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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 184 из 255“Butfirst 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.
4. No Refuge for Degenerates… Reflections on a Muderous Junkie
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.
He nodded, leaning back on the seat and staring up at the sky. Night was coming down slowly.
4. No Refuge for Degenerates… Reflections on a Muderous Junkie
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.