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FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS -- A SAVAGE JOURNEY TO THE HEART OF THE AMERICAN DREAM |
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Chapter 13: End of the Road ... Death of the Whale ... Soaking Sweats in the Airport When I tried to sit down at the baccarat table the bouncers put the arm on me. "You don't belong here," one of them said quietly. "Let's go outside." "Why not?" I said. They took me out to the front entrance and signaled for the Whale to be brought up. "Where's your friend?" they asked, while we waited. "What friend?" "The big spic." "Look," I said. "I'm a Doctor of Journalism. You'd never catch me hanging around this place with a goddamn spic." They laughed. "Then what about this?" they said. And they confronted me with a big photograph of me and my attorney sitting at a table in the floating bar. I shrugged. "That's not me," I said. "That's a guy named Thompson. He works for Rolling Stone ... a really vicious, crazy kind of person. And that guy sitting next to him is a hit-man for the Mafia in Hollywood. Shit, have you studied this photograph? What kind of a maniac would roam around Vegas wearing one black glove." "We noticed that," they said. "Where is he now?" I shrugged. "He moves around pretty fast," I said. "His orders come out of St. Louis." They stared at me. "How do you know all this stuff?" I showed them my gold PBA badge, flashing it quickly with my back to the crowd. "Act natural," I whispered. "Don't put me on the spot." They were still standing there when I drove off in the Whale. The geek had brought it up at exactly the right moment. I gave him a five-dollar bill and hit the street with a stylish screech of rubber. It was all over now. I drove across to the Flamingo and loaded all my luggage into the car. I tried to put the top up, for privacy, but something was wrong with the motor. The generator light had been on, fiery red, ever since I'd driven the thing into Lake Mead on a water test. A quick run along the dashboard disclosed that every circuit in the car was totally fucked. Nothing worked. Not even the headlights -- and when I hit the air conditioner button I heard a nasty explosion under the hood. The top was jammed about halfway up, but I decided to try for the airport. If this goddamn junker wouldn't run right, I could always abandon it and call a cab. To hell with this garbage from Detroit. They shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. The sun was coming up when I got to the airport. I left the Whale in the VIP parking lot. A kid about fifteen years old checked it in, but I refused to answer his questions. He was very excited about the overall condition of the vehicle. "Holy God!" he kept shouting. "How did this happen?" He kept moving around the car, pointing at various dents, rips and crushed places. "I know," I said. "They beat the shit out of it. This is a terrible goddamn town for driving around in convertibles. The worst time was right out on the Boulevard in front of the Sahara. You know that corner where all the junkies hang out? Jesus, I couldn't believe it when they all went crazy at once." The kid was none too bright. His face had gone blank early on, and now he seemed in a state of mute fear. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm insured." I showed him the contract, pointing to the small-print clause where it said I was insured against all damages, for only two dollars a day. The kid was still nodding when I fled. I felt a bit guilty about leaving him to deal with the car. There was no way to explain the massive damage. It was finished, a wreck, totaled out. Under normal circumstances I would have been seized and arrested when I tried to turn it in ... but not at this hour of the morning, with only this kid to deal with. I was, after all, a "VIP." Otherwise, they would never have chartered the car to me in the first place. ... Let the chickens come home to roost, I thought as I hurried into the airport. It was still too early to act normal, so I hunkered down in the coffee shop behind the L.A. Times. Somewhere down the corridor a jukebox was playing "One Toke Over the Line." I listened for a moment, but my nerve ends were no longer receptive. The only song I might have been able to relate to, at that point, was "Mister Tambourine Man." Or maybe "Memphis Blues Again. ..." "Awww, mama ... can this really ... be the end ...?" My plane left at eight, which meant I had two hours to kill. Feeling desperately visible. There was no doubt in my mind that they were looking for me; the net was closing down ... it was only a matter of time before they ran me down like some kind of rabid animal. I checked all my luggage through the chute. All but the leather satchel, which was full of drugs. And the .357. Did they have the goddamn metal detector system in this airport? I strolled around to the boarding gate and tried to look casual while I cased the area for black boxes. None were visible. I decided to take the chance -- just zip through the gate with a big smile on my face, mumbling distractedly about "a bad slump in the hardware market. ..." Just another failed salesman checking out. Blame it all on that bastard Nixon. Indeed. I decided it might look more natural if I found somebody to chat with -- a routine line of small talk, between passengers: "Hy're yew, fella! I guess you're probably wonderin' what makes me sweat like this? Yeah! Well, god damn, man! Have you read the newspapers today? ... You'd never believe what those dirty bastards have done this time!" I figured that would cover it ... but I couldn't find anybody who looked safe enough to talk to. The whole airport was full of people who looked like they might go for my floating rib if I made a false move. I felt very paranoid ... like some kind of criminal skullsucker on the lam from Scotland Yard. Everywhere I looked I saw Pigs ... because on that morning the Las Vegas airport was full of cops: the mass exodus after the climax of the District Attorneys' Conference. When I finally put this together I felt much better about the health of my own brain ... Well, why not? This is a heavy day in Vegas. A thousand cops are checking out of town, scurrying through the airport in groups of three and six. They are heading back home. The drug conference is finished. The Airport Lounge is humming with mean talk and bodies. Short beers and Bloody Marys, here and there a victim of chest rash rubbing Mexsana under the armpit straps of a thick shoulder holster. No point hiding this business any longer. Let it all hang out ...or at least get some air to it. Yes, thank you kindly ... I think I busted a button on my trousers. I hope they don't fall down. You don't want my trousers to fall down now, do you? Fuck no. Not today. Not right here in the middle of the Las Vegas airport, on this sweaty-hard morning at the tail end of this mass meeting on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. "'When the train ... come in the station ... I looked her the eye ... " Grim music in this airport. "Yes, it's hard to tell it's hard to tell, when all your love's in Vain...." *** Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everything's in vain ... a stone bummer from start to finish; and if you know what's good for you, on days like these you sort of hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit. Lay back on a cheap wooden chair, screened off from the traffic, and shrewdly rip the poptops out of five or eight Budweisers ... smoke off a pack of King Marlboros, eat a peanut-butter sandwich, and finally toward evening gobble up a wad of good mescaline ... then drive out, later on, to the beach. Get out in the surf, in the fog, and slosh along on numb-frozen feet about ten yards out from the tideline ... stomping through tribes of wild sandpeckers ... riderunners, whorehoppers, stupid little birds and crabs and saltsuckers, with here and there a big pervert or woolly reject gimping off in the distance, wandering alone by themselves behind the dunes and driftwood. ... These are the ones you will never be properly introduced to -- at least not if your luck holds. But the beach is less complicated than a boiling fast morning in the Las Vegas airport. I felt very obvious. Amphetamine psychosis? Paranoid dementia? What is it? My Argentine luggage? This crippled, loping walk that once made me a reject from the Naval ROTC? Indeed. This man will never be able to walk straight, Captain! Because one leg is longer than the other. ... Not much. Three eighths of an inch or so, which counted out to about two-eighths more than the Captain could tolerate. So we parted company. He accepted a command in the South China Sea, and I became a Doctor of Gonzo Journalism ... and many years later, killing time in the Las Vegas airport this terrible morning, I picked up a newspaper and saw where the Captain had fucked up very badly: SHIP COMMANDER BUTCHERED BY NATIVES AFTER "ACCIDENTAL" ASSAULT ON GUAM (AOP) -- Aboard the U.S.S. Crazy Horse: Somewhere in the Pacific (Sept. 25) -- The entire 3465-man crew of this newest American aircraft carrier is in violent mourning today, after five crewmen including the Captain were diced up like pineapple meat in a brawl with the Heroin Police at the neutral port of Hong See. Dr. Eloor, the ship's chaplain, presided over tense funeral services at dawn on the flight deck. The 4th Fleet Service Choir sang "Tom Thumb's Blues" ... and then, while the ship's bells tolled frantically, the remains of the five were set afire in a gourd and hurled into the Pacific by a hooded officer known only as "The Commander." Shortly after the services ended, the crewmen fell to fighting among themselves and all communications with the ship were severed for an indefinite period. Official spokesmen at 4th Fleet Headquarters on Guam said the Navy had "no comment" on the situation, pending the results of a top-level investigation by a team of civilian specialists headed by former New Orleans district attorney James Garrison ... Why bother with newspapers, if this is all they offer? Agnew was right. The press is a gang of cruel faggots. Journalism is not a profession or a trade. It is a cheap catch-all for fuckoffs and misfits -- a false doorway to the backside of life, a filthy piss-ridden little hole nailed off by the building inspector, but just deep enough for a wino to curl up from the sidewalk and masturbate like a chimp in a zoo-cage.
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