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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas :: Thompson Hunter S.
Страница: 39 из 255We never knew the total, but - just before we left - my attorney figured we were running somewhere between $29 and $36 per hour, for forty - eight consecutive hours.
“Incredible,” I said. “How could it happen?”
But by the time I asked this question, there was nobody around to answer. My attorney was gone. He must have sensed trouble. On Monday evening he ordered up a set of fine cowhide luggage from room service, told me he had reservations on the next plane for L.A. We would have to hurry, he said, and on the way to the airport he borrowed $25 for the plane ticket.
I saw him off, then I went back to the airport souvenir counter and spent all the rest of my cash on garbage - complete shit, souvenirs of Las Vegas, plastic fake - Zippo - lighters with a built - in roulette wheel for $6.95, JFK half - dollar clips for $5 each, tin apes that shook dice for $7.50…
I loaded up on this crap, then carried it out to the Great Red Shark and dumped it all in the back seat… and then I stepped into the driver’s seat in a very dignified way (the white top was rolled back, as always) and I sat there and turned the radio on and began thinking.
How would Horatio Alger handle this situation?One toke over the line, sweet Jesus… one toke over the
line. Panic. It crept up my spine like the first rising vibes of an acid frenzy. All these horrible realities began to dawn on me: Here I was all alone in Las Vegas with this goddamn incredibly expensive car, completely twisted on drugs, no attorney, no cash, no story for the magazine - and on top of everything else I had a gigantic goddamn hotel bill to deal with. We had ordered everything into that room that human hands could carry - including about six hundred bars of translucent Neutrogena soap.
The whole car was full of it - all over the floors, the seats, the glove compartment. My attorney had worked out some kind of arrangement with the mestizo maids on our floor to have this soap delivered to us - six hundred bars of this weird, transparent shit - and now it was all mine.
Along with this plastic briefcase that I suddenly noticed right beside me on the front seat. I lifted the fucker and knew immediately what was inside. No Samoan attorney in his right mind is going to stomp through the metal - detector gates of a commercial airline with a fat black.357 Magnum on his person.
So he had left it with me, for delivery - if I made it back to L.A. Otherwise… well, I could almost hear myself talking to the California Highway Patrol:
What? This weapon? This loaded, unregistered, concealed and maybe hot.
“Incredible,” I said. “How could it happen?”
But by the time I asked this question, there was nobody around to answer. My attorney was gone. He must have sensed trouble. On Monday evening he ordered up a set of fine cowhide luggage from room service, told me he had reservations on the next plane for L.A. We would have to hurry, he said, and on the way to the airport he borrowed $25 for the plane ticket.
I saw him off, then I went back to the airport souvenir counter and spent all the rest of my cash on garbage - complete shit, souvenirs of Las Vegas, plastic fake - Zippo - lighters with a built - in roulette wheel for $6.95, JFK half - dollar clips for $5 each, tin apes that shook dice for $7.50…
I loaded up on this crap, then carried it out to the Great Red Shark and dumped it all in the back seat… and then I stepped into the driver’s seat in a very dignified way (the white top was rolled back, as always) and I sat there and turned the radio on and began thinking.
How would Horatio Alger handle this situation?One toke over the line, sweet Jesus… one toke over the
line. Panic. It crept up my spine like the first rising vibes of an acid frenzy. All these horrible realities began to dawn on me: Here I was all alone in Las Vegas with this goddamn incredibly expensive car, completely twisted on drugs, no attorney, no cash, no story for the magazine - and on top of everything else I had a gigantic goddamn hotel bill to deal with. We had ordered everything into that room that human hands could carry - including about six hundred bars of translucent Neutrogena soap.
The whole car was full of it - all over the floors, the seats, the glove compartment. My attorney had worked out some kind of arrangement with the mestizo maids on our floor to have this soap delivered to us - six hundred bars of this weird, transparent shit - and now it was all mine.
Along with this plastic briefcase that I suddenly noticed right beside me on the front seat. I lifted the fucker and knew immediately what was inside. No Samoan attorney in his right mind is going to stomp through the metal - detector gates of a commercial airline with a fat black.357 Magnum on his person.
So he had left it with me, for delivery - if I made it back to L.A. Otherwise… well, I could almost hear myself talking to the California Highway Patrol:
What? This weapon? This loaded, unregistered, concealed and maybe hot.