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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 183 из 255I could see that hishead 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.
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.