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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 195 из 255The Dope Fiend fears nothing. He will attack, for no reason, with every weapon at his command - includtng yours. BEWARE. Any officer apprehending a suspected marijuana addict should use all necessary force immedately. One stitch in time (on him) wil usually save nine on you. Good luck.
The Chief.
»Indeed. Luck is always important, especially in Las Vegas… and ours was getting worse. It was clear at a glance that this Drug Conference was not what we'd planned on. It was far too open, too mixed. About a third of the crowd looked like they'd just stopped by, for the show, en route to a Frazier-Ali rematch at the Vegas Convention Center across town. Or maybe a benefit bout, for Old Smack Dealers, between Liston and Marshal Ky.
The room fairly bristled with beards, mustaches and super- Mod dress. The DAs' conference had obviously drawn a goodly contingent of undercover narcs and other twilight types. An assistant DA from Chicago wore a light-tan sleeve less knit suit: His lady was the star of the Dunes casino; she flashed through the place like Grace Slick at a Finch College class reunion. They were a classic couple; stone swingers.
Just because you're a cop, these days, doesn't mean you can't be With It. And this conference attracted some real peacocks. But my own costume - $40 FBI wingtips and a Pat Boone madras sportcoat - was just about right for the mass median; because for every urban-hipster, there were about twenty crude-looking rednecks who could have passed for assistant football coaches at Mississippi State.
These were the people who made my attorney nervous. Like most Californians, he was shocked to actually see these people from The Outback. Here was the cop-cream from Middle America… and, Jesus, they looked and talked like a gang of drunken pig farmers!
I tried to console him. "They're actually nice people," I said, "once you get to know them."
He smiled: " Know them? Are you kidding? Man, I know these people in my goddamn blood!"
"Don't mention that word around here," I said. "You'll get them excited."
He nodded. "You're right. I saw these bastards in Easy Rider, but I didn't believe they were real. Not like this. Not hundreds of them!”
My attorney was wearing a duoble-breasted blue pinstripe suit, a far more stylish outfit than my own…, but it made him exceedingly nervous. Because to be stylishly dressed in this crowd meant that you were probably an undercover cop, and my attorney makes his living with people who are very sensitive in that area. "This is a fucking nightmare!" he kept muttering.
The Chief.
»Indeed. Luck is always important, especially in Las Vegas… and ours was getting worse. It was clear at a glance that this Drug Conference was not what we'd planned on. It was far too open, too mixed. About a third of the crowd looked like they'd just stopped by, for the show, en route to a Frazier-Ali rematch at the Vegas Convention Center across town. Or maybe a benefit bout, for Old Smack Dealers, between Liston and Marshal Ky.
The room fairly bristled with beards, mustaches and super- Mod dress. The DAs' conference had obviously drawn a goodly contingent of undercover narcs and other twilight types. An assistant DA from Chicago wore a light-tan sleeve less knit suit: His lady was the star of the Dunes casino; she flashed through the place like Grace Slick at a Finch College class reunion. They were a classic couple; stone swingers.
Just because you're a cop, these days, doesn't mean you can't be With It. And this conference attracted some real peacocks. But my own costume - $40 FBI wingtips and a Pat Boone madras sportcoat - was just about right for the mass median; because for every urban-hipster, there were about twenty crude-looking rednecks who could have passed for assistant football coaches at Mississippi State.
These were the people who made my attorney nervous. Like most Californians, he was shocked to actually see these people from The Outback. Here was the cop-cream from Middle America… and, Jesus, they looked and talked like a gang of drunken pig farmers!
I tried to console him. "They're actually nice people," I said, "once you get to know them."
He smiled: " Know them? Are you kidding? Man, I know these people in my goddamn blood!"
"Don't mention that word around here," I said. "You'll get them excited."
He nodded. "You're right. I saw these bastards in Easy Rider, but I didn't believe they were real. Not like this. Not hundreds of them!”
My attorney was wearing a duoble-breasted blue pinstripe suit, a far more stylish outfit than my own…, but it made him exceedingly nervous. Because to be stylishly dressed in this crowd meant that you were probably an undercover cop, and my attorney makes his living with people who are very sensitive in that area. "This is a fucking nightmare!" he kept muttering.