“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m insured.” I showed him the contract, pointin to the small-print clause where it said I was insured against ALL damages, for only two dollars a day.
The kid was still nodding when I fled. I felt a bit guilty about leaving him to deal with the car. There was no way explain the massive damage. It was finished, a wreck, totaled out. Under normal circumstances I would have been seized and arrested when l tried to turn it in . . . but not at this of the morning, with only this kid to deal with. I was, all, a “VIP.” Otherwise, they would never have chartered the car to me in the first place . . . ..
Let the chickens come home to roost, I thought as I hurried into the airport. It was still too early to act normal, so I hunkered down in the coffee shop behind the LA. Times. Some where down the corridor a jukebox was playing “One Toke Over the Line.” I listened for a moment, but my nerve ends no longer receptive. The only song I might have been to relate to, at that point, was “Mister Tambourine .” Or maybe “Memphis Blues Again . . .
“Aww, mama.. . can this really. . . be the end . . . ?”
>My plane left at eight, which meant I had two hours to kill. Feeling desperately visible. There was no doubt in my mind they were looking for me; the net was closing down . . . only a matter of time before they ran me down like some kind of rabid animal.
I checked all my luggage through the chute. All but the satchel, which was full of drugs. And the .357. Did they have the goddamn metal detector system in this airport? I strolled around to the boarding gate and tried to look casual while I cased the area for black boxes. None were visible. I to take the chance-just zip through the gate with a big smile on my face, mumbling distractedly about “a bad slump in the hardware market. ..
Just another failed salesman checking out. Blame it all on that bastard Nixon. Indeed. I decided it might look more natural if I found somebody to chat with-a routine line of small talk, between passengers:
“Hy’re yew, fella! I huess you’re probably wonderin’ what make sme sweat like this? Yeah! Well, god damn, man! Have you read the newspapers today? . . . You’d never believe what those dirty bastards have doen this time!”
I figured that would cover it . . . But I could’nt find anybody who looked safe enough to talk to. The whole airport was full of people who looked like they might go for my float ing rib if I made a false move. I felt very paranoid . . . like some kind of criminal skullsucker on the lam from Scotland Yard.
Everywhere I looked I saw Pigs . . . because on that morn ing the Las Vegas airport was full of cops: the mass exodus after the climax of the District Attorneys’ Conference. When I finally put this together I felt much better about the health of my own brain
EVERYTHING
seems to be ready.
Are you Ready?
Ready?
Well, why not? This is a heavy day in Vegas. A thousand cops are checking out of town, scurrying through the airport in groups of three and six. They are heading back home. The drug conference is finished. The Airport Lounge is humming with mean talk and bodies. Short beers and Bloody Marys, here and there a victim of chest rash rubbing Mexsana under the armpit straps of a thick shoulder holster. No point hiding this business any longer. Let it all hang out . . . or at least get some air to it.
Yes, thank you kindly. . I think I busted a button on my trousers. I hope they don’t fall down. You don’t want my trousers to fall down now, do you?
Fuck no. Not today. N ot right here in the middle of the Las Vegas airport, on this sweaty -hard morning at the tail end of this mass meeting on the Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.