Then we drove her out to the airport, saying we were going to trade the White Whale in for a Mercedes 600, and my attorney took her into the lobby with all her gear. She was still unhinged and babbling when he led her away. I drove around a corner and waited for him.
Ten minutes later he shuffled up to the car and got in. “Take off slowly,” he said. “Don’t attract any attention.”
When we got out on Las Vegas Boulevard he explained that he’d given one of the airport cab – hasslers a $10 bill to see that his “drunk girlfriend” got to the Americana, where she had a reservation. “I told him to make sure she got there,” he said.
“You think she will?”
He nodded. “The guy said he’d pay the fare with the extra five bucks I gave him, and tell the cabbie to humor her. I told him I had some business to take care of, but I’d be there myself in an hour – and if the girl wasn’t already checked in, I’d come back out here and rip his lungs out.”
“That’s good,” I said. “You can’t be subtle in this town.” He grinned. “As your attorney, I advise you to tell me where you put the goddamn mescaline.”
I pulled over. The kit – bag was in the trunk. He fetched out two pellets and we each ate one. The sun was going down behind the scrub hills northwest of the city. A good Kristofferson tune was croaking out of the radio. We cruised back to town through the warm dusk, relaxed on the red leather seats of our electric white Coupe de Ville.
“Maybe we should take it easy tonight,” I said as we flashed past the Tropicana.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s find a good seafood restaurant and some red salmon. I feel a powerful lust for red salmon.”
I agreed. “But first we should go back to the hotel and set – in. Maybe have a quick swim and some rum.”
He nodded, leaning back on the seat and staring up at the sky. Night was coming down slowly.
4. No Refuge for Degenerates . . . Reflections on a Muderous Junkie
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We drove through the parking lot of the Flamingo and around the back, through the labyrinth, to our wing. No problem with parking, no problem with theelevator, and the suite was dead quiet when we entered: half-dark and peacefully elegant, with big sliding walls opening out on the lawn and the pool.
The only thing moving in the room was the red-blinking message light on the telephone. “Probably room service,” I said. “I ordered some ice and booze. I guess it came while we were gone.
My attorney shrugged. “We have plenty,” he said. “But we might as well get more. Hell yes, tell them to send it up.”
I picked up the phone and dialed the desk. “What’s the mes sage?” I asked. “My light is blinking.”
The clerk seemed to hesitate. I could hear papers shuffling. “Ah yes,” he saidfinally. “Mister Duke? Yes, you have two messages. One says, ‘Welcome to Las Vegas, from the Na tional District Attorneys’ Association.”‘
“Wonderful,” I said.
“ . . . . and the other,” he continued, “says, ‘Call Lucy at the Americana, room 1000.”‘
‘What?”
He repeated the message. There was no mistake.
“Holy shit!” I muttered.
“Excuse me?” said the clerk.
I hung up.
• • •
>
My attorney was doing the Big Spit again, in the bathroom. I walked out on the balcony and stared at the pool, this kidney-shaped bag of bright water that shimmered outside our suite. I felt like Othello. Here I’d only been in town a few hours, and we’d already laid the groundwork for a classic tragedy. The hero was doomed; he had already sown the seed of his own downfall.
But who was the Hero of this filthy drama? I turned away from the pool and confronted my attorney, now emerging from the bathroom and wiping his mouth with a towel. His eyes were glazed and limpid. “This goddamn mescaline,” he muttered. “Why the fuck can’t they make it a little less pure? Maybe mix it up with Rolaids, or something?”