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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 24 из 255I’d been looking for a parking spot for what seemed like a very long time. Too long. I was about ready to abandon the car and call a taxi… but then, yes, we found this space.
Which turned out to be the sidewalk in front of the main entrance to the Desert Inn. I had run over so many curbs by this time, that I hadn’t even noticed this last one. But now we ourselves in a position that was hard to explain… the entrance, thugs yelling at us, bad confusion… attorney was out of the car in a flash, waving a five - dollar bill.
“We want this car parked! I’m an old friend of Debbie’s. I used to romp with her.”
For a moment I thought he had blown it… then one of the doormen reached out for the bill, saying: “OK, OK. I’ll take care of it, sir.” And he tore off a parking stub.
“Holy shit!” I said, as we hurried through the lobby.
“They almost had us there. That was quick thinking.”
“What do you expect?” he said. “I’m your attorney… and you owe me five bucks. I want it now.”
I shrugged and gave him a bill. This garish, deep - orlon carpeted lobby of the Desert Inn seemed an inappropriate place to be haggling about nickel/dime bribes for the parking lot attendant. This was Bob Hope’s turf. Frank Sinatra’s. Spiro Agnew’s. The lobby fairly reeked of high - grade formica and plastic palm trees - it was clearly a high - class refuge for Big Spenders.
We approached the grand ballroom full of confidence, but they refused to let us in. We were too late, said a man in a wine - colored tuxedo; the house was already full - no seats left, at any price.
“Fuck seats,” said my attorney. “We’re old friends of Debbie’s. We drove all the way from L.A. for this show, and we’re goddamn well going in.”
The tux - man began jabbering about “fire regulations,” but my attorney refused to listen. Finally, after a lot of bad noise, he let us in for nothing - provided we would stand quietly in back and not smoke.
We promised, but the moment we got inside we lost control. The tension had been too great. Debbie Reynolds was yukking across the stage in a silver Afro wig… to the tune of “Sergeant Pepper,” from the golden trumpet of Harry James.
“Jesus creeping shit!” said my attorney. “We’ve wandered into a time capsule!”
Heavy hands grabbed our shoulders. I jammed the hash pipe back into my pocket just in time. We were dragged across the lobby and held against the front door by goons until our car was fetched up. “OK, get lost,” said the wine - tux - man. “We’re giving you a break.
Which turned out to be the sidewalk in front of the main entrance to the Desert Inn. I had run over so many curbs by this time, that I hadn’t even noticed this last one. But now we ourselves in a position that was hard to explain… the entrance, thugs yelling at us, bad confusion… attorney was out of the car in a flash, waving a five - dollar bill.
“We want this car parked! I’m an old friend of Debbie’s. I used to romp with her.”
For a moment I thought he had blown it… then one of the doormen reached out for the bill, saying: “OK, OK. I’ll take care of it, sir.” And he tore off a parking stub.
“Holy shit!” I said, as we hurried through the lobby.
“They almost had us there. That was quick thinking.”
“What do you expect?” he said. “I’m your attorney… and you owe me five bucks. I want it now.”
I shrugged and gave him a bill. This garish, deep - orlon carpeted lobby of the Desert Inn seemed an inappropriate place to be haggling about nickel/dime bribes for the parking lot attendant. This was Bob Hope’s turf. Frank Sinatra’s. Spiro Agnew’s. The lobby fairly reeked of high - grade formica and plastic palm trees - it was clearly a high - class refuge for Big Spenders.
We approached the grand ballroom full of confidence, but they refused to let us in. We were too late, said a man in a wine - colored tuxedo; the house was already full - no seats left, at any price.
“Fuck seats,” said my attorney. “We’re old friends of Debbie’s. We drove all the way from L.A. for this show, and we’re goddamn well going in.”
The tux - man began jabbering about “fire regulations,” but my attorney refused to listen. Finally, after a lot of bad noise, he let us in for nothing - provided we would stand quietly in back and not smoke.
We promised, but the moment we got inside we lost control. The tension had been too great. Debbie Reynolds was yukking across the stage in a silver Afro wig… to the tune of “Sergeant Pepper,” from the golden trumpet of Harry James.
“Jesus creeping shit!” said my attorney. “We’ve wandered into a time capsule!”
Heavy hands grabbed our shoulders. I jammed the hash pipe back into my pocket just in time. We were dragged across the lobby and held against the front door by goons until our car was fetched up. “OK, get lost,” said the wine - tux - man. “We’re giving you a break.