“Dobermans don’t talk,” I said.
“What?”
“Sometimes it’s easier to just rip out the backstraps,” said attorney.
“They’ll fight like hell if you try to take the I without dogs.”
“God almighty!”
We left him at the bar, swirling the ice in his drink and not smiling. He was worried about whether or not to tell his wife It it. “She’d never understand,” he muttered. “You know women are.”
I nodded. My attorney was already gone, scurrying through of slot machines toward the front door. I said goodbye end, warning him not to say anything about what him.
8. Back Door Beauty . . . Finally a Bit of Serious Drag Racing on the Strip
>Sometime around midnight my attorney wanted coffee. He bad been vomiting fairly regularly as we drove around the Strip, and the right flank of the Whale was badly streaked. We were idling at a stoplight in front of the Silver Slipper beside a big blue Ford with Oklahoma plates . . . two hoggish- looking couples in the car, probably cops from Muskogee using the Drug Conference to give their wives a look at Vegas. They looked like they’d just beaten Caesar’s Palace for about $38 at the blackjack tables, and now they were headed for the Circus-Circus to whoop it up . . . .
but suddenly, they found themselves next to a white Cadillac convertible all covered with vomit and a 300-pound Samoan in a yellow fishnet T-shirt yelling at them: “Hey there! You folks want to buy some heroin?”
No reply. No sign of recognition. They’d been warned about this kind of crap: Just ignore it . . .
‘Hey, honkies!” my attorney screamed. “Goddamnit, I’m serious! I want to sell you some pure fuckin’ smack!” He was hanging out of the car, very close to them. But still nobody an swered. I glanced over, very briefly, and saw four middle Americanan faces frozen with shock, staring straight ahead.
We were in the middle lane. A quick left turn would be ille would have to go straight ahead when the light en escape at the next corner. I waited, tapping the accelerator nervously . . .
My attorney was losing control: “Cheap heroin!” he was shouting. “This is the real stuff You won’t get hooked! God damnit, I know what I have here!” He whacked on the side of the car, as if to get their attention.., but they wanted no part of us.
“You folks never talked to a vet before?” said my attorney. “I just got back from Veet Naam. This is scag, folks! Pure scag!”
Suddenly the light changed and the Ford bolted off like a rocket. I stomped on the accelerator and stayed right next to them for about two hundred yards, watching for cops in the mirror while my attorney kept screaming at them:
“Shoot! Fuck! Scag! Blood! Heroin! Rape! Cheap! Communist! Jab it right into your fucking eyeballs!”
We were approaching the Circus-Circus at high speed and the Oklahoma car was veering left, trying to muscle into the turn lane. I stomped the Whale into passing gear and we ran fender to fender for a moment. He wasn’t up to hitting me; there was horror in his eyes.
The man in the back seat lost control of himself . . . lunging across his wife and snarling wildly: “You dirty bastards! Pull over and I’ll kill you! God damn you! You bas tards!” He seemed ready to leap out the window and into our car, crazy with rage. Luckily the Ford was a two-door. He couldn’t get out.
We were coming up to the next stoplight and the Ford was still trying to move left. We were both running full bore. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that we’d left the other traffic far behind; there was a big opening to the right. So I mashed on the brake, hurling my attorney against the dash board, and in the instant the Ford surged ahead I cut across his tail and zoomed into a side-street. A sharp right turn across three lanes of traffic. But it worked. We left the Ford stalled in the middle of the intersection, hung in the middle of a screeching left turn. With a little luck, he’d be arrested for reckless driving.