Hunter Thompson - Fear and Loating in Las Vegas. A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

I thought about this ... but the only alternative was to take her out to the desert and feed her remains to the lizards. I wasn’t ready for this; it seemed a bit heavy for the thing we were trying to protect: My attorney. It came down to that.

So the problem was to work out a balance, to aim Lucy in a direction that wouldn’t snap her mind and provoke a disastrous backlash.

She had money. My attorney had ascertained that. “At least $200,” he’d said. “And we can always call the cops up there in Montana, where she lives, and turn her in.”

I was reluctant to do this. The only thing worse than turning her loose in Vegas, I felt, was turning her over to “the authorities” ...and that was clearly out of the question, anyway. Not now. “What kind of goddamn monster are you?” I said. “First you kidnap the girl, then you rape her, and now you want to have her locked up!”

He shrugged. “It just occurred to me,” he said, “that she has no witnesses. Anything she says about us is completely worthless.”

“Us?” I said.

He stared at me. I could see that his head was clearing. The acid was almost gone. This meant that Lucy was probably coming down, too. It was time to cut the cord.

Lucy was waiting for us in the car, listening to the radio with a twisted smile on her face. We were standing about ten yards off. Anybody watching us from a distance might have thought we were having some kind of vicious, showdown argurnent about who had “rights to the girl.” It was a standard scene for a Vegas parking lot.

We finally decided to make her a reservation at the Americana. My attorney ambled over to the car and got her last name under some pretense, then I hurried inside and called the hotel—saying that I was her uncle and that I wanted her to be “treated very gently,” because she was an artist and might seem a trifle high-strung. The room clerk assured me they’d give her every courtesy.

Then we drove her out to the airport, saying we were going to trade the White Whale in for a Mercedes 600, and my attorney took her into the lobby with all her gear. She was still unhinged and babbling when he led her away. I drove around a corner and waited for him.

Ten minutes later he shuffled up to the car and got in. “Take off slowly,” he said. “Don’t attract any attention.”

When we got out on Las Vegas Boulevard he explained that he’d given one of the airport cab-hasslers a $10 bill to see that his “drunk girlfriend” got to the Americana, where she had a reservation. “I told him to make sure she got there,” he said.

“You think she will?”

He nodded. “The guy said he’d pay the fare with the extra five bucks I gave him, and tell the cabbie to humor her. I told him I had some business to take care of, but I’d be there myself in an hour—and if the girl wasn’t already checked in, I’d come back out here and rip his lungs out.”

“That’s good,” I said. “You can’t be subtle in this town.” He grinned. “As your attorney, I advise you to tell me where you put the goddamn mescaline.”

I pulled over. The kit-bag was in the trunk. He fetched out two pellets and we each ate one. The sun was going down behind the scrub hills northwest of the city. A good Kristofferson tune was croaking out of the radio. We cruised back to town through the warm dusk, relaxed on the red leather seats of our electric white Coupe de Ville.

“Maybe we should take it easy tonight,” I said as we flashed past the Tropicana.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s find a good seafood restaurant and some red salmon. I feel a powerful lust for red salmon.”

I agreed. “But first we should go back to the hotel and set-in. Maybe have a quick swim and some rum.”

He nodded, leaning back on the seat and staring up at the sky. Night was coming down slowly.

We drove through the parking lot of the Flamingo and around the back, through the labyrinth, to our wing. No problem with parking, no problem with theelevator, and the suite was dead quiet when we entered: half-dark and peacefully elegant, with big sliding walls opening out on the lawn and the pool.

The only thing moving in the room was the red-blinking message light on the telephone. “Probably room service,” I said. “I ordered some ice and booze. I guess it came while we were gone.

My attorney shrugged. “We have plenty,” he said. “But we might as well get more. Hell yes, tell them to send it up.”

I picked up the phone and dialed the desk. “What’s the mes sage?” I asked. “My light is blinking.”

The clerk seemed to hesitate. I could hear papers shuffling. “Ah yes,” he saidfinally. “Mister Duke? Yes, you have two messages. One says, ‘Welcome to Las Vegas, from the Na tional District Attorneys’ Association.’ ”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“ .... and the other,” he continued, “says, ‘Call Lucy at the Americana, room 1000.’ ”

“What?”

He repeated the message. There was no mistake.

“Holy shit!” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” said the clerk.

I hung up.

My attorney was doing the Big Spit again, in the bathroom. I walked out on the balcony and stared at the pool, this kidney-shaped bag of bright water that shimmered outside our suite. I felt like Othello. Here I’d only been in town a few hours, and we’d already laid the groundwork for a classic tragedy. The hero was doomed; he had already sown the seed of his own downfall.

But who was the Hero of this filthy drama? I turned away from the pool and confronted my attorney, now emerging from the bathroom and wiping his mouth with a towel. His eyes were glazed and limpid. “This goddamn mescaline,” he muttered. “Why the fuck can’t they make it a little less pure? Maybe mix it up with Rolaids, or something?”

“Othello used Dramamine,” I said.

He nodded, hanging the towel around his neck as he reached out to flip on the TV set. “Yeah, I heard about those remedies. Your man Fatty Arbuckle used olive oil.”

“Lucy called,” I said.

“What?” He sagged visibly—like an animal taking a bullet. “I just got the message from the desk. She’s at the Americana, room 1600 ... and she wants us to call.”

He stared at me ...and just then the phone rang.

I shrugged and picked it up. There was no point trying to hide. She had found us, and that was enough.

“Hello,” I said.

It was the room clerk again.

“Mister Duke?”

“Yes.”

“Hello, Mister Duke. I’m sorry we were cut off a moment ago.., but I thought I should call again, because I was won dering . .

“What?” I sensed things closing down on us. This fucker was about to spring something on me. What had that crazy bitch aid to him? I tried to stay calm.

“We’re watching the goddamn news!” I screamed. “What the fuck are you interrupting me for?”

Silence.

“What do you want? Where’s the goddamn ice I ordered? Where’s the booze? There’s a war on, man! People are being killed!”

“Killed?” He almost whispered the word.

“In Vietnam!” I yelled. “On the goddamn television!”

“Oh ...yes ...yes,” he said. “This terrible war. When will it end?”

“Tell me,” I said quietly. “What do you want?”

“Of course,” he said, snapping back to his desk-clerk tone. “I thought I should tell you ... because I know you’re here with the Police Convention ...that the woman who left that message for you sounded very disturbed.”

He hesitated, but I said nothing.

“I thought you should know this,” he said finally.

“What did you say to her?” I asked.