“By the way, Quarrel—” Bond dared a bus with ‘Brown Bomber’ painted above its windshield. The bus pulled over and roared on down the hill towards Kingston sounding a furious chord on its triple windhorn to restore the driver’s ego, “—what do you know about centipedes?”
“Centipedes, cap’n?” Quarrel squinted sideways for a clue to the question. Bond’s expression was casual. “Well, we got some bad ones here in Jamaica. Tree, fo, five inches long. Dey kills folks. Dey mos’ly lives in de old houses in Kingston. Dey loves de rotten wood an’ de mouldy places. Dey hoperates mos’ly at night. Why, cap’n? Yo seen one?”
Bond dodged the question. He had also not told Quarrel about the fruit. Quarrel was a tough man, but there was no reason to sow the seeds of fear. “Would you expect to find one in a
