thunter.fearloathinglasvegas-第13部分

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　across　town；　trading　in　the　red　Chevy　convertible　for　a　white　Cadillac　and　checking　into　another　Vegas　hotel；　with　press　credentials　to　mingle　with　a　thousand　ranking　cops　from　all　over　America；　while　they　harangued　each　other　about　the　Drug　Problem。
　　It　was　dangerous　lunacy；　but　it　was　also　the　kind　of　thing　a　real　connoisseur　of　edge…work　could　make　an　argument　for。　Where；　for　instance；　was　the　last　place　the　Las　Vegas　police　would　look　for　a　drug…addled　fraud…fugitive　who　just　ripped　off　a　downtown　hotel？
　　Right。　In　the　middle　of　a　National　District　Attorneys'　Drug　Conference　at　an　elegant　hotel　on　the　strip。。。。　Arriving　at　Caesar's　Palace　for　the　Tom　Jones　dinner　show　in　a　flashing　white　Coupe　de　Ville。。。At　a　cocktail　party　for　narcotics　agents　and　their　wives　at　the　Dunes？
　　Indeed；　what　better　place　to　hide？　For　some　people。　But　not　for　me。　And　certainly　not　for　my　attorney…a　very　conspicuous　person。　Separately；　we　might　pull　it　off。　But　together；　no…we　would　blow　it。　Too　much　aggressive　chemistry　in　that　mix；　the　temptation　to　run　a　deliberate　freakout　would　be　too　heavy。
　　And　that　of　course　would　finish　us。　They　would　show　us　no　mercy。　To　infiltrate　the　infiltrators　would　be　to　accept　the　fate　of　all　spies：　〃As　always；　if　you　or　any　member　of　your　organization　is　apprehended　by　the　enemy；　the　Secretary　will　deny　any　Knowledge；。。。。　。
　　No；　it　was　too　much。　The　line　between　madness　and　masochism　was　already　hazy；　the　time　had　e　to　pull　back。。。to　retire；　hunker　down；　back　off　and　〃cop　out；〃　as　it　were。　Why　not？　In　every　gig　like　this；　there　es　a　time　to　either　cut　your　losses　or　consolidate　your　winnings…whichever　fits。
　　I　drove　slowly；　looking　for　a　proper　place　to　sit　down　with　an　early　morning　beer　and　get　my　head　together。。。to　plot　this　unnatural　retreat。
　　
　　　11。　Aaawww；　Mama；　Can　This　Really　Be　the　End？　Down　and　Out　in　Vegas；　with　Amphetamine　Psychosis　Again？
　　
　　Tuesday；　9：00　A。M。。。。　Now；　sitting　in　〃Wild　Bill's　Cafe〃　on　the　oputskirts　of　Las　Vegas；　I　saw　it　all　very　learly。　There　only　one　road　to　L。A。…U。S。　Intertate　15；　a　straight…run　with　no　backroads　or　alternate　routes；　just　a　flat…out　high…speed　burn　through　Baker　and　Barstow　and　Berdoo　and　then　on　the　Hollywood　Freeway　straight　into　frantic　oblivion：　safetly；　obscurity；　just　another　freak　in　the　Freak　Kingdom。
　　But　in　the　meantime；　for　the　next　five　or　six　hours；　I'd　be　the　most　conspicsous　thing　on　this　goddamn　evil　road…the　only　fireapple…red　shark　convertible　between　Butte　and　Tijauana。。。blazing　along　this　desert　highway　with　a　half　naked　hillbilly　mental　case　at　the　wheel。　Is　it　better　to　wear　my　purple　and　green　Acapulco　shirt；　or　nothing　at　all？
　　No　way　to　hide　in　this　monster。
　　This　will　not　be　a　happy　run。　Not　even　the　Sun　God　wants　to　watch。　He　is　gone　behind　a　cloud　for　the　first　time　in　three　days。　No　sun　at　all。　The　sky　is　grey　and　ugly。
　　Just　as　I　pulled　into　Wild　Bill's　back…street；　half…hidden　parking　lot　I　heard　a　roar　overhead　and　looked　up　to　see　a　big　silver　smoke…trailing　DC…8　taking　off…about　two　thousand　feet　above　the　highway。　Was　Lacerda　aboard？　The　man　fom　Life？　Did　they　have　all　the　photos　they　needed？　All　the　facts？　Had　they　fulfilled　their　responsibilities？
　　I　didn't　even　know　who'd　won　the　race。　Maybe　nobody。　For　all　I　knew；　the　whole　spectacle　had　been　aborted　by　a　terrible　riot…an　orgy　of　senseless　violence；　kicked　off　by　drunken　hoodlums　who　refused　to　abide　by　the　rules。
　　I　wanted　to　plug　this　gap　in　my　knowledge　at　the　earliest　opportunity：　Pick　up　the　L。A。　Times　and　scour　the　sports　section　for　a　Mint　400　story。　Get　the　details。　Cover　myself。　Even　on　the　Run；　in　the　grip　of　a　serious　Fear。。。
　　I　knew　it　was　Lacerda　in　that　plane；　heading　back　to　New　York。　He　told　me　last　night　that　he　meant　to　catch　the　first　flight。
　　So　there　he　goes。。。and　here　I　am；　with　no　attorney；　slumped　on　a　red　plastic　stool　in　Wild　Bill's　Tavern；　nervously　sipping　a　Budweiser　in　a　bar　just　ing　awake　to　an　early　morning　rush　of　pimps　and　pinball　hustlers　。。　。　with　a　huge　Red　Shark　just　outside　the　door　so　full　of　felonies　that　I'm　afraid　to　even　look　at　it。
　　But　I　can't　abandon　the　fucker。　The　only　hope　is　to　somehow　get　it　across　three　hundred　miles　of　open　road　between　here　and　Sanctuary。　But；　sweet　Jesus；　I　am　tired！　I'm　scared。　I'm　crazy。　This　culture　has　beaten　me　down。　What　the　fuck　am　I　doing　out　here？　This　is　not　even　the　story　I　was　supposed　to　be　working　on。　My　agent　warned　me　against　it。　All　signs　were　negative…especially　that　evil　Dwark　with　the　pink　telephone　in　the　Polo　Lounge。　I　should　have　stayed　there。。。anything　but　this。
　　Aaawww　。　。。　Mama　can　this　really　be　the　end？
　　No！
　　Who　played　that　song？　Did　I　actually　hear　that　fucking　thing　on　the　jukebox　just　now？　At　9：19　on　this　filthy　grey　morning　in　Wild　Bill's　Tavern？
　　No。　That　was　only　in　my　brain；　some　long…lost　echo　of　a　painful　dawn　in　Toronto。。。a　long　time　ago；　half…mad　in　another　world。。。；　but　no　different。
　　HELP！
　　How　many　more　nights　and　weird　mornings　can　this　terrible　shit　go　on？　How　long　can　the　body　and　the　brain　tolerate　this　doom…struck　craziness？　This　grinding　of　teeth；　this　pouring　of　sweat；　this　pounding　of　blood　in　the　temples。。。small　blue　veins　gone　amok　in　front　of　the　ears；　sixty　and　seventy　hours　with　no　sleep。
　　
　　And　now　that　is　the　jukebox！　Yes；　no　doubt　about　it　and　why　not？　A　very　popular　song：　〃Like　a　bridge　over　troubled　water　。　。。　I　will　lay　me　down。。。〃　BOOM。　Flashing　paranoia。　What　kind　of　rat…bastard　psychotic　would　play　that　song…right　now；　at　this　moment？　Has　somebody　followed　me　here？　Does　the　bartendress　know　who　I　am？　Can　she　see　me　behind　these　mirrors？
　　All　bartenders　are　treacherous；　but　this　one　is　a　surly　middle…aged　fat　woman　wearing　a　muu…muu　and　Iron　Boy　overalls。。。probably　Wild　Bill's　woman。
　　Jesus；　bad　waves　of　paranoia；　madness；　fear　and　loathing…intolerable　vibrations　in　this　place。　Get　out。　Flee。。。and　suddenly　it　occurs　to　me；　some　final　flash　of　lunatic　shrewdness　before　the　darkness　closes　in；　that　my　legal/hotel　checkout　time　is　not　until　noon。。。which　gives　me　at　least　two　hours　of　legitimate　high…speed　driving　to　get　out　of　this　goddamn　state　before　I　bee　a　fugitive　in　the　eyes　of　the　law。
　　Wonderful　luck。　By　the　time　the　alarm　goes　off；　I　can　be　running　full　bore　somewhere　between　Needles　and　Death　Valley…jamming　the　accelerator　through　the　floorboard　and　shaking　my　fist　up　at　Efrem　Zimbalist；　Jr。；　swooping　down　on　me　in　his　FBI/Screaming　Eagle　helicopter。
　　
　　YOU　CAN　RUN；　BUT　YOU　CAN'T　HIDE　（。。。warning　to　smack　dealers　seen　on　a　bulletin　board　in　Boulder；　CO。）
　　
　　Fuck　you；　Efrem；　that　wisdom　cuts　both　ways。
　　As　far　as　you　and　the　Mint　people　know；　I　am　still　up　there　l850…legally　and　spiritually　if　not　in　the　actual　flesh…a　〃Do　Not　Disturb〃　sign　hung　out　to　ward　off　disturb…The　maids　won't　e　near　that　room　as　long　as　that　sign　is　on　the　doorknob。　My　attorney　saw　to　that…along　with　600　bars　of　Neutrogena　soap　that　I　still　have　to　deliver　to　Malibu。　What　will　the　FBI　make　of　that？　This　Great　Red　Shark　full　of　Neutrogena　soap　bars？　All　pletely　legal。　The　maids　gave　us　that　soap。　They'll　swear　to　it。。。Or　will　they？
　　Of　course　not。　Those　goddamn　treacherous　maids　will　swear　they　were　menaced　by　two　heavily…armed　crazies　who　threatened　them　with　a　Vincent　Black　Shadow　unless　they　gave　up　all　their　soap。
　　Jesus　Creeping　God！　Is　there　a　priest　in　this　tavern？　I　want　to　confess！　I'm　a　fucking　sinner！　Venal；　mortal；　carnal；　major；　minor…however　you　want　to　call　it；　Lord。。。I'm　guilty。
　　But　do　me　this　one　last　favor：　just　give　me　five　more　high…speed　hours　before　you　bring　the　hammer　down；　just　let　me　get　rid　of　this　goddamn　car　and　off　of　this　horrible　desert。
　　Which　is　not　really　a　hell　of　a　lot　to　ask；　Lord；　because　the　incredible　truth　is　that　I　am　not　guilty。　All　I　did　was　take　your　gibberish　seriously。。。and　you　see　where　it　got　me？　My　primitive　Christian　instincts　have　made　me　a　criminal。　Creeping　through　the　casino　at　six　in　the　morning　with　a　suitcase　full　of　grapefruit　and　〃Mint　400〃　T…shirts；　I　remember　telling　myself；　over　and　over　again；　〃You　are　not　guilty。〃　This　is　merely　a　necessary　expedient；　to　avoid　a　nasty　scene。　After　all；　I　made　no　binding　agreements；　this　is　an　institutional　debt…nothing　personal。　This　whole　goddamn　nightmare　is　the　fault　of　that　stinking；　irresponsible　magazine。　Some　fool　in　New　York　did　this　to　me。　It　was　his　idea；　Lord；　not　mine。
　　And　now　look　at　me：　half…crazy　with　fear；　driving　120　miles　an　hour　across　Death　Valley　in　some　car　I　never　even　wanted。　You　evil　bastard！　This　is　your　work！　You'd　better　take　care　of　me；　Lord。。。because　if　you　don't　you're　going　to　have　me　on　your　hands。
　　
　　　12。　Hellish　Speed。。。Grappling　with　the　California　Highway　Patrol。。。Mano　a　Mano　on　Highway　61
　　
　　Tuesday；　12：30　P。M。。。。Baker；　California。。。Into　the　Ballantine　Ale　now；　zombie　drunk　and　nervous。　I　recognize　this　feeling：　three　or　four　days　of　booze；　drugs；　sun；　no　sleep　and　burned　out　adrenalin　reserves…a　giddy；　quavering　sort　of　high　that　means　the　crash　is　ing。　But　when？　How　much　longer？　This　tension　is　part　of　the　high。　The　possibility　of　physical　and　mental　collapse　is