly and luxuriously in his bedroom at the St Regis the morning after his arrival in New York.

Dexter had had plenty of detail on Mr Big, but nothing that threw any new light on the case. Mr Big was forty-five years old, born in Haiti, half negro and half French. Because of the initial letters of his fanciful name, Buonaparte Ignace Gallia, and because of his huge height and bulk, he came to be called, even as a youth, ‘Big Boy’ or just ‘Big’. Later this became ‘The Big Man’ or ‘Mr Big’, and his real names lingered only on a parish register in Haiti and on his dossier with the F.B.I. He had no known vices except women, whom he consumed in quantities. He didn’t drink or smoke and his only Achilles heel appeared to be a chronic heart disease which had, in recent years, imparted a greyish tinge to his skin.

The Big Boy had been initiated into Voodoo as a child, earned his living as a truck-driver in Port au Prince, then emigrated to America and worked successfully for a hijacking team in the Legs Diamond gang. With the end of Prohibition he had moved to Harlem and bought half-shares in a small nightclub and a string of coloured call-girls. His partner was found in a barrel of cement in the Harlem River in 1938 and Mr Big automatically became sole proprietor of the business. He was called up in 1943 and, because of his excellent French, came to the notice of the Office of Strategic Services, the wartime secret service of America, who trained him with great thoroughness and put him into Marseilles as an agent against the Pétain collaborationists. He merged easily with African negro dock-hands, and worked well, providing good and accurate naval intelligence. He operated closely with a Soviet spy who was doing a similar job for the Russians. At the end of the war he was demobilized in France (and decorated by the Americans and the French) and then he disappeared for five years, probably to Moscow. He returned to Harlem in 1950 and soon came to the notice of the F.B.I. as a suspected Soviet agent. But he never incriminated himself or fell into any of the traps laid by the F.B.I. He bought up three nightclubs and a prosperous chain of Harlem brothels. He seemed to have unlimited funds and paid all his lieutenants a flat rate of twenty thousand dollars a year. Accordingly, and as a result of weeding by murder, he was expertly and diligently served. He was known to have originated an underground Voodoo temple in Harlem and to have established a link between it and the main cult in Haiti. The rumour had started that he was the Zombie or living corpse of Baron Samedi himself, the dreaded Prince of Darkness, and he fostered the story so that now it was accepted through all the lower strata of the negro world. As a result, he commanded real fear, strongly substantiated by the immediate and often mysterious deaths of anyone who crossed him or disobeyed his orders.

Whew, that's a paragraph!

We get a little less info on the SMERSH connection. An MVD agent (once again misspelled "MWD" by Fleming) working as an economic expert for the Soviet delegation to the United Nations was turned double in 1951 by the FBI. At the time the Soviets owned a mansion in Glen Cove on Long Island called Killenworth as the official diplomatic residence of their UN delegation (which was shut down in December 2016 due to long standing beliefs of it being used for espionage) and the spy was waiting for the subway to Pennsylvania Station to take the train there. Mr. Big was photographed on the platform in the crowd shortly before the man suddenly fell screaming in front of the train. Mr. Big was arrested, but almost immediately sprung by the best lawyer in Harlem with a top notch alibi.


The evidence was good enough for Bond. He was just the man for SMERSH, with just the training. A real, hard weapon of fear and death. And what a brilliant set-up for dealing with the smaller fry of the negro underworld and for keeping a coloured information network well up to the mark! – the fear of Voodoo and the supernatural, still deeply, primevally ingrained in the negro subconscious! And what genius to have, as a beginning, the whole transport system of America under surveillance, the trains, the porters, the truck-drivers, the stevedores! To have at his disposal a host of key men who would have no idea that the questions they answered had been asked by Russia. Small-time professional men who, if they thought at all, would guess that the information on freights and schedules was being sold to rival transport concerns.

Oh so make that pussy talk that's why all the black people use voodoo in this book! There's a primal fear of the supernatural in the negro subconscious that only a half-white Haitian could hope to exploit! Why didn't I think of it before?


Bond walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains. His room faced north, towards Harlem. Bond gazed for a moment towards the northern horizon, where another man would be in his bedroom asleep, or perhaps awake and thinking conceivably of him, Bond, whom he had seen with Dexter on the steps of the hotel. Bond looked at the beautiful day and smiled. And no man, not even Mr Big, would have liked the expression on his face.

Bond shrugged his shoulders and walked quickly to the telephone.

‘St Regis Hotel. Good morning,’ said a voice.

‘Room Service, please,’ said Bond.

‘Room Service? I’d like to order breakfast. Half a pint of orange juice, three eggs, lightly scrambled, with bacon, a double portion of café Espresso with cream. Toast. Marmalade. Got it?’

Bond remains very typical with his breakfast. Another sign of the times: he specifies "café Espresso" as a variant of regular coffee instead of a typical drink. Espresso (made by forcing extremely hot water under high pressure through coffee grounds to force out maximum flavor and caffeine) didn't start becoming a thing in Italy until the turn of the century and the English-speaking world only started embracing it in the 1950s. As a world traveler, Bond would be more inclined to have familiarity with it.

As Bond waits for his food, he finds a 5-pound box full of newspapers and a number of boxes in the lobby of his penthouse suite.


The afternoon before he had had to submit to a certain degree of Americanization at the hands of the F.B.I. A tailor had come and measured him for two single-breasted suits in dark blue light-weight worsted (Bond had firmly refused anything more dashing) and a haberdasher had brought chilly white nylon shirts with long points to the collars. He had had to accept half a dozen unusually patterned foulard ties, dark socks with fancy clocks, two or three ‘display kerchiefs’ for his breast pocket, nylon vests and pants (called T-shirts and shorts), a comfortable light-weight camel-hair overcoat with over-buttressed shoulders, a plain grey snap-brim Fedora with a thin black ribbon and two pairs of hand-stitched and very comfortable black Moccasin ‘casuals’.

He also acquired a ‘Swank’ tie-clip in the shape of a whip, an alligator-skin billfold from Mark Cross, a plain Zippo lighter, a plastic ‘Travel-Pak’ containing razor, hairbrush and toothbrush, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with plain lenses, various other oddments and, finally, a light-weight Hartmann ‘Skymate’ suitcase to contain all these things.

He was allowed to retain his own Beretta .25 with the skeleton grip and the chamois leather shoulder-holster, but all his other possessions were to be collected at midday and forwarded down to Jamaica to await him.

He was given a military haircut and was told that he was a New Englander from Boston and that he was on holiday from his job with the London office of the Guaranty Trust Company. He was reminded to ask for the ‘check’ rather than the ‘bill’, to say ‘cab’ instead of ‘taxi’ and (this from Leiter) to avoid words of more than two syllables. (‘You can get through any American conversation,’ advised Leiter, ‘with “Yeah”, “Nope” and “Sure”.’) The English word to be avoided at all costs, added Leiter, was ‘Ectually’. Bond had said that this word was not part of his vocabulary.

There were some slight differences in American and British fashion at the time, part of which was due to rationing. Britain maintained clothes rationing until March 1949 and the number of ration coupons given out actually lesbian teens making love decreased as late as 1946. "Utility" clothes made to standard boring patterns from the cheapest material possible continued production under government command until 1952. Most people continued making their old clothes last, even suits from the 1930s, which led to very drab clothing standards. Savile Row was severely damaged in the Blitz and took a while to recover.

By contrast, the United States never rationed any clothing except for leather shoes (which meant men would usually wear old 1930s shoes or fabric loafers). There were shortages and people still made everything last, but nobody was having to carefully budget ration coupons for a plain shirt that wasn't 5 years old and restitched. The most you saw was usually guys wearing mismatched jackets and wives patching clothes up. The economic boom after the war ended allowed for an expansion of clothing variety and patterns in America, especially for young soldiers going to college on the GI Bill.

The T-shirt is also a more American thing at this time period. T-shirts originated as military undergarments, which ended up being worn often as the only top for soldiers working in the heat of ship engine rooms or on a jungle airfield. Many veterans began wearing what used to be undergarments as casual clothing after returning from overseas, and Marlon Brando's appearance in 1951's naked amanda bynes pics A Streetcar Named Desire finally solidified it as a sexy, fashionable choice.

Finally, the "Moccasins" Bond is wearing are actually what we would now call loafers. While they were fashionable in America with suits, the British considered them unusually casual in this time period (like wearing your slippers to the office).


Bond looked grimly at the pile of parcels which contained his new identity, stripped off his pyjamas for the last time (‘We mostly sleep in the raw in America, Mr Bond’) and gave himself a sizzling cold shower. As he shaved he examined his face in the glass. The thick comma of black hair above his right eyebrow had lost some of its tail and his hair was trimmed close across the temples. Nothing could be done about the thin vertical scar down his right cheek, although the F.B.I. had experimented with ‘Cover-Mark’, or about the coldness and hint of anger in his grey-blue eyes, but there was the mixed blood of America in the black hair and high cheekbones and Bond thought he might get by – except, perhaps, with women.

Naked, Bond walked out into the lobby and tore open some of the packages. Later, in white shirt and dark blue trousers, he went into the sitting-room, pulled a chair up to the writing-desk near the window and opened The Travellers Tree, by Patrick Leigh Fermor. This extraordinary book had been recommended to him by M.

‘It’s by a chap who knows what he’s talking about,’ he said, ‘and don’t forget that he was writing about what was happening in Haiti in 1950. This isn’t medieval black-magic stuff. It’s being practised every day.’

Oh this will be fun.


The next step [he read] is the invocation of evil denizens of the Voodoo pantheon – such as Don Pedro, Kitta, Mondongue, Bakalou and Zandor – for harmful purposes, for the reputed practice (which is of Congolese origin) of turning people into zombies in order to use them as slaves, the casting of maleficent spells, and the destruction of enemies. The effects of the spell, of which the outward form may be an image of the intended victim, a miniature coffin or a toad, are frequently stiffened by the separate use of poison. Father Cosme enlarged on the superstitions that maintain that men with certain powers change themselves into snakes; on the ‘Loups-Garoups’ that fly at night in the form of vampire bats and suck the blood of children; on men who reduce themselves to infinitesimal size and roll about the countryside in calabashes. What sounded far more sinister were a number of mystico-criminal secret societies of wizards, with nightmarish titles – ‘les Mackanda’, named after the poison campaign of the Haitian hero; ‘les Zobop’, who were also robbers; the ‘Mazanxa’, the ‘Caporelata’ and the ‘Vlinbindingue’. These, he said, were the mysterious groups whose gods demand – instead of a cock, a pigeon, a goat, a dog, or a pig, as in the normal rites of Voodoo – the sacrifice of a ‘cabrit sans cornes’. This hornless goat, of course, means a human being … 

hot naked japanese women The Traveller's Tree: A Journey Through the Caribbean Islands is a real travelogue of the Caribbean at the time. I'm not an expert on voodoo, but I believe how it's described is effectively true but probably applying it with too heavy of a hand to Haiti and with too much emphasis on the creepy "evil" parts. That being said, voodoo would end up being a rather terrifying part of Haitian culture not long after this book: upon taking power in 1957, Papa Doc Duvalier would use elements of voodoo to create a mythological personality cult around himself, especially for his Tonton Macoute death squads who were named after a mythological character and dressed the part.


… Slowly, out of the turmoil and the smoke and the shattering noise of the drums, which, for a time, drove everything except their impact from the mind, the details began to detach themselves …   

… Backwards and forwards, very slowly, the dancers shuffled, and at each step their chins shot out and their buttocks jerked upwards, while their shoulders shook in double time. Their eyes were half closed and from their mouths came again and again the same incomprehensible words, the same short line of chanted song, repeated after each iteration, half an octave lower. At a change in the beat of the drums, they straightened their bodies, and flinging their arms in the air while their eyes rolled upwards, spun round and round …   

… At the edge of the crowd we came upon a little hut, scarcely larger than a dog kennel: ‘Le caye Zombi’. The beam of a torch revealed a black cross inside and some rags and chains and shackles and whips: adjuncts used at the Ghédé ceremonies, which Haitian ethnologists connect with the rejuvenation rites of Osiris recorded in the Book of the Dead. A fire was burning, in which two sabres and a large pair of pincers were standing, their lower parts red with the heat: ‘le Feu Marinette’, dedicated to a goddess who is the evil obverse of the bland and amorous Maitresse Erzulie Fréda Dahomin, the Goddess of Love.

There's much more to the excerpt, but I think you get the gist. Bond's reading of the ritual is interrupted by his food arriving, along with another expensive-looking parcel that he figures is some afterthought of Leiter's.


It was only when he had swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and had lit his first cigarette of the day that he suddenly became aware of the tiny noise in the room behind him.

It was a soft, muffled ticking, unhurried, metallic. And it came from the direction of the sideboard.

‘Tick-tock … tick-tock … tick-tock.’

Without a moment’s hesitation, without caring that he looked a fool, he dived to the floor behind his armchair and crouched, all his senses focused on the noise from the square parcel. ‘Steady,’ he said to himself. ‘Don’t be an idiot. It’s just a clock.’ But why a clock? Why should he be given a clock? Who by?

‘Tick-tock … tick-tock … tick-tock.’

It had become a huge noise against the silence of the room. It seemed to be keeping time with the thumping of Bond’s heart. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. That Voodoo stuff of Leigh Fermor’s has put your nerves on edge. Those drums …’

‘Tick-tock … tick-tock … tick  – ’

And then, suddenly, the alarm went off with a deep, melodious, urgent summons.

‘Tongtongtongtongtongtong …’

Bond’s muscles relaxed. His cigarette was burning a hole in the carpet. He picked it up and put it in his mouth. Bombs in alarm clocks go off when the hammer first comes down on the alarm. The hammer hits a pin in a detonator, the detonator fires the explosive and wham … 

Bond raised his head above the back of the chair and watched the parcel.

‘Tongtongtongtongtong …’

The muffled gonging went on for half a minute, then it started to slow down.

‘tong … tong … tong … tong … tong …’

‘C-R-R-R-A-C-K …’

It was not louder than a 12-bore cartridge, but in the confined space it was an impressive explosion. The parcel, in tatters, had fallen to the ground. The glasses and bottles on the sideboard were smashed and there was a black smudge of smoke on the grey wall behind them. Some pieces of glass tinkled on to the floor. There was a strong smell of gunpowder in the room.

Bond very calmly stands up, calls Dexter to let him know that there was a small grenade in a package for him, and hangs the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door.


By the time he had finished dressing there was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Okay. Dexter.’

Dexter hustled in, followed by a sallow young man with a black box under his arm.

‘Trippe, from Sabotage,’ announced Dexter.

They shook hands and the young man at once went on his knees beside the charred remnants of the parcel.

He opened his box and took out some rubber gloves and a handful of dentist’s forceps. With his tools he painstakingly extracted small bits of metal and glass from the charred parcel and laid them out on a broad sheet of blotting paper from the writing desk.

While he worked, he asked Bond what had happened.

‘About a half-minute alarm? I see. Hullo, what’s this?’ He delicately extracted a small aluminium container such as is used for exposed film. He put it aside.

After a few minutes he sat up on his haunches.

‘Half-minute acid capsule,’ he announced. ‘Broken by the first hammer-stroke of the alarm. Acid eats through thin copper wire. Thirty seconds later wire breaks, releases plunger on to cap of this.’ He held up the base of a cartridge. ‘4-bore elephant gun. Black powder. Blank. No shot. Lucky it wasn’t a grenade. Plenty of room in the parcel. You’d have been damaged. Now let’s have a look at this.’ He picked up the aluminium cylinder, unscrewed it, extracted a small roll of paper, and unravelled it with his forceps.

The detonator is a variant on a real one, the time pencil.

A thin wire holds a striker over a detonating cap. Crushing one end of the tube (usually with a pair of pliers or the heel of your boot) shatters an acid vial, which slowly eats through the wire. They were extremely common in this time period and saw heavy usage with special forces and guerrillas in World War II, so Fleming would have undoubtedly been perfectly familiar with their operation.


He carefully flattened it out on the carpet, holding its corners down with four tools from his black box. It contained three typewritten sentences. Bond and Dexter bent forward.


The message was signed ‘1234567 …?’

They stood up.

‘Hm,’ said Bond. ‘Bogeyman stuff.’

‘But how the hell did he know you were here?’ asked Dexter.

Bond told him of the black sedan on 55th Street.

‘But the point is,’ said Bond, ‘how did he know what I was here for? Shows he’s got Washington pretty well sewn up. Must be a leak the size of the Grand Canyon somewhere.’

‘Why should it be Washington?’ asked Dexter testily. ‘Anyway,’ he controlled himself with a forced laugh, ‘Hell and damnation. Have to make a report to Headquarters on this. So long, Mr Bond. Glad you came to no harm.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bond. ‘It was just a visiting card. I must return the compliment.’

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It really really is.I appreciate the historical notes and addendum to it, but I think this is my first true experience with book based racism (I've been casting my mind about and I think I just somehow avoided reading books that may have contained it).


Nothing could be done about the thin vertical scar down his right cheek, although the F.B.I. had experimented with ‘Cover-Mark’, or about the coldness and hint of anger in his grey-blue eyes, but there was the mixed blood of America in the black hair and high cheekbones and Bond thought he might get by – except, perhaps, with women.

Does this mean that women would recognize he was British or that the scar would put them off? I'm curious as to how if it's the first one.

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But it soon became quite clear that while losers flourished everywhere, winners were a rare and reticent breed with preferences for camouflage and anonymity.

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Bond passing himself off as American should be fun. Though I admit I prefer "It's like following a cue ball!" from the movie.

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When Dexter and his colleague had gone, taking the remains of the bomb with them, Bond took a damp towel and rubbed the smoke-mark off the wall. Then he rang for the waiter and, without explanation, told him to put the broken glass on his check and clear away the breakfast things. Then he took his hat and coat and went out on the street.

He spent the morning on Fifth Avenue and on Broadway, wandering aimlessly, gazing into the shop windows and watching the passing crowds. He gradually assimilated the casual gait and manners of a visitor from out of town, and when he tested himself out in a few shops and asked the way of several people he found that nobody looked at him twice.

He had a typical American meal at an eating house called ‘Gloryfried Ham-N-Eggs’ (‘The Eggs We Serve Tomorrow Are Still in the Hens’) on Lexington Avenue and then took a cab downtown to police headquarters, where he was due to meet Leiter and Dexter at 2.30.

Glorifried Ham N Eggs was a real restaurant in New York City at the time. The corners of Lexington and 46th Street are now home to a Fresh & Co. quick service cafe and a Dr. Smood organic cafe.

One curious bit of trivia is that upon their first publication, the Bond books were edited and censored for the American audience. This is how that passage goes in the original American version:


He had a typical American meal at a restaurant called ‘Glorifried Ham-N-Eggs’ (‘The Eggs We Serve Tomorrow Are Still on the Farm Today’) on Lexington Avenue and then took a cab downtown to police headquarters, where he was due to meet Leiter and Dexter at two-thirty.

At the police station, Bond meets Lt. Binswanger of Homicide. They double-check Mr. Big's criminal record and photos of his known associates, then go over US Coast Guard and Customs records of the naked hot women pictures Secatur.


These confirmed that the yacht had put in at irregular intervals over the previous six months and that she always tied up in the Port of St Petersburg at the wharf of the ‘Ourobouros Worm and Bait Shippers Inc.’, an apparently innocent concern whose main business was to sell live bait to fishing clubs throughout Florida, the Gulf of Mexico and further afield. The company also had a profitable sideline in sea shells and coral for interior decoration, and a further sideline in tropical aquarium fish – particularly rare poisonous species for the research departments of medical and chemical foundations.

According to the proprietor, a Greek sponge-fisher from the neighbouring Tarpon Springs, the Secatur did big business with his company, bringing in cargoes of queen conchs and other shells from Jamaica and also highly prized varieties of tropical fish. These were purchased by Ourobouros Inc., stored in their warehouse and sold in bulk to wholesalers and retailers up and down the coast. The name of the Greek was Papagos. No criminal record.

The F.B.I., with the help of Naval Intelligence, had tried listening in to the hally berry naked pics Secatur’s wireless. But she kept off the air except for short messages before she sailed from Cuba or Jamaica and then transmitted free mature lesbian tubes en clair in a language which was unknown and completely indecipherable. The last notation on the file was to the effect that the operator was talking in ‘Language’, the secret Voodoo speech only used by initiates, and that every effort would be made to hire an expert from Haiti before the next sailing.

Haitian Voodoo Language (also called Langaj or Langay) isn't actually a proper language. It's a specialized liturgical vocabulary used for Voodoo rituals consisting of words, songs, and incantations taken from a variety of real languages like Fon and Kongo. In use by the xxx porn tube video Secatur, this would be the equivalent of coded communications made up of Latin Mass phrases.

Binswanger wants to wrap up Mr. Big fast, but Dexter says to lay off.


‘Well, the case is all yours,’ said Binswanger grudgingly. ‘But the Commissioner sure don’t like having this bastard crappin’ away on his own front doorstep while Mr Hoover sits down in Washington well to leeward of the stink. Why don’t we pull him in on tax evasion or misuse of the mails or parkin’ in front of a hydrant or sumpn? Take him down to the Tombs and give ’em the works? If the Feds won’t do it, we’d be glad to oblige.’

‘D’you want a race riot?’ objected Dexter sourly. ‘There’s nothing against him and you know it, and we know it. If he wasn’t sprung in half an hour by that black mouthpiece of his, those Voodoo drums would start beating from here to the Deep South. When they’re full of that stuff we all know what happens. Remember ’35 and ’43? You’d have to call out the Militia. We didn’t ask for the case. The President gave it us and we’ve got to stick with it.’

Yeah, those darn Voodoo folk who live across the entire East Coast........wait, what do you mean the entire black race doesn't practice Voodoo?

After heading down and leaving Binswanger to fantasize about brutalizing black suspects, Bond says he wants to head up to Harlem that evening with Leiter and check out the territory.


‘Okay,’ he said finally. ‘Probably no harm. But don’t show yourselves too much. And don’t get hurt,’ he added. ‘There’s no one to help you up there. And don’t go stirring up a lot of trouble for us. This case isn’t ripe yet. Until it is, our policy with Mr Big is “live and let live”.’

Bond looked quizzically at Captain Dexter. ‘In my job,’ he said, ‘when I come up against a man like this one, I have another motto. It’s “live and let die”.’

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After Dexter takes a cab out of the scene, Leiter and Bond joke a little about those darned stuffed shirts in the other departments and take a cab back to the St. Regis.


They climbed into the overheated tin box reeking of last week’s cigar-smoke. Leiter wound down a window.

‘Whaddya want ter do?’ asked the driver over his shoulder. ‘Gimme pneumony?’

‘Just that,’ said Leiter, ‘if it means saving us from this gas chamber.’

‘Wise guy, hn?’ said the driver, crashing tinnily through his gears. He took the chewed end of a cigar from behind his ear and held it up. ‘Two bits for three,’ he said in a hurt voice.

‘Twenty-four cents too much,’ said Leiter.

The rest of the drive was passed in silence. 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. He thought of the bitter weather in the London streets, the grudging warmth of the hissing gas-fire in his office at Headquarters, the chalked-up menu on the pub he had passed on his last day in London: ‘Giant Toad & 2 Veg.’

He stretched luxuriously. Very soon he was asleep.

The pub menu is an extremely British reference to toad in the hole, a British dish made from sausages in Yorkshire pudding batter. The origin of the name is still unknown and will probably never be known.


Up in Harlem, at the big switchboard, ‘The Whisper’ was dozing over his racing form. All his lines were quiet. Suddenly a light shone on the right of the board – an important light.

‘Yes, Boss,’ he said softly into his headphone. He couldn’t have spoken any louder if he had wished to. He had been born on ‘Lung Block’, on Seventh Avenue, at 142nd Street, where death from TB is twice as high as anywhere in New York. Now, he only had part of one lung left.

‘Tell all “Eyes”,’ said a slow, deep voice, ‘to watch out from now on. Three men.’ A brief description of Leiter, Bond and Dexter followed. ‘May be coming in this evening or tomorrow. 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. Got it?’

‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said The Whisper, breathing fast. 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.

Lung Block was a real place, Lenox to Seventh Avenues between 142nd and 143rd Street. There was a second, earlier one down on the south end of Manhattan near the South Street Seaport, which was finally cleaned up in 1933-1934 by knocking down the block and rebuilding it as the Knickerbocker Village housing development.

In the film adaptation, Whisper was played by Earl Jolly Brown, who died in 2006. The film leaves the cause of his whispering voice unstated.


At six o’clock Bond was awakened by the soft burr of the telephone. 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 F.B.I. 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.

‘I suddenly decided to take these people seriously,’ he explained. ‘This stuff’s only a rinse. 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.

I can't imagine how an even higher proof gin would taste than what Bond preferred! As we established with the Vesper, the gin it was meant for is 47.5% ABV. The Fleming's Bond blog is confused by this as all of the period advertisements say it's 86 proof (43% ABV), but @007Dossier on Twitter clarified that England and America use different proofs and what we call 80 would be called 70 in England. Fleming likely forgot about this and thought something 86 proof was utterly ridiculous, rather than slightly weaker than what he preferred.

The King Cole bar is still in operation today in the St. Regis and I plan on visiting it if possible in December. This is how it looked back in the 50s, followed by an image of it now:

Not much has changed!


‘We’ll have to keep on our toes, where we’re going,’ said Felix Leiter, echoing his thoughts. ‘Harlem’s a bit of a jungle these days. 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.’

Leiter extracted the lemon peel from his Martini and chewed it reflectively. 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.

‘Fortunately,’ continued Leiter, ‘I like the negroes and they know it somehow. 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.’ They finished their drinks and Leiter called for the check.

‘Of course there are some bad ones,’ he said. ‘Some of the worst anywhere. Harlem’s the capital of the negro world. In any half a million people of any race you’ll get plenty of stinkeroos. The trouble with our friend Mr Big is that he’s the hell of a good technician, thanks to his OSS and Moscow training. And he must be pretty well organized up there.’

This book is sort of the definition of "digging yourself deeper".


Leiter paid. He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ll have ourselves some fun and try and get back in one piece. 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.’

They walked out of the warm hotel and took the few steps to the bus stop on the Avenue.

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.

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Does this mean that women would recognize he was British or that the scar would put them off? I'm curious as to how if it's the first one.

I interpreted it as meaning that he thought the makeover had made him less attractive.

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The pub menu is an extremely British reference to toad in the hole, a British dish made from sausages in Yorkshire pudding batter. The origin of the name is still unknown and will probably never be known.

I wonder if it has some connection to the origin of the term "toady" to describe a sycophant, which I believe derived from the practice of men who would swallow live toads as part of medicine shows (so they could be miraculously "cured" by whatever coloured water the mountebank was claiming would even counteract a toad's poison).

Anyway, I think I know what's coming in the next chapter and don't envy you.

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I wonder if it has some connection to the origin of the term "toady" to describe a sycophant, which I believe derived from the practice of men who would swallow live toads as part of medicine shows (so they could be miraculously "cured" by whatever coloured water the mountebank was claiming would even counteract a toad's poison).

Anyway, I think I know what's coming in the next chapter and don't envy you.

I think the origin is much simpler - the original (which used a small piece of beef rather than a sausage) looked like a partially submerged toad.

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I think the origin is much simpler - the original (which used a small piece of beef rather than a sausage) looked like a partially submerged toad.

(Disclaimer: I don't like Yorkshire pudding so I've never had one. )

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Normally I do daily updates and take breaks on the weekends, but I’ll do chapter 5 today so you have the weekend to stew over it.

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Yeah, those darn Voodoo folk who live across the entire East Coast........wait, what do you mean the entire black race doesn't practice Voodoo?

I raise you an extremely lovely pulp novel from the 70s with the plotline that Caribbean immigrants to London have set up voodoo temples in the London Underground and that's why so many of them work there.

It got republished in the Dennis Wheatley Library of the Occult series with an introduction calling it "terrifyingly plausible" - Wheatley was basically Fleming with added Terrible Warnings against Bleck Megic.

I'd like to think this trope was long dead, but I have a horrible feeling there are even more recent examples....

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(Disclaimer: I don't like Yorkshire pudding so I've never had one. )

Yorkshire pudding is much better as a side in a roast dinner with gravy. Toad in the hole is a waste of 2 things that are more enjoyable separate.

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‘Well, the case is all yours,’ said Binswanger grudgingly. ‘But the Commissioner sure don’t like having this bastard crappin’ away on his own front doorstep while Mr Hoover sits down in Washington well to leeward of the stink. Why don’t we pull him in on tax evasion or misuse of the mails or parkin’ in front of a hydrant or sumpn? Take him down to the Tombs and give ’em the works? If the Feds won’t do it, we’d be glad to oblige.’

It's a small thing amid the howling racism, but I was amused at how this guy talks like a mushmouthed hick (dropping his g's, "or sumpn"), and yet can say "well to leeward" in the same breath. Reminds me a bit of Sax Rohmer's attempts at writing an American accent in some of the Fu Manchu books; he, too, wrote Americans as gum-chomping, slackjawed yokels.

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All right, here we go.

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At the bus stop at the corner of Fifth and Cathedral Parkway three negroes stood quietly under the light of a street lamp. They looked wet and bored. They were. They had been watching the traffic on Fifth since the call went out at four-thirty.

‘Yo next, Fatso,’ said one of them as the bus came up out of the rain and stopped with a sigh from the great vacuum brakes.

‘Ahm tahd,’ said the thick-set man in the mackintosh. 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.

Oh yeah, I hope you like your racial slurs combined with really bad dialect writing!


He examined the backs of their necks, their coats and hats and their 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.

‘Yes?’ said the deep voice.

‘Boss, one of them’s just come in on Fifth. The Limey with the scar. Got a friend with him, but he don’t seem to fit the dope on the other two.’ Whisper passed on an accurate description of Leiter. ‘Coming north, both of them,’ he gave the number and probable timing of the bus.

There was a pause.

‘Right,’ said the quiet voice. ‘Call off all Eyes on the other avenues. Warn the night spots that one of them’s inside and get this to Tee-Hee Johnson, McThing, Blabbermouth Foley, Sam Miami and The Flannel …’

The voice spoke for five minutes.

‘Got that? Repeat.’

‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said The Whisper. He glanced at his shorthand pad and whispered fluently and without a pause into the mouthpiece.

‘Right.’ The line went dead.

His eyes bright, The Whisper took up a fistful of plugs and started talking to the town.

And this book starts getting seriously into the pulp detective genre here. If it wasn't for Bond being British, you could mistake this for a 1930s gumshoe work.


From the moment that Bond and Leiter walked under the canopy of Sugar Ray’s on Seventh Avenue at 123rd Street there was a team of men and women watching them or waiting to watch them, speaking softly to The Whisper at the big switchboard on the Riverside Exchange, handing them on towards the rendezvous. 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.

Sugar Ray's was just one of several businesses Sugar Ray Robinson owned on the western block of 7th Avenue between 123rd and 124th Street. There was also his real estate business Ray Robinson Enterprises, the Golden Gloves Barber Shop, a beauty salon, and Edna May's Lingerie Shop run by his wife. Robinson was probably the most famous boxer in the world at the time, known for his flamboyant personality and entourage.


‘He was a wise guy, Sugar Ray,’ said Leiter. ‘Let’s hope we both know when to stop when the time comes. 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.’

‘He’ll probably back a Broadway show and lose it all,’ said Bond. ‘If I quit now and went in for fruit-farming in Kent, I’d most likely hit the worst weather since the Thames froze over, and be cleaned out. One can’t plan for everything.’

None of these business exist any more, as Robinson retired from boxing in 1965 and quickly spent all his money before dying in 1989. The storefronts have been replaced by a housing project.


‘One can try,’ said Leiter. ‘But I know what you mean – better the frying pan you know than the fire you don’t. 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?’ He leant forward. ‘Just listen in to the couple behind you. From what I’ve heard they’re straight out of “friend of the family Heaven”.’

Amazingly, this insanely insensitive paragraph isn't the most cringe-inducing part of the book, as Bond decides to look over his shoulder.


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.

‘Listen and see if you can get the hang of it,’ said Leiter. ‘It’s straight Harlem – Deep South with a lot of New York thrown in.’

Bond picked up the menu and leant back in the booth, studying the Special Fried Chicken Dinner at $3.75.

Before we get into this painful dialogue, we should probably bring up the black man's straightened hair.

At the time, "kinky" curly hair was considered somewhat unstylish and unattractive, while having "white man" hair was much more appropriate. Black people in America (including virtually all the celebrity musicians like Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and James Brown) would straighten their hair with severe chemicals that sometimes included corrosive lye, allowing them to relax and style it. This was a continuous process over years as naturally frizzy hair grew in and had to be straightened. It was common for black people to wear do-rags at home to absorb sweat and keep their hair smooth (one of the origins of their modern part of black culture in America). Chemical burns often occurred and it was considered a sort of "coming of age ritual" for a boy to be left crying from his burning scalp for the first time.

This process started to disappear in the 1960s with the rise of the Civil Rights movement, especially more hardcore black power activists like Malcolm X and the Black Panthers, and is virtually extinct today for good reason.


‘Cmon, honey,’ wheedled the girl. ‘How come yuh-all’s actin’ so tahd tonight?’

‘Guess ah jist nacherlly gits tahd listenin’ at yuh,’ said the man languidly. ‘Why’nt yuh hush yo’ mouff ’n let me ’joy mahself ’n peace ’n qui-yet.’

‘Is yuh wan’ me tuh go ’way, honey?’

‘Yuh kin suit yo sweet self.’

‘Aw honey,’ pleaded the girl. ‘Don’ ack mad at me, honey. Ah was fixin’ tuh treat yuh tonight. Take yuh tuh Smalls Par’dise, mebbe. See dem high-yallers shakin’ ’n truckin’. Dat Birdie Johnson, da maitre d’, he permis me a ringside whenebber Ah come nex’. ’

The man’s voice suddenly sharpened. ‘Wha’ dat Birdie he mean tuh yuh, hey?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Perzackly,’ he paused to let the big word sink in, ‘perzackly wha’ goes ’tween yuh ’n dat lowdown ornery wuthless Nigguh? Yuh sleepin’ wid him mebbe? Guess Ah gotta study ’bout dat little situayshun ’tween yuh an’ Birdie Johnson. Mebbe git mahself a bet-terer gal. Ah jist don’ lak gals which runs off ever’ which way when Ah jist happen be busticated temporaneously. Yesmam. Ah gotta study ’bout dat little situay-shun.’ He paused threateningly. ‘Sure have,’ he added.

‘Aw honey,’ the girl was anxious, ‘’dey ain’t no use tryin’ tuh git mad at me. 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 lets us go set ’n dem, ’n have us a beer ’n a good time. Cmon, honey. Let’s us git out of hyah. Yuh done look so swell ’n Ah jist wan’ mah frens tuh see usn together.’

‘Yuh done look okay yoself, honeychile,’ said the man, mollified by the tribute to his elegance, ‘an’ dat’s da troof. But Ah mus’ spressify dat yuh stays close up tuh me an keeps yo eyes off’n dat lowdown trash ’n his hot pants. ’N Ah may say,’ he added threateningly, ‘dat ef Ah ketches yuh makin’ up tuh dat dope Ah’ll jist nachrally whup da hide off’n yo sweet rear end.’

‘Shoh ting, honey,’ whispered the girl excitedly.

Bond heard the man’s foot scrape off the seat to the ground.

‘Cmon, baby, lessgo. Waiduh!’

This is probably the single most infamous moment in the entire series. It sorta feels like your eyes are starting to go in two different directions when you try to read it.


Bond put down the menu. ‘Got the gist of it,’ he said. ‘Seems they’re interested in much the same things as everyone else – sex, having fun, and keeping up with the Jones’s. Thank God they’re not genteel about it.’

‘Some of them are,’ said Leiter. ‘Tea cups, aspidistras and tut-tutting all over the place. 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.’

Before leaving, Leiter makes the daringly stupid move of directly asking their waiter where the Big Man is operating tonight. He fearfully says he has a wife and kids and runs off. I guess Leiter may have been testing the waters, but he guy cum in pussy knows how much influence the guy has even if he didn't know he was already being spied on with every step!

They head up 7th Avenue toward Ma Frazier's. Fleming's a little off with the location, but there was a real Ma Frazier's Dining Room or Frazier's Restaurant located probably at 124th and 7th in the opposite direction they're walking in. This corner is now home to cheap Latin and Indian restaurants.


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. There were several shops devoted to lucky charms and various occultisms – Seven Keys to Power, ‘The Strangest book ever written’, with subtitles such as: ‘If you are CROSSED, shows you how to remove and cast it back.’ ‘Chant your desires in the Silent Tongue.’ ‘Cast a Spell on Anyone, no matter where.’ ‘Make any person Love you.’ Among the charms were ‘High John the Conqueror Root’, ‘Money Drawing Brand Oil’, ‘Sachet Powders, Uncrossing Brand’, ‘Incense, Jinx removing Brand’, and the ‘Lucky Whamie Hand Charm, giving Protection from Evil. 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.

What could have been a good reference to the oppressive practices of skin bleaching and hair straightening to "look white" is ruined by Fleming's continued insistence that black people in 1950s Harlem were basically a step removed from African tribes and genetically predisposed to believing in witchcraft.


Ma Frazier’s was a cheerful contrast to the bitter streets. They had an excellent meal of Little Neck Clams and Fried Chicken Maryland with bacon and sweet corn. ‘We’ve got to have it,’ said Leiter. ‘It’s the national dish.’

It was very civilized in the warm restaurant. 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.

‘Sorry, Sah,’ said the waiter briefly. ‘Ah cain’t recall a gemmun of dat name.’

I'm not quite sure I'd call clams, Chicken Maryland (a casserole of fried chicken served in cream gravy), and corn the "national dish". Can't recall seeing it outside of New England, in fact.


By the time they left the restaurant it was ten-thirty and the Avenue was almost deserted. They took a cab to the Savoy Ballroom, had a Scotch-and-soda, and watched the dancers.

‘Most modern dances were invented here,’ said Leiter. ‘That’s how good it is. The Lindy Hop, Truckin’, the Susie Q, the Shag. All started on that floor. Every big American band you’ve ever heard of is proud that it once played here – Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Cab Calloway, Noble Sissle, Fletcher Henderson. It’s the Mecca of jazz and jive.’ They had a table near the rail round the huge floor. 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.

The Savoy Ballroom is another business that no longer exists, closed in 1958 and torn down until there's nothing but a plaque in front of the lawn of yet another housing project, Delano Village.


‘Gets you, doesn’t it?’ said Leiter at last. ‘I could stay here all night. 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.’

Bond paid the check and met Leiter downstairs in the narrow entrance hall.

Leiter drew him outside and they walked up the street looking for a cab.

‘Cost me twenty bucks,’ said Leiter, ‘but the word is he’ll be at The Boneyard. 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.’

The blog Mapping the World of James Bond used some clues to narrow down the location of the fictional Boneyard to the location of the real Lenox Lounge, a famed Harlem Renaissance club at 288 Lenox Avenue that was closed and demolished in 2012.

As Bond and Leiter move in, the switchboard keeps clicking. Mr. Big's agents in The Boneyard are ordered to put Bond and Leiter at the Z Table, mollifying the current occupiers with the offer of drinks on the house.


Meanwhile Mr Big had made two more calls on the house-phone. One to the Master of Ceremonies.

‘Lights out at the end of G-G’s act.’

‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ said the MC with alacrity.

The other call was to four men who were playing craps in the basement. It was a long call, and very detailed.

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Holy poo poo, that’s just brain breakingly racist. The dialogue, the description of the city.

Just, jesus. Were other “pulp” books written in this time period as bad?

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Oh hot emo teen boys god that dialogue.
Never, never, howard stern nude shows never loving phonetically transcribe dialect. Just don't.

Even if you set aside the fact that it's almost free vedio arab sex always used to stereotype a disadvantaged social group whose diction is "not proper", there's the more sanguine point that most literate adults read by recognising the shape of the word, not by sounding it out in their head, and so you're making it unnecessarily awkward for them to read it for no particular gain.

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In case anyone is curious, the name of the chapter and Leiter's reference in the restaurant, comes from the incredibly popular 1926 novel of that name by Carl Van Vechten, about the relationship between two newcomers to Harlem, a librarian who loves living in Harlem for its culture and a young writer, who, knowing that segregation and prejudice against blacks will keep him from leading the life his talents mean he should, loses hope, and sinks into a life of recklessness and debauchery that ends with him being blamed for a murder he didn't commit.

The book was popular among whites, and served for a while to turn Harlem into a tourist atteaction (which is ironic, given the rant by the writer that gave the book it's name)


friend of the family Heaven! That’s what Harlem is. We sit in our places in the gallery of this New York theatre and watch the white world sitting down below in the good seats in the orchestra. Occasionally they turn their faces up towards us, their hard, cruel faces, to laugh or sneer, but they never beckon.

It was, however, controversial in the black comminity, with some, most notably Langston Hughes, who was Van Vechten's friend and possibly his lover, saying that it helped make people aware of Harlem's cultural achievements and the danger of racial prejudice, and others, most notably WEB Dubois, saying it trafficked in harmful stereotypes and was an exploitative attempt by a white writer to appropriate black suffering.

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Harlem, in short, is a land of contrasts.

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Oh porno gratis de lesvianas god that dialogue.
Never, never, pics of nude celebrities never loving phonetically transcribe dialect. Just don't.

It's usually called "eye dialect", and it was really popular in the 19th and early 20th century. You don't see it so much anymore. Although, there was a 2008 Baltimore Sun article about Bill Clinton stumping for Hillary in the primaries that included the quote "That's the kind of thing those people that aren't for us say. You know, they think we're dumber'n we are. I know, cuz I grew up in a place like this, and I figured out that people are just as smart here as anywhere else. But they ain't figured it out yet."

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But it soon became quite clear that while losers flourished everywhere, winners were a rare and reticent breed with preferences for camouflage and anonymity.

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Before we get into this painful dialogue, we should probably bring up the black man's straightened hair.

At the time, "kinky" curly hair was considered somewhat unstylish and unattractive, while having "white man" hair was much more appropriate. Black people in America (including virtually all the celebrity musicians like Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and James Brown) would straighten their hair with severe chemicals that sometimes included corrosive lye, allowing them to relax and style it. This was a continuous process over years as naturally frizzy hair grew in and had to be straightened. It was common for black people to wear do-rags at home to absorb sweat and keep their hair smooth (one of the origins of their modern part of black culture in America). Chemical burns often occurred and it was considered a sort of "coming of age ritual" for a boy to be left crying from his burning scalp for the first time.

This process started to disappear in the 1960s with the rise of the Civil Rights movement, especially more hardcore black power activists like Malcolm X and the Black Panthers, and is virtually extinct today for good reason.

This was also called a "conk," and the only remnant I've encountered is the occasional use of the idiom "conked out," often used to mean exhausted or sleeping.

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Holy poo poo, that’s just brain breakingly racist. The dialogue, the description of the city.

Just, jesus. Were other “pulp” books written in this time period as bad?

As Epicurius said, writing dialogue in dialect was really common back in the day. And it's not just pulp. Look at Jim's dialogue in black milf sex stories Huckleberry Finn, for instance. I'm an archivist, and I once had to explain to a patron why a person was jokingly referred to in a newspaper story as a "cullud gemmun" ("colored gentleman"). That said, Fleming is laying it on particularly thick here.

Nor was it restricted to blacks; there were styles of written dialect for just about every kind of accent, from Chinese to Scottish to French to Irish to Swedish to Jewish to Southern. If you were living in the late 19th/early-mid 20th century, being able to tell jokes in dialect would make you the life of the party.

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Oh pussy nigga nikki minaj god that dialogue.
Never, never, couple seduce teen girl never loving phonetically transcribe dialect. Just don't.
I did it in one of my novels (openly for laughs) with a British character trying to do a Deep South accent, and my editor asked me to cut three lines of dialogue down to two because she thought it was too much even for a joke.

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If you want another example of writing in dialect/non standard English for comedic effect, before he issued the Emancipation Proclamation, Abraham Lincoln read his cabinet a short story by Artemus Ward. Ward was the pen name of Charles Browne, and Ward, the character, was a backwoods Yankee, full of common sense. Here's the story, spelling original to the 1862 story.


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In the Faul of 1856, I showed my show in Utiky, a trooly grate sitty in the State of New York.

The people gave me a cordyal recepshun. The press was loud in her prases.

1 day as I was giving a descripshun of my Beests and Snaiks in my usual flowry stile what was my skorn & disgust to see a big burly feller walk up to the cage containin my wax figgers of the Lord's Last Supper, and cease Judas Isscarot by the feet and drag him him out on the ground. He then commenced fur to pound him as hard as he cood.

"What under the son are you abowt?", cried I.

Sez he, "What did you bring this pussylanermus cuss her fur?" & he hit the wax figger another tremenjus blow on the hed.

Sez I, "You egrejus rear end, that air's a wax figger-a representashun of the false 'Postle."

Sez he, "That's all very well fur you to say, but I tell you, old man, that Judas Isscarot can't show himself in Utiky with impunerty by a darn site!" at which observashun he kaved in Judassis hed. This young man belonged to 1 of the finest families in Utiky. I sood him and the Joory brawt in a verdick of Arson in the 3d Degree

Well, Lincoln thought it was funny, at least.

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I'm not quite sure I'd call clams, Chicken Maryland (a casserole of fried chicken served in cream gravy), and corn the "national dish". Can't recall seeing it outside of New England, in fact.

At this point I think we can safely say Fleming was liable to miss the mark whenever he tried to sound authoritative about things outside his direct experience and personal tastes.

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Since it's fast and covers some more of the racist stuff, I'll throw out this chapter too.


At twelve forty-five Bond and Leiter paid off their cab and walked in under the sign which announced ‘The Boneyard’ in violet and green neon.

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.

‘Have you reserved, Sir?’ asked the head waiter.

‘No,’ said Leiter. ‘We don’t mind sitting at the bar.’

The head waiter consulted his table-plan. He seemed to decide. He put his pencil firmly through a space at the end of the card.

‘Party hasn’t shown. Guess Ah cain’t hold their res’vation all night. This way, please.’ He held his card high over his head and led them round the small crowded dance floor. He pulled out one of the two chairs and removed the ‘Reserved’ sign.

‘Sam,’ he called a waiter over. ‘Look after these gemmums order.’ He moved away.

They ordered Scotch-and-soda and chicken sandwiches.

Bond sniffed. ‘Marihuana,’ he commented.

‘Most of the real hep-cats smoke reefers,’ explained Leiter. ‘Wouldn’t be allowed most places.’

You'd have thought Leiter was a real reefer-smokin' hep-cat with his love of jazz that somehow connects him to the negro spirit. Guess I got fooled.


Bond looked round. 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 like a game to find the next racially insensitive statement in each paragraph.


‘Sweet Jeessus, look who’s hyar …’

‘Where you been keepin yoself, baby …’

‘Gawd’s troof. It’s Pinkus … Hi Pinkus …’

‘Cmon over …’

‘Lemme be … Lemme be, I’se telling ya …’ (The noise of a slap.)

‘Where’s G-G. Cmon G-G. Strut yo stuff …’

From time to time a man or girl would erupt on to the dance floor and start a wild solo jive. 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!’ ‘Shake it, shake it,’ and the MC would come out and clear the floor amidst groans and shouts of derision.

At least we can know in confidence that the club scene hasn't really changed since the 1950s. These chapters are a little strange because the details really do match up very well with what this area would have been like in 1952, which suggests that Fleming had actually been on these trips through Harlem to these restaurants and clubs instead of just bullshitting, and Bond is genuinely enjoying himself at times so I don't think Fleming thought poorly of Harlem and its culture. It comes off as reality, but filtered through Fleming's biased view of other races that almost infantilizes them as still having primitive notions that good ol' white folks (other than those weirdo Celts) have overcome.


The sweat began to bead on Bond’s forehead. Leiter leant over and cupped his hands. ‘Three exits. Front. Service behind us. Behind the band.’ Bond nodded. 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.

‘Folks,’ announced the MC with a broad flash of gold and white teeth. ‘This is it.’

There was excited clapping.

He turned to the left of the floor, directly across from Leiter and Bond.

He flung out his right hand. Another spot came on.

‘Mistah Jungles Japhet ’n his drums.’

A crash of applause, catcalls, whistles.

Oh the black band has "jungle" in its name. Cool.


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.

‘Voodoo drummers from Haiti,’ whispered Leiter.

There was silence. With the tips of their fingers the drummers began a slow, broken beat, a soft rumba shuffle.

‘And now, friends,’ announced the MC, still turned towards the drums, ‘G-G …’ he paused, ‘SUMATRA.’

I wonder how much historical basis there was for the clubs of the Harlem Renaissance playing Voodoo-themed shows?


The last word was a yell. 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 sequin 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.

The girl’s naked stomach started slowly to revolve in time with the rhythm. She swept the black feathers across and behind her again, and her hips started to grind in time with the bass drum. The upper part of her body was motionless. The black feathers swirled again, and now her feet were shifting and her shoulders. The drums beat louder. Each part of her body seemed to be keeping a different time. Her lips were bared slightly from her teeth. Her nostrils began to flare. Her eyes glinted hotly through the diamond slits. It was a sexy, pug-like face – asian granny porn videos chienne was the only word Bond could think of.

When I think "sexy", I think "pug".


The drums thudded faster, a complexity of interlaced rhythms. The girl tossed the big fan off the floor, held her arms up above her head. Her whole body began to shiver. Her belly moved faster. Round and round, in and out. Her legs straddled. Her hips began to revolve in a wide circle. Suddenly she plucked the sequin star off her right breast and threw it into the audience. The first noise came from the spectators, a quiet growl. Then they were silent again. She plucked off the other star. Again the growl and then silence. The drums began to crash and roll. Sweat poured off the drummers. Their hands fluttered like grey flannel on the pale membranes. Their eyes were bulging, distant. Their heads were slightly bent to one side as if they were listening. They hardly glanced at the girl. The audience panted softly, liquid eyes bulging and rolling.

The sweat was shining all over her now. Her breasts and stomach glistened with it. She broke into great shuddering jerks. Her mouth opened and she screamed softly. Her hands snaked down to her sides and suddenly she had torn away the strip of lace. She threw it into the audience. There was nothing now but a single black G-string. The drums went into a hurricane of sexual rhythm. She screamed softly again and then, her arms stretched before her as a balance, she started to lower her body down to the floor and up again. Faster and faster. Bond could hear the audience panting and grunting like pigs at the trough. He felt his own hands gripping the tablecloth. His mouth was dry.

Is there something you'd like to tell us, Bond?

As GG finishes her jungle dance, the MC comes back on. The club patrons are howling for her to strip.


‘Okay, folks, okay.’ The sweat was pouring off his chin. He spread his arms in surrender.

‘Da G-G AGREES!’ There was a delighted howl from the audience. Now she would be quite naked.‘Take it off, G-G. Show yoself Baby. Cmon, cmon.’

The drums growled and stuttered softly.

‘But, mah friends,’ yelled the MC, ‘she stipperlates – With da lights OUT!’

There was a frustrated groan from the audience. The whole room was plunged in darkness.

Must be an old gag, thought Bond to himself.

Suddenly all his senses were alert.

The howling of the mob was disappearing, rapidly. At the same time he felt cold air on his face. He felt as if he was sinking.

‘Hey,’ shouted Leiter. His voice was close but it sounded hollow.

Christ! thought Bond.

Something snapped shut above his head.

He put his hand out behind him. It touched a moving wall a foot from his back.

‘Lights,’ said a voice, quietly.

At the same time both his arms were gripped. He was pressed down in his chair.

Opposite him, still at the table, sat Leiter, a huge negro grasping his elbows. They were in a tiny square cell. To right and left were two more negroes in plain clothes with guns trained on them.

This book marks quite a shift from lisa kudrow sex scene Casino Royale. A table on a hidden elevator won't be the only pulp trick we see pulled on Bond in this book.


‘Which is da Limey?’ asked the negro who had spoken. He seemed to be in charge. The pistol he held trained lazily on Bond’s heart was very fancy. There was a glint of mother-of-pearl between his black fingers on the stock and the long octagonal barrel was finely chased.

‘Dis one, Ah guess,’ said the negro who was holding Bond’s arm. ‘He’s got da scar.’

The negro’s grip on Bond’s arm was terrific. It was as if he had two fierce tourniquets applied above the elbows. His hands were beginning to go numb.

The man with the fancy gun came round the corner of the table. He shoved the muzzle of his gun into Bond’s stomach. The hammer was back.

‘You oughtn’t to miss at that range,’ said Bond.

‘Shaddap,’ said the negro. He frisked Bond expertly with his left hand – legs, thighs, back, sides. He dug out Bond’s gun and handed it to the other armed man.

‘Give dat to da Boss, Tee-Hee,’ he said. ‘Take da Limey up. Yuh go ’long wid em. Da other guy stays wid me.’

‘Yassuh,’ said the man called Tee-Hee, a paunchy negro in a chocolate shirt and lavender-coloured peg-top trousers.

Tee-Hee is a recurring antagonist in the film, modified to the contemporary Bond film sensibilities with a sharp red suit and powerful steel claw replacing one of his arms. He was played by Julius Harris, who worked as a nurse, bouncer for NYC jazz clubs, and US Army medic in World War II before finally becoming an actor. He made dozens of film and stage appearances, including in nip tuck eden sex No Place to Be Somebody on Broadway, and died at the age of 81 in 2004.

As Bond and Leiter are picked up, they both attempt to kick out and free themselves. It's a futile effort and they just get themselves slammed against the wall at gunpoint.


‘Don’ waste yo breff,’ said the negro who had been giving the orders. ‘Take da Limey away.’ He addressed Bond’s guard. ‘Mr Big’s waiten’.’ He turned to Leiter. ‘Yo kin tell yo fren’ goodbye,’ he said. ‘Yo is unlikely be seein’ yoselves agin.’

Bond smiled at Leiter. ‘Lucky we made a date for the police to meet us here at two,’ he said. ‘See you at the line-up.’ Leiter grinned back. His teeth were red with blood.

‘Commissioner Monahan’s going to be pleased with this bunch. Be seeing you.’

‘Crap,’ said the negro with conviction. ‘Get goin’.’

Bond’s guard whipped him round and shoved him against a section of the wall. It opened on a pivot into a long bare passage. The man called Tee-Hee pushed past them and led the way.

The door swung to behind them.

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Before we move on to the meeting with Mr. Big, let's talk a little about Harlem.

What we now call New York City was originally the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam, a small port town on the southern tip of Manhattan island. A number of Dutch settlers moved further north and established the village of Harlem (named after the Dutch city of Haarlem) as a simple farming community. The village was the sight of battles early in the American Revolution, ending with the British burning the whole village to the ground. As New York City expanded, the village was gradually turned into a suburb and eventually a full part of the city.

Starting in the first decade of the 20th century, there was a massive black migration to Harlem. The oppression of the South resulted in tons of black Americans moving northward, and many of them settled in what was at the time a mostly Jewish and Italian neighborhood. In the 1920s, Harlem became an epicenter of African-American artistic and intellectual expression. The Harlem Renaissance saw the appearance of famed black artists like Langston Hughes and Duke Ellington. While not talked about often, the Harlem Renaissance also saw an underground gay renaissance; Gladys Bentley was an openly gay bandleader who dressed in a white tuxedo and top hat, sang raunchy lyrics to popular tunes with a chorus line of drag queens, and flirted with women in the audience at the Ubangi Club in the 1920s and 1930s.

The Harlem Renaissance was not without controversy, often from the black community itself. Much of the sudden explosion in black art was accepted by the white community of New York, with disagreements about how to handle this; W.E.B. DuBois criticized some works as being written specifically to appeal to a white audience, while Langston Hughes said that all artists should express themselves freely regardless of what a particular racial audience thought. Epicurius covered some of this disagreement specifically in the context of Carl Van Vechten's hot free sex movie friend of the family Heaven.

Unfortunately, the good times didn't roll forever. The Great Depression killed a lot of the economic growth Harlem had seen in the 1920s. In March 1935, a 16-year-old black Puerto Rican was detained for shoplifting a pocket knife, whereupon he bit an employee before the police arrived. People in the crowd spotted an ambulance and hearse nearby and the story suddenly turned into "a 12-year-old was beaten to death for stealing a piece of candy", resulting in a riot that killed 3 people, injured hundreds, and caused the modern equivalent of $37 million in property damage. 1943 saw yet another riot after a black soldier was shot and wounded after he assaulted a police officer, this one killing 6 people.

At the time of the book, Harlem is still struggling a bit. It hasn't encountered the chaos of the 1960s race riots or the assassination of Malcolm X in nearby Washington Heights. The black population is at its highest levels, peaking in 1950 with 98% of the population. Bond and Leiter really are the odd men out during their visit, though they could easily be mistaken for remaining Italian residents (especially with Leiter having dyed his hair black). Many of the businesses that appeared in the Harlem Renaissance like restaurants, clubs, and bars are still open at this time, including the world-famous Apollo Theatre.

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Oh man I want to read more about the Harlem Renaissance and also the LGBT parts of those histories. These all sound incredibly fascinating.

I’m also hoping these historical buildings were preserved well, the influence they’ve had on music and culture is immense.

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