in my mind that I was into a superior machine.
The Caddy wouldn’ tget off the line quite as fast as the RedShark, but once it got rol around eighty – it was pure smooth hell . . . all that elegant, upholstered weight lashing across the desert was like rolling through midnight on the old California Zephyr. – –
I handled the whole transaction with a credit card that I later learned was “banceled” – completely bogus. But the Big Computer hsdn’t mixed me yet, so I was still a fat gold credit risk.
Later, looking back on this transaction, I knew the conversation that had almost certainly etisued:
“Hello. This is VIP car – rentals in Las Vegas. We’re calling to check on Number 875 – 045 – 6169. Just a routine credit check, nothing urgent . . . (Long pause at the other end. Then:) “Holy shit!”
“What?”
“Pardon me. . . Yes, we have that number. It’s been placed on emergency redline status. Call the police at once and don’t let him out of your sight!”
(Another long pause) “Well . . . ah . . . you see, that number is not on our current Red List, and . . . ah . . . Number875 – 045 – 616 – B just left our lot in a new Cadillac convertible.”
“No!”
“Yes. He’s long gone; totally insured.”
“Where?”
“I think he said St. Louis. Yes, that’s what the card says.
Raoul Duke, leftfielder batting champion of the St. Loui sBrowns. Five days at $25 per, plus twenty – five cents a mile.His card was valid, so of course we had no choice . . . This is true. The car rental agency had no legal reason to hassle me, since my card was technically valid. During the next four days I drove that car all over Las Vegas – even the VIP agency’s main office on Paradise Boulevard several times – and at no time was I bothered by any show of rudeness.
This is one of the hallmarks of Vegas hospitality. The only bedrock rule is Don’t Burn the Locals. Beyond that, nobody cares. They would rather not know. If Charlie Manson checked into the Sahara tomorrow morning, nobody would hassle him as long as he tipped big.
I drove straight to the hotel after renting the car. There was still no sign of my attorney, so I decided to check in on my own – if only to get off the street and avoid a public breakdown. I left the Whale in a VIP parking slot and shambled self – consciously into the lobby with one small leather bag – a hand – crafted, custom – built satchel that had just been made for me by a leathersmith friend in Boulder.
Our room was at the Flamingo, in the nerve – center of theStrip: right across the street from Caesar’s Palace and the Dunes – site of the Drug Conference. The bulk of the conferees were staying at the Dunes, but those of us who signed up fashionably late were assigned to the Flamingo.
The place was full of cops. I saw this at a glance. Most of them were just standing around trying to look casual, all dressed exactly alike in their cut – rate Vegas casuals: plaid bermuda shorts, Arnie Palmer golf shirts and hairless white legs tapering down to rubberized “beach sandals.” It was a terrifying scene to walk into – a super stakeout of some kind. If I hadn’t known about the conference my mind might have snapped. You got the impression that somebody was going to be gunned down in a blazing crossfire at any moment – maybe the entire Manson Family.
My arrival was badly timed. Most of the national DAs and other cop – types had already checked in. These were the people who now stood around the lobby and stared grimly at newcomers. What appeared to be the Final Stakeout was only about two hundred vacationing cops with nothing better to do. They didn’t even notice each other.
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.”