thunter.fearloathinglasvegas-第12部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ght。　With　a　bit　of　luck；　it'll　ruin　his　life…forever　thinking　that　just　be…hind　some　narrow　door　in　all　his　favorite　bars；　men　in　red　Pendleton　shirts　are　getting　incredible　kicks　from　things　he'll　never　know。　Would　he　dare　to　suck　a　sleeve？　Probably　not。　Play　it　safe。　Pretend　you　never　saw　it。
　　
　　Strange　memories　on　this　nervous　night　in　Las　Vegas。　Five　years　later？　Six？　It　seems　like　a　lifetime；　or　at　least　a　Main　Era…the　kind　of　peak　that　never　es　again。　San　Francisco　in　the　middle　sixties　was　a　very　special　time　and　place　to　be　a　part　of。　Maybe　it　meant　something。　Maybe　not；　in　the　long　run　。　。　。　but　no　explanation；　no　mix　of　words　or　music　or　memories　can　touch　that　sense　of　knowing　that　you　were　here　and　alive　in　that　corner　of　time　and　the　world。　Whatever　it　meant。。。。
　　History　is　hard　to　know；　because　of　all　the　hired　bullshit；　but　even　without　being　sure　of　〃history〃　it　seems　entirely　reasonable　to　think　that　every　now　and　then　the　energy　of　a　whole　generation　es　to　a　head　in　a　long　fine　flash；　for　reasons　that　nobody　really　understands　at　the　time…and　which　never　explain；　in　retrospect；　what　actually　happened。My　central　memory　of　that　time　seems　to　hang　on　one　or　five　or　maybe　forty　nights…or　very　early　mornings…when　I　left　the　Fillmore　half…crazy　and；　instead　of　going　home；　aimed　the　big　650　Lightning　across　the　Bay　Bridge　at　a　hundred　miles　an　hour　wearing　L。　L。　Bean　shorts　and　a　Butte　sheepherder's　jacket。。。booming　through　the　Treasure　Island　tunnel　at　the　lights　of　Oakland　and　Berkeley　and　Richmond；　not　quite　sure　which　turn…off　to　take　when　I　got　to　the　other　end　（always　stalling　at　the　toll…gate；　too　twisted　to　find　neutral　while　I　fumbled　for　change）。。。but　being　absolutely　certain　that　no　matter　which　way　I　went　I　would　e　to　a　place　where　people　were　just　as　high　and　wild　as　I　was：　No　doubt　at　all　about　that。　。There　was　madness　in　any　direction；　at　any　hour。　If　not　across　the　Bay；　then　up　the　Golden　Gate　or　down　101　to　Los　Altos　or　La　Honda。。。。You　could　strike　sparks　anywhere。　There　was　a　fantastic　universal　sense　that　whatever　we　were　doing　was　right；　that　we　were　winning。And　that；　I　think；　was　the　handle…that　sense　of　inevitable　victory　over　the　forces　of　Old　and　Evil。　Not　in　any　mean　or　military　sense；　we　didn't　need　that。　Our　energy　would　simply　prevail。　There　was　no　point　in　fighting…on　our　side　or　theirs。　We　had　all　the　momentum；　we　were　riding　the　crest　of　a　high　and　beautiful　wave。
　　So　now；　less　than　five　years　later；　you　can　go　up　on　a　steep　hill　in　Las　Vegas　and　look　West；　and　with　the　right　kind　of　eyes　you　can　almost　see　the　high…water　mark…that　place　where　the　wave　finally　broke　and　rolled　back。
　　
　　　9。　Sympathy　for　the　Devil。。。Newsmen　Tortured？。。。Flight　into　Madness
　　
　　The　decision　to　flee　came　suddenly。　Or　maybe　not。　Maybe　I'd　'planned　it　all　along…subconsciously　waiting　for　the　right　moment。　The　bill　was　a　factor；　I　think。　Because　I　had　no　money　to　pay　it。　And　no　more　of　these　devilish　credit…card/reimbursement　deals。　Not　after　dealing　with　Sidney　Zion。　They　seized　my　American　Express　card　after　that　one；　and　now　the　bastards　are　suing　me…along　with　the　Diner's　Club　and　the　IRS。。。。
　　And　besides；　the　magazine　is　legally　responsible。　My　attorney　saw　to　that。　We　signed　nothing。　Except　those　room　service　tabs。　We　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…plete　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；　pletely　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　partment。　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　mercial　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　。357　Magnum？　What　am　I　doing　with　it？　Well；　you　see；　officer；　I　pulled　off　the　road　near　Mescal　Springs…on　the　advice　of　my　attorney；　who　subsequently　disappearedr…and　all　of　a　sudden　while　I　was　just　sort　of　walking　around　that　deserted　waterhole　by　myself　for　no　reason　at　all　when　this　little　fella　with　a　beard　came　up　to　me；　out　of　nowhere；　and　he　had　horrible　linoleum　knife　in　one　hand　and　this　huge　black　pistol　in　the　other　hand。。。　and　he　offered　to　carve　a　big　X　on　my　forehead；　in　memory　of　Lieutenant　Calley。。。but　when　I　told　him　I　was　a　doctor　of　journalism　his　whole　attitude　changed。　Yes；　you　probably　won't　believe　this；　officer；　but　he　suddenly　hurled　that　knife　into　the　brackish　mescal　waters　near　our　feet；　and　then　he　gave　me　this　revolver。　Right；　he　just　shoved　it　into　my　hands；　butt…first；　and　then　he　ran　off　into　the　darkness。
　　So　that's　why　I　have　this　weapon；　officer。　Can　you　believe　that？
　　No。
　　But　I　wasn't　about　to　throw　the　bastard　away；　either。　A　good　。357　is　a　hard　thing　to　get；　these　days。
　　So　I　figured；　well；　just　get　this　bugger　back　to　Malibu；　and　it's　mine。　My　risk　…　my　gun：　it　made　perfect　sense。　And　if　that　Samoan　pig　wanted　to　argue；　if　he　wanted　to　e　yelling　around　the　house；　give　him　a　taste　of　the　bugger　about　midway　up　the　femur。　Indeed。　158　grains　of　half…jacketed　lead/alloy；　traveling　1500　feet　per　second；　equals　about　forty　pounds　of　Samoan　hamburger；　mixed　up　with　bone　splinters。　Why　not？
　　
　　Madness；　madness。。。and　meanwhile　all　alone　with　the　Great　Red　Shark　in　the　parking　lot　of　the　Las　Vegas　airport。　To　hell　with　this　panic。　Get　a　grip。　Maintain。　For　the　next　twenty…four　hours　this　matter　of　personal　control　will　be　critical。　Here　I　am　sitting　out　here　alone　on　this　fucking　desert；　this　nest　of　armed　loonies；　with　a　very　dangerous　carload　hazards；　horrors　and　liabilities　that　I　must　get　back　to　L。A。if　they　nail　me　out　here；　I'm　doomed。　pletely　fucked。　No　question　about　that。　No　future　for　a　doctor　of　journalism　editing　the　state　pen　weekly。　Better　to　get　the　hell　of　this　atavistic　state　at　high　speed。　Right。　But；　first…to　the　Mint　Hotel　and　cash　a　50　check；　then　up　to　the　room　and　call　down　for　two　club　sandwiches；　two　quarts　of　milk；　a　pot　of　coffee　and　a　fifth　of　Bacardi　Anejo。　Rum　will　be　absolutely　necessary　to　get　through　this　night…to　polish　these　notes；　this　shameful　diary。。。