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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 224 из 255These peoplewere familiar with my habits. I had been in and out of the place so often, with Bruce and the and members, that the car-keepers knew me by name - although I'd never introduced myself, and nobody had ever asked me. I just assumed it was all part of the gig here; that that they’d probably rifled the glove compartment and found a notebook with my name on it.
The real reason, which didn't occur to me at the time, was that I was still wearing my ID/badge from the District Attorney’s Conference. It was dangling from the pocket-flap of my multi-colored bird-shooting jacket, but I'd long since forgotten about it. No doubt they all assumed I was some kind of super wierd undercover agent… or maybe not; maybe they were just humoring me because they figured anybody crazy enough to pose as a cop while driving around Vegas in a white Cadillac convertible with a drink in his hand almost had to be Heavy, and perhaps even dangerous. In a scene where, nobody with any ambition is really what he appears to be,' there's not much risk in acting like a king-hell freak. The, overseers will nod wisely at each other and mutter about "these goddamn no-class put-ons."
The other side of that coin is the "Goddamn! Who's that?" syndrome. This comes from people like doormen and floor- walkers who assume that anybody who acts crazy, but still tips big, must be important-which means he should be hu mored, or at least treated gently.
But none of this makes any difference with a head full of mescaline. You justblunder around, doing anything that seems to be right, and it usually is. Vegas is so full of natural freaks-people who are genuinely twisted-that drugs aren't really a problem, except for cops and the scag syndicate. Psychedelics are almost irrelevant in a town where you can wan der into a casino any time of the day or night and witness the crucifixion of a gorilla-on a flaming neon cross that suddenly turns into a pinwheel, spinning the beast around in wild cir cles above the crowded gambling action.
I found Bruce at the bar, but there was no sign of the ape. "Where is it?" I demanded. "I'm ready to write a check. I want to take the bastard back home on the plane with me. I've already reserved two first-class seats - R. Duke and Son."
"Take him on the plane?"
"Hell yes," I said. "You think they'd say anything? Call at tention to my son's infirmities?"
He shrugged. "Forget it," he said. "They just took him away. He attacked an old man right here at the bar.
The real reason, which didn't occur to me at the time, was that I was still wearing my ID/badge from the District Attorney’s Conference. It was dangling from the pocket-flap of my multi-colored bird-shooting jacket, but I'd long since forgotten about it. No doubt they all assumed I was some kind of super wierd undercover agent… or maybe not; maybe they were just humoring me because they figured anybody crazy enough to pose as a cop while driving around Vegas in a white Cadillac convertible with a drink in his hand almost had to be Heavy, and perhaps even dangerous. In a scene where, nobody with any ambition is really what he appears to be,' there's not much risk in acting like a king-hell freak. The, overseers will nod wisely at each other and mutter about "these goddamn no-class put-ons."
The other side of that coin is the "Goddamn! Who's that?" syndrome. This comes from people like doormen and floor- walkers who assume that anybody who acts crazy, but still tips big, must be important-which means he should be hu mored, or at least treated gently.
But none of this makes any difference with a head full of mescaline. You justblunder around, doing anything that seems to be right, and it usually is. Vegas is so full of natural freaks-people who are genuinely twisted-that drugs aren't really a problem, except for cops and the scag syndicate. Psychedelics are almost irrelevant in a town where you can wan der into a casino any time of the day or night and witness the crucifixion of a gorilla-on a flaming neon cross that suddenly turns into a pinwheel, spinning the beast around in wild cir cles above the crowded gambling action.
I found Bruce at the bar, but there was no sign of the ape. "Where is it?" I demanded. "I'm ready to write a check. I want to take the bastard back home on the plane with me. I've already reserved two first-class seats - R. Duke and Son."
"Take him on the plane?"
"Hell yes," I said. "You think they'd say anything? Call at tention to my son's infirmities?"
He shrugged. "Forget it," he said. "They just took him away. He attacked an old man right here at the bar.