Fear and loathing in Las Vegas, and other American stories (15 page)

My attorney sagged. “He was my
cousin.
The jury found him
innocent
.”

“Shit!” I snapped. “How many people has that junkie bastard shot since we’ve known him? Six? Eight? That evil little fuck is so guilty that I should probably kill him myself, on general principles. He shot that narc just as sure as he killed that girl at the Holiday Inn . . . and that guy in Ventura!”

He eyed me coldly. “You better be careful, man. You’re into some heavy
slander.”

I laughed, tossing my luggage together in a lump at the foot of the bed while I sat down to finish my drink. I actually intended to leave. I didn’t really want to, but I figured that nothing I could possibly do with this gig was worth the risk of getting tangled up with Lucy . . . No doubt she was a beautiful person, if she ever got straight . . . very sensitive, with a secret reserve of fine karma underneath her Pit Bull act; a great talent with fine instincts . . . Just a heavy little gal who unfortunately went stone crazy somewhere prior to her eighteenth birthday.

I had nothing personal against her. But I knew she was perfectly capable—under these circumstances—of sending us both to prison for at least twenty years, on the strength of some heinous story we would probably never even hear until she took the stand:

“Yessir, those two men over there in the dock are the ones who gave me the LSD and took me to the hotel . . .”

“And what did they do then, Lucy?”

“Well, sir, I can’t rightly remember . . .”

“Indeed? Well, perhaps this document from the District Attorney’s files will refresh your memory, Lucy . . . This is the statement you made to Officer Squane shortly after you were found wandering naked in the desert near Lake Mead.”

“I don’t know for sure what they done to me, but I remember it was horrible. One guy picked me up in the Los Angeles airport; he’s the one who gave me the pill . . . and the other one met us at the hotel; he was sweating real bad and he talked so fast that I couldn’t understand what he wanted . . . No sir, I don’t recall
exactly
what they did to me at that point, because I was still under the influence of that drug . . . yessir, the LSD they gave me . . . and I think I was naked for a long time, maybe the whole time they had me there. I think it was evening, because I remember they had the news on. Yessir, Walter Cronkite, I remember his face all through it . . .”

No, I was not ready for this. No jury would doubt her testimony, especially when it came stuttering out through a fog of tears and obscene acid flashbacks. And the fact that she couldn’t recall precisely what we had done to her would make it impossible to deny. The jury would
know
what we’d done. They would have read about people like us in the $2.95 paperbacks:
Up to the Hilt
and
Only Skin Deep
. . . and seen our type in the $5 fuck-flicks.

And of course we couldn’t possibly risk taking the stand in our own defense—not after they’d cleaned out the trunk of the Whale: “And I’d like to point out, Your Honor, that our Prosecution Exhibits A through Y are available to the jury—yes, this incredible collection of illegal drugs and narcotics which the defendants had in their possession at the time of their arrests and forcible seizure by no less than
nine
officers, six of whom are still hospitalized . . . and also Exhibit Z, sworn testimony by three professional narcotics experts selected by the president of the National District Attorneys’ Conference—which was seriously embarrassed by the defendants’ attempts to infiltrate, disrupt and pervert their annual convention . . . these experts have testified that the drug cache in the possession of these defendants at the time of the arrests was enough to
kill
an entire platoon of United States Marines . . . and gentlemen, I use the word kill with all due respect for the fear and loathing I’m sure it provokes in every one of you when you reflect that these
degenerate
rapists used this galaxy of narcotics to
completely destroy
the mind and morals of this once-innocent teenager, this
ruined
and degraded young girl who now sits before you in shame . . . yes, they fed this girl enough drugs to scramble her brains so horribly that she can no longer even
recall
the filthy details of that orgy she was forced to endure . . . and then they
used
her, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, for their own unspeakable ends!”

There was no way to cope with it. I stood up and gathered my luggage. It was important, I felt, to get out of town immediately.

My attorney seemed to finally grasp this. “Wait!” he shouted. “You can’t leave me alone in this snake pit! This room is in my
name.”

I shrugged.

“OK, goddamnit,” he said, moving toward the phone. “Look, I’ll
call
her. I’ll get her off our backs.” He nodded. “You’re right. She’s my problem.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s gone too far.”

“You’d make a piss-poor lawyer,” he replied. “Relax. I’ll handle this.”

He dialed the Americana and asked for 1600. “Hi, Lucy,” he said. “Yeah, it’s me. I got your message . . . what? Hell no, I taught the bastard a lesson he’ll never forget . . . what? . . . No, not dead, but he won’t be bothering anybody for a while . . . yeah, I left him out there; I stomped him, then pulled all his teeth out . . .”

Jesus, I thought. What a terrible thing to lay on somebody with a head full of acid.

“But here’s the problem,” he was saying. “I have to leave here right away. That bastard cashed a bad check downstairs and gave
you
as a reference, so they’ll be looking for both of you . . . yeah, I know, but you can’t judge a book by its cover, Lucy; some people are just basically rotten . . . anyway, the last thing in the world you want to do is call this hotel again; they’ll trace the call and put you straight behind bars . . . no, I’m moving to the Tropicana right away; I’ll call you from there when I know my room number . . . yeah, probably two hours; I have to act casual, or they’ll capture
me
too . . . I think I’ll probably use a different name, but I’ll let you know what it is . . . sure, just as soon as I check in . . . what? . . . of course; we’ll go to the Circus-Circus and catch the polar bear act; it’ll freak you right out . . .”

He was nervously shifting the phone from ear to ear while he talked: “No . . . listen, I have to get off; they probably have the phone tapped . . . yeah, I know, it was horrible, but it’s all over now . . . O MY GOD! THEY’RE KICKING THE DOOR DOWN!” He hurled the phone down and began shouting: “No! Get away from me! I’m innocent! It was Duke! I swear to God!” He kicked the phone against the wall, then leaned down to it and began yelling again: “No, I don’t know
where
she is! I think she went back to Montana. You’ll never catch Lucy! She’s gone!” He kicked the receiver again, then picked it up and held it about a foot away from his mouth as he uttered a long, quavering groan. “No! No! Don’t put that
thing
on me!” he screamed. Then he slammed the phone down.

“Well,” he said quietly. “That’s that. She’s probably stuffing herself down the incinerator about now.” He smiled. “Yeah, I think that’s the last we’ll be hearing from Lucy.”

I slumped on the bed. His performance had given me a bad jolt. For a moment I thought his mind had snapped—that he actually believed he was being attacked by invisible enemies.

But the room was quiet again. He was back in his chair, watching
Mission Impossible
and fumbling idly with the hash pipe. It was empty. “Where’s that opium?” he asked.

I tossed him the kit-bag. “Be careful,” I muttered. “There’s not much left.”

He chuckled. “As your attorney,” he said, “I advise you not worry.” He nodded toward the bathroom. “Take a hit out of that little brown bottle in my shaving kit.”

“What is it?”

“Adrenochrome,” he said. “You won’t need much. Just a little
tiny
taste.”

I got the bottle and dipped the head of a paper match into it.

“That’s about right,” he said. “That stuff makes pure mescaline seem like ginger beer. You’ll go completely crazy if you take too much.”

I licked the end of the match. “Where’d you get
this?
” I asked. “You can’t buy it.”

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s absolutely pure.”

I shook my head sadly. “Jesus! What kind of monster client have you picked up
this
time? There’s only one source for this stuff . . .”

He nodded.

“The adrenaline glands from a
living
human body,” I said. “It’s no good if you get it out of a corpse.”

“I know,” he replied. “But the guy didn’t have any cash. He’s one of these Satanism freaks. He offered me human blood—said it would make me higher than I’d ever been in my life,” he laughed. “I thought he was kidding, so I told him I’d just as soon have an ounce or so of pure adrenochrome—or maybe just a fresh adrenalin gland to chew on.”

I could already feel the stuff working on me. The first wave felt like a combination of mescaline and methedrine. Maybe I should take a swim, I thought.

“Yeah,” my attorney was saying. “They nailed this guy for child molesting, but he swears he didn’t do it. ‘Why should I fuck with
children?
’ he says; ‘They’re too
small!
’” He shrugged. “Christ, what could I say? Even a goddamn werewolf is entitled to legal counsel . . . I didn’t
dare
turn the creep down. He might have picked up a letter opener and gone after my pineal gland.”

“Why not?” I said. “He could probably get Melvin Belli for that.” I nodded, barely able to talk now. My body felt like I’d just been wired into a 220 volt socket. “Shit, we should get us some of that stuff.” I muttered finally. “Just eat a big handful and see what happens.”

“Some of what?”

“Extract of pineal.”

He stared at me. “Sure,” he said. “That’s a
good
idea. One
whiff
of that shit would turn you into something out of a goddamn medical encyclopedia! Man, your head would swell up like a watermelon, you’d probably gain about a hundred pounds in two hours . . . claws, bleeding warts, then you’d notice about six huge hairy tits swelling up on your back . . .” He shook his head emphatically. “Man, I’ll try just about anything; but I’d never in hell touch a pineal gland.

“Last Christmas somebody gave me a whole Jimson weed—the root must have weighed two pounds; enough for a
year—
but I ate the whole goddamn thing in about twenty minutes!”

I was leaning toward him, following his words intently. The slightest hesitation made me want to grab him by the throat and force him to talk faster. “Right!” I said eagerly. “Jimson weed! What happened?”

“Luckily, I vomited most of it right back up,” he said. “But even so, I went blind for three days. Christ I couldn’t even walk! My whole body turned to wax. I was such a mess that they had to haul me back to the ranch house in a wheelbarrow . . . they said I was trying to talk, but I sounded like a raccoon.”

“Fantastic,” I said. But I could barely hear him. I was so wired that my hands were clawing uncontrollably at the bedspread, jerking it right out from under me while he talked. My heels were dug into the mattress, with both knees locked . . . I could feel my eyeballs swelling, about to pop out of the sockets.

“Finish the fucking story!” I snarled. “What
happened?
What about the
glands?”

He backed away, keeping an eye on me as he edged across the room. “Maybe you need another drink,” he said nervously. “Jesus, that stuff got right on
top
of you, didn’t it?”

I tried to smile. “Well . . . nothing worse . . . no, this
is
worse . . .” It was hard to move my jaws; my tongue felt like burning magnesium. “No . . . nothing to worry about,” I hissed. “Maybe if you could just . . . shove me into the pool, or something . . .”

“Goddamnit,” he said. “You took too
much.
You’re about to explode. Jesus, look at your
face!”

I couldn’t move. Total paralysis now. Every muscle in my body was contracted. I couldn’t even move my eyeballs, much less turn my head or talk.

“It won’t last long,” he said. “The first rush is the worst. Just ride the bastard out. If I put you in the pool right now, you’d sink like a goddamn stone.”

Death. I was sure of it. Not even my lungs seemed to be functioning. I needed artificial respiration, but I couldn’t open my mouth to say so. I was going to
die.
Just sitting there on the bed, unable to move . . . well at least there’s no pain. Probably, I’ll black out in a few seconds, and after that it won’t matter.

My attorney had gone back to watching television. The news was on again. Nixon’s face filled the screen, but his speech was hopelessly garbled. The only word I could make out was “sacrifice.” Over and over again: “Sacrifice . . . sacrifice . . . sacrifice. . . .”

I could hear myself breathing heavily. My attorney seemed to notice. “Just stay relaxed,” he said over his shoulder, without looking at me. “Don’t try to fight it, or you’ll start getting brain bubbles . . . strokes, aneurisms . . . you’ll just wither up and die.” His hand snaked out to change channels.