JК
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 90 из 255A burned-out caricature of Jane Russell: big head of dark hair, face slashed with lipstick and a 48 Double-E chest that was probably spectacular about twenty years ago when she might have been a Mama for the Hell's Angels chapter in Berdoo… but now she was strapped up in a giant pink elastic brassiere that showed like a bandage through the sweaty white rayon of her uniform.
Probably she was married to somebody, but I didn't feel like speculating. All I wanted from her, tonight, was a cup of black coffee and a 29 cent hamburger with pickles and onions. No hassles, no talk - just a place to rest and re - group. I wasn't even hungry.
My attorney had no newspaper or anything else to compel his attention. So he focused, out of boredom, on the waitress. She was taking our orders like a robot when he punched through her crust with a demand for "two glasses of ice water - with ice."
My attorney drank his in one long gulp, then asked for an other. I noticed that the waitress seemed tense.
Fuck it, I thought. I was reading the funnies.
About ten minutes later, when she brought the hamburg ers, I saw my attorney hand her a napkin with something printed on it. He did it very casually, with no expression at all on his face. But I knew, from the vibes, that our peace was about to be shattered.
"What was that?" I asked him.
He shrugged, smiling vaguely at the waitress who was standing about ten feet away, at the end of the counter, keeping her back to us while she pondered the napkin. Finally she turned and stared… then she stepped resolutely forward and tossed the napkin at my attorney.
“What is this?" she snapped.
“A napkin," said my attorney.
There was a moment of nasty silence, then she began screaming: "Don't give me that bullshit! I know what it is! You goddamn fat pimp bastard!"
My attorney picked up the napkin, looked at what he'd written, then dropped it back on the counter. "That's the name of a horse I used to own," he said calmly. "What's wrong with you?"
“You sonofabitch!" she screamed. "I take a lot of shit in place, but I sure as hell don't have to take it off a spic pimp!”
Jesus! I thought. What's happening? I was watching the woman’s hands, hoping she wouldn't pick up anything sharp and heavy. I picked up the napkin and read what the bastard printed on it, in careful red letters: "Back Door Beauty?" The question mark was emphasized.
Probably she was married to somebody, but I didn't feel like speculating. All I wanted from her, tonight, was a cup of black coffee and a 29 cent hamburger with pickles and onions. No hassles, no talk - just a place to rest and re - group. I wasn't even hungry.
My attorney had no newspaper or anything else to compel his attention. So he focused, out of boredom, on the waitress. She was taking our orders like a robot when he punched through her crust with a demand for "two glasses of ice water - with ice."
My attorney drank his in one long gulp, then asked for an other. I noticed that the waitress seemed tense.
Fuck it, I thought. I was reading the funnies.
About ten minutes later, when she brought the hamburg ers, I saw my attorney hand her a napkin with something printed on it. He did it very casually, with no expression at all on his face. But I knew, from the vibes, that our peace was about to be shattered.
"What was that?" I asked him.
He shrugged, smiling vaguely at the waitress who was standing about ten feet away, at the end of the counter, keeping her back to us while she pondered the napkin. Finally she turned and stared… then she stepped resolutely forward and tossed the napkin at my attorney.
“What is this?" she snapped.
“A napkin," said my attorney.
There was a moment of nasty silence, then she began screaming: "Don't give me that bullshit! I know what it is! You goddamn fat pimp bastard!"
My attorney picked up the napkin, looked at what he'd written, then dropped it back on the counter. "That's the name of a horse I used to own," he said calmly. "What's wrong with you?"
“You sonofabitch!" she screamed. "I take a lot of shit in place, but I sure as hell don't have to take it off a spic pimp!”
Jesus! I thought. What's happening? I was watching the woman’s hands, hoping she wouldn't pick up anything sharp and heavy. I picked up the napkin and read what the bastard printed on it, in careful red letters: "Back Door Beauty?" The question mark was emphasized.