“What is this?” she snapped.
“A napkin,” said my attorney.
There was a moment of nasty silence, then she began screaming: “Don’t give me that bullshit! I know what it is! You goddamn fat pimp bastard!”
My attorney picked up the napkin, looked at what he’d written, then dropped it back on the counter. “That’s the name of a horse I used to own,” he said calmly. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You sonofabitch!” she screamed. “I take a lot of shit in place, but I sure as hell don’t have to take it off a spic pimp!”
Jesus! I thought. What’s happening? I was watching the woman’s hands, hoping she wouldn’t pick up anything sharp and heavy. I picked up the napkin and read what the bastard printed on it, in careful red letters: “Back Door Beauty?” The question mark was emphasized.
The woman was screaming again: “Pay your bill and get hell out! You want me to call the cops?”
I reached for my wallet, but my attorney was already on feet, never taking his eyes off the woman . . . then he reached under his shirt, not into his pocket, coming up suddenly with the Gerber Mini-Magnum, a nasty silver blade the the waitress seemed to understand instantly.
She froze: her eyes fixed wildly on the blade. My attorney, watching her, moved about six feet down the aisle and the receiver off the hook of the pay phone. He sliced it off, then brought the receiver back to his stool and sat down.
The waitress didn’t move. I was stupid with shock, not whether to run or start laughing.
“How much is that lemon meringue pie?” my attorney’s voice was casual, as if he had
just wandered into and was debating what to order.
“Thirty five cents!” the woman blurted. Her eyes were turgid with fear but her brain was apparently functioning on some basic motor survival leveL
My attorney laughed. “I mean the whole pie,” he said.
She moaned.
My attorney put a bill on the counter. “Let’s say it’s five dollars,” he said. “OK?”
She nodded, still frozen, watching my attorney as he walked around the counter and got the pie out of the display case. I prepared to leave.
The waitress was clearly in shock. The sight of the blade, jerked out in the heat of an argument, had apparently triggered bad memories. The glazed look in her eyes said her throat had been cut. She was still in the grip of paralysis when we left.
9. Breakdown on Paradice Blvd.
>
EDITOR’S NOTE:
At this point in the chronology, Dr. Duke appears to have broken down completely; the original manuscript is so splintered that we were forced to seek out the original tape record ing and transcribe it verbatim. We made no attempt to edit this section, and Dr. Duke refused even to read it. There was only one way to reach him. The only address/contact we had, during this period, was a mobile phone unit somewhere on Highway 61 – and all efforts to reach Duke at that number proved futile. In the interests of journalistic purity, we are publishing the following section just as it came off the tape – one of many that Duke submitted for purposes of verification – along with manuscript. According to the tape, this section follows an episode involving Duke, his attorney and a waitress at an all – diner in North Vegas. The rationale for the following section appears to be based on a feeling – shared by both Duke and his attorney – that the American Dream would to be sought out somewhere far beyond the dreary confines District Attorneys’ Confrrence on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.
The transcription begins somewhere on the Northeast out of Las Vegas – zooming along Paradise Road in the White Whale . . . >
Att’y: Boulder City is to the right. Is that a town?
Duke: Yeah
Att’y: Let’s go to Boulder City.
Duke: All right. Let’s get some coffee somewhere . . .
Att’y: Right up here, Terry’s Taco Stand, USA. I could go for a taco. Five for a buck.
Duke: Sounds horrible. I’d rather go somewhere where’s there’s one for 5O cents.