Billy and the Golden Gun

A short story by James Findlay

Written in June 2023.

Bookman Billy was doing his monthly rounds, visiting the charity shops around Joburg. He was on his way to the Norwood Hospice shop that often gave him the dopamine rush he so craved. It was a Tuesday morning and the weekend donations would have been processed by then. May was his favourite month in Joburg, not too hot – just enough of a cool breeze to wear his signature black leather jacket.

The hospice shop is situated on what used to be prime real estate, on the corner of Louis Botha Avenue and 9th Street in Orange Grove. Across the road is the iconic Radium Beer Hall, which claims to be the oldest surviving bar and grill house in Johannesburg. Back in 1929, when it was first opened by the Kalil family, it was a tea room with a secret shebeen at the back. And it was only thirteen years later when it was bought by a soccer player who acquired a malt and liquor licence, that it formally began trading in hooch. The Radium has always been a popular joint and is arguably the only attraction to Orange Grove since the area took a rough turn in the 1990s.   

Billy took a last deep drag from his Chesterfield cigarette and flicked the stompie in a high arc to the dumpster in the parking lot at the back. He adjusted his jacket, pressed his gold-rimmed Harry Potter-style spectacles high up on his nose and made his entrance.

‘Morning, morning, ladies,’ he announced for the entire shop to hear, waving his hand like an evangelist. ‘How are we on this fine, blessed morning?’ Billy was a reborn Christian so he meant it when he blessed people.

‘Morning Billy,’ the old dear behind the counter beamed. Billy was one of their favourite customers. He was always so friendly and advised them from time to time when a book expert was required.

‘Any treasures for me?’ 

‘We have some National Geographics?’

Billy was of medium build, plump and a bit hunched over from all the screen time that he had racked up over the years. 

‘Hey, bookman Billy is here.’ The lady gestured to the volunteer staff member, who stopped mopping the floor and pushed the bucket of grey slop under the counter with her foot. A pile of books was brought forward and dumped onto the chipboard counter.

‘Anything good here, Billy?’ The elderly lady tilted her head in expectation.

‘Nah, not this one. Maybe R100. Bin this. Maybe R50 for these.’ Billy was most helpful and willingly assisted all the charity shops. By being friendly, he had built up a rapport – so some reciprocity game theory came into play.

‘Oh, thank you, Billy.’

Drum-rolling his fingers on the counter, Billy said it was time to get the day started. He began in the fiction section. There was no pattern to it; he simply started at one end of the book section and worked his way through all the shelves.

His pork sausage-like fingers had the delicate muscle memory of a seasoned bookseller. It was as if they’d seek the rare book out and his eyes would then follow. It had been a mere 15 minutes into the search and Billy’s eye was in. He was scanning the shelves like an Amazon barcode bot when his fingers dropped to the lowest shelf. He bent down like a sprung bow and gently eased the book out of the shelf. He used two hands, not touching the top of the spine at all. Novices have destroyed many a rare book by using their index finger and in a hook-like manner to torture the book out of its place on the shelf thereby breaking what’s known as ‘the head’ of the spine. Collectors aren’t so keen on books that are partially decapitated. 

Slowly Billy stood up and turned the front of the book to face him. Cradled in his hands was the unmistakable book cover by artist Richard Chopping, who’d illustrated many of the James Bond dust jackets. Billy drew the book closer to inspect it. The dust jacket was pristine – front and back. No fading of the spine, no chipping of the corners, no thumb marks. He mumbled the words: ‘This Man with a Golden Gun has never been read.’ 

Billy got a mild flutter in his heart. He opened the front cover to seek out the price. The charity volunteers had marked it at R20. It was a bargain. Copies of the thirteenth book in the James Bond series sell for around R200 each, so Billy was already ‘in the money’, so to speak.

However, if it were a first edition, he could sell it to one of the other dealers around Johannesburg and turn his money in a day. Chapter 1, Geoff Klass, Doron Loketz or James Findlay might offer him several thousand Rand on the spot. Billy was what people in the trade called ‘a runner’. Runners have one of the most ergonomically structured business models; they don’t have a shop and don’t sell online. All they do is look for books at car-boot sales, flea markets and charity shops. They then place these books with the various dealers around Joburg. Some booksellers specialise in Africana, some comics, some rare collectables – all of them deal in James Bonds! 

The book was published by Jonathan Cape, so things were looking good. This copy was not one of the many mass reprints that have little or no value. Prospects were looking promising. Might this be a first edition? With constrained calmness, Billy paged a bit more, to the colophon page, which, traditionally, comes after the title page. It’s here that the publication information is printed. He drew a deep breath on discovering that the copyright was dated 1965 and there wasn’t any reference to another edition. He was holding a first edition of Man With The Golden Gun in a pristine dust jacket. In the bottom corner was the original price of ‘18s. net’. ‘It’s a first edition dust jacket, that’s for sure,’ Billy declared under his breath. 

He looked up to the ceiling in gratitude. The Lord had just provided. Dealers would pay him several thousand Rand for this find. He’d take nothing less than R5 000 for it. It was a personal declaration – a bit like rewarding himself for a successful hunt. ‘And that’s for the beautiful, undamaged, unsunned dust jacket,’ he muttered to himself. ‘That’s a fine day’s earnings, from a R20 investment.’ Billy was going to celebrate at The Radium with a lunch of their signature dish, chicken livers peri-peri.

Published eight months after the author’s death, Man With the Golden Gun is Ian Fleming’s last book. Since then, other writers, like John Gardner and Sebastian Faulks have taken the literary baton from Fleming. 

Like the books preceding it, Man with the Golden Gun was an instant bestseller. While Billy had never actually read the book – well, who has? – he loved the movie. This is the story in which Bond, played by Roger Moore, travels to the exotic Caribbean to find and kill Francisco Scaramanga, the larger-than-life villain otherwise known as the ‘Man with the Golden Gun’.

Billy regained his thoughts, and his focus returned to the pearl-handled revolver on the dust jacket. He was holding the book with both hands and instinctively ran his thumb over the centre of it. Like a blind man reading braille, he was feeling for any ridges or bumps behind the dust jacket. 

All of Fleming’s previous novels have decorative embossing on the front board, and the publisher intended to do the same with this book. A decision was made, very early in the process, that embossing the whole print run with such a large expanse of foil would be financially prohibitive. According to the publisher’s book production files, the original estimate allowed for just four-and-a-half square inches of foil stamping. The golden gun emblem on the final cover design was as big as a small revolver. The decision to cease gold-stamping the emblem into the covers was purely economic.

According to the publisher’s records, 940 copies were stamped before the call was made – a tiny proportion of the 82 000 copies that made up the first print run. The reason for the extreme scarcity of the original gold-embossed versions is that these first copies of the press were all sent to the colonies. One theory is that those books could get a head start that way and that the worldwide launch would then take place at more or less the same time. Joburg was once in the colonies, Billy thought to himself. 

Billy caressed his find again. There was something! Jackal-like, he scanned left and right to see if anybody was watching. Gently – very, very gently – he opened the dust jacket. Even a half-a-centimetre tear could cost him R1 000 in depreciation. Like a surgeon, he lifted the flap to expose the front-end board. 

He drew breath and almost choked as he saw the golden gun embossed on the front. 

Billy checked himself. There are fakes. Some enterprising con artists had once made a makeshift dye and, rather amateurishly, created a fake embossing. Sadly, this had ruined what was a genuine standard first edition. Billy strolled down the aisle to where the natural light poured in. There, in the sunlight, the gun glistened. It was a perfect gilded embossing. 

Billy’s heart was racing. His blood pressure was up. He needed a cigarette to check his nerves. This had never happened before. By the close of play that Tuesday morning, Billy would have the means to catch up on his rent, book his car in for a service and pay off the loan from his mom. There was so much more. The gem was worth R50,000 or R60,000. This was a life-changing event. He calmed himself. Keep it together, Billy. It’s not your book yet.

He collected his thoughts and, with intention, walked coolly over to the counter. He’d set aside two other books.

‘I think I’ll settle, please.’

‘So serious, Billy. Why are you leaving so soon? Just three books today?’ the lady at the till asked curiously.

‘I, umm, forgot I had an appointment. Must go get some books in Houghton.’ He pointed to his phone as if he’d just got a call.

‘Oh, okay, Billy.’ The lady began ringing up R20 three times.

Billy’s fingers were drum-rolling, he stopped, conscious that this could offend. He presented a crisp R100 note between his index and middle fingers. The lady began extending her arm to take the note.

‘James Bond! Oh my…’ 

‘Yes, umm, yes, love the Bond villains.’ Billy was in no mood for small talk.

In what could only be described as car-crash-like slow motion, the old lady stood up, reached over and grabbed the front-end board of the exceedingly rare Bond classic. Clutching the front end board, she twisted it open and dragged the book over the sandpaper-like chipboard counter.

Wide-eyed, Billy restrained himself. You can’t give the game away. Stay calm, stay calm. You’re taking a knock of just a couple of thousand Rand, he rationalised to himself.

The binding itself was under strain as the book was twisted, scraped and jerked for what felt like an eternity.

Why did the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound have to be so loud? Suck it up, Billy! Stay calm. He had concocted a mantra that he kept repeating. Suck it up, Billy! Stay calm.

He still had the R100 note in his hand, which he extended forward. The book had been dragged about a metre. His reflex took over and he lurched forward. The old lady looked up, losing her concentration. She was about to turn a page when her gaze met Billy’s. He was like a territorial Buffalo now. His nostrils were beginning to flare. The old lady’s long red nail missed the page but hooked on the dust jacket. 

The sound of the tear could be heard across the room. ‘No, no!’ Billy cried and tried to grab the book out of her hand. With fright, the old lady dropped the book. The extraordinarily rare first edition bounced off the counter and landed with a splash in the mop bucket.