Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas   ::   Thompson Hunter S.

This is one of the hallmarks of Vegas hospitality. The only bedrock rule is Don’t Burn the Locals. Beyond that, nobody cares. They would rather not know. If Charlie Manson checked into the Sahara tomorrow morning, nobody would hassle him as long as he tipped big.

I drove straight to the hotel after renting the car. There was still no sign of my attorney, so I decided to check in on my own - if only to get off the street and avoid a public breakdown. I left the Whale in a VIP parking slot and shambled self - consciously into the lobby with one small leather bag - a hand - crafted, custom - built satchel that had just been made for me by a leathersmith friend in Boulder.

Our room was at the Flamingo, in the nerve - center of theStrip: right across the street from Caesar’s Palace and the Dunes - site of the Drug Conference. The bulk of the conferees were staying at the Dunes, but those of us who signed up fashionably late were assigned to the Flamingo.

The place was full of cops. I saw this at a glance. Most of them were just standing around trying to look casual, all dressed exactly alike in their cut - rate Vegas casuals: plaid bermuda shorts, Arnie Palmer golf shirts and hairless white legs tapering down to rubberized “beach sandals.” It was a terrifying scene to walk into - a super stakeout of some kind. If I hadn’t known about the conference my mind might have snapped. You got the impression that somebody was going to be gunned down in a blazing crossfire at any moment - maybe the entire Manson Family.

My arrival was badly timed. Most of the national DAs and other cop - types had already checked in. These were the people who now stood around the lobby and stared grimly at newcomers. What appeared to be the Final Stakeout was only about two hundred vacationing cops with nothing better to do. They didn’t even notice each other.

I waded up to the desk and got in line. The man in front of me was a Police Chief from some small town in Michigan. His Agnew - style wife was standing about three feet off to his right while he argued with the desk clerk: “Look, fella - I told you I have a postcard here that says I have reservations in this hotel. Hell, I’m with the District Attorneys’ Conference! I’ve already paid for my room.”

“Sorry, sir. You’re on the ‘late list.