Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I waded up to the desk and got in line. The man in front of me was a Police Chief from some small town in Michigan. His Agnew - style wife was standing about three feet off to his right while he argued with the desk clerk: “Look, fella - I told you I have a postcard here that says I have reservations in this hotel. Hell, I’m with the District Attorneys’ Conference! I’ve already paid for my room.”

“Sorry, sir. You’re on the ‘late list.’ Your reservations were transferred to the… ah… Moonlight Motel, which is out on Paradise Boulevard and actually a very fine place of lodging and only sixteen blocks from here, with its own pool and…

“You dirty little faggot! Call the manager! I’m tired of listening to this dogshit!”

The manager appeared and offered to call a cab. This was obviously the second or maybe even the third act in a cruel drama that had begun long before I showed up. The police chief’s wife was crying; the gaggle of friends that he’d mustered for support were too embarrassed to back him up - even now, in this showdown at the desk, with this angry little cop firing his best and final shot. They knew he was beaten; he was going against the RULES, and the people hired to enforce those rules said “no vacancy.

After ten minutes of standing in line behind this noisy little asshole and his friends, I felt the bile rising. Where did this cop - of all people - get the nerve to argue with anybody in terms of Right Reason? I had been there with these fuzzy shitheads - and so, I sensed, had the desk clerk. He had airof a man who’d been fucked around, in his time, by a good cross - section of mean - tempered rule - crazy now he was just giving their argument back to them: It didn’t matter who’s right or wrong, man… or who’s paid who hasn’t… what matters right now is that for at time in my life I can work out on a pig: “Fuck you, I’m in charge here, and I’m telling you we don’t have for you.”

I was enjoying this whipsong, but after a while I felt dizzy, nervous, and my impatience got the better of my amusement. So I stepped around the Pig and spoke directly to the desk clerk - “Say,” I said, “I hate to interrupt, but I have a reservation and I wonder if maybe I could just sort of slide through and get out of your way.” I smiled, letting him know I’d been digging his snake - bully act on the cop party that was now standing there, psychologically off - balance and staring at me like I was some kind of water - rat crawling up to the desk.

I looked pretty bad: wearing old Levis and white Chuck Taylor All - Star basketball sneakers… and my ten - peso Acapulco shirt had long since come apart at the shoulder seams from all that road - wind. My beard was about three days old, bordering on standard wino trim, and my eyes were totally hidden by Sandy Bull’s Saigon - mirror shades.

But my voice had the tone of a man who knows he has a reservation. I was gambling on my attorney’s foresightbut I couldn’t pass a chance to put the horn into a cop:and I was right. The reservation was in my attorney’s name. The desk - clerk hit his bell to summon the bag - boy. “This is all I have with me, right now,” I said, “The rest is out there in that white Cadillac convertible.” I pointed to the car that we could all see parked just outside the front door. “Can you have somebody drive it around to the room?”

The desk - clerk was friendly. “Don’t worry about a thing, sir. Just enjoy your stay here - and if there’s anything you need, just call the desk.”

I nodded and smiled, half - watching the stunned reaction of the cop - crowd right next to me. They were stupid with shock. Here they were arguing with every piece of leverage they could command, for a room they’d already paid for - and suddenly their whole act gets side - swiped by some crusty drifter who looks like something out of an upper - Michigan hobo jungle. And he checks in with a handful of credit cards! Jesus! What’s happening in this world?

3. Savage Lucy… ”Teeth Like Baseballs, Eyes Like Jellied Fire”

I gave my bag to the boy who scurried up, and told him to bring a quart of Wild Turkey and two fifths of Bacardi Anejo with a night’s worth of ice.

Our room was in one of the farthest wings of the Flamingo. The place is far more than a hotel: It is a sort of huge underfinanced Playboy Club in the middle of the desert. Something like nine separate wings, with interconnecting causeways and pools - a vast complex, sliced up by a maze of car - ramps and driveways. It took me about twenty minutes to wander from the desk to the distant wing we’d been assigned to.