"Thompson, Hunter S. - Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Hunter S)

How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family. Will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car? If so - well, we?ll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere. Because it goes without saying that we can?t turn him loose. He?ll report us at once to some kind of outback nazi law enforcement agency, and they?ll run us down like dogs.
Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me? I glanced over at my attorney, but he seemed oblivious - watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark along at a hundred and ten or so. There was no sound from the back seat.Maybe I?d better have a chat with this boy, I thought. Perhape if I explain things, he?ll rest easy.
Of course. I leaned around in the seat and gave him a fine big smile . . . admiring the shape of his skull.?By the way,? I said. ?There?s one thing you should probably understand.?
He stared at me, not blinking. Was he gritting his teeth?
?Can you hear me?? I yelled.
He nodded.
?That?s good,? I said. ?Because I want you to know that we?re on our way to Las Vegas to find the American Dream.? I smiled. ?That?s why we rented this car. It was the only way to do it. Can you grasp that??
He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous.
?I want you to have all the background,? I said. ?Because this is a very ominous assignment - with overtones of extreme personal danger. . . . Hell, I forgot all about this beer; you want one??
He shook his head.
?How about some ether?? I said.
?What??
?Never mind. Let?s get right to the heart of this thing. You see, about twenty - four hours ago we were sitting in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel - in the patio section, of course - and we were just sitting there under a palm tree when this uniformed dwarf came up to me with a pink telephone and said, ?This must be the call you?ve been waiting for all this time, sir.??
I laughed and ripped open a beer can that foamed all over the back seat while I kept talking. ?And you know? He was right! I?d been expecting that call, but I didn?t know who it would come from. Do you follow me??
The boy?s face was a mask of pure fear and bewilderment. I blundered on: ?I want you to understand that this man at the wheel is my attorney! He?s not just some dingbat I found on the Strip. Shit, look at him! He doesn?t look like you or me, right? That?s because he?s a foreigner. I think he?s probably Samoan. But it doesn?t matter, does it? Are you prejudiced??
?Oh, hell no!? he blurted.
?I didn?t think so,? I said. ?Because in spite of his race, this man is extremely valuable to me.? I glanced over at my attorney, but his mind was somewhere else.
I whacked the back of the driver?s seat with my fist. ?This is important, goddamnit! This is a true story!? The car swerved sickeningly, then straightened out. ?Keep your hands off my fucking neck!? my attorney screamed. The kid in the back looked like he wasready to jump right out of the car and take his chances.Our vibrations were getting nasty - but why? I was puzzled, frustrated. Was there no communication in this car? Had we deteriorated to the level of dumb beasts?
Because my story was true. I was certain of that. And it was extremely important, I felt, for the meaning of our journey to be made absolutely clear. We had actually been sitting there in the Polo Lounge - for many hours - drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side and beer chasers. And when the call came, I was ready.
The Dwark approached our table cautiously, as I recall, and when he handed me the pink telephone I said nothing, merely listened. And then I hung up, turning to face my attorney.
?That was headquarters,? I said. ?They want me to go to Las
Vegas at once, and make contact with a Portuguese photographer named Lacerda. He?ll have the details. All I have to do is check into my suite and he?ll seek me out.?
My attorney said nothing for a moment, then he suddenly came alive in his chair. ?God hell!? he exclaimed. ?I think I see the pattern. This one sounds like real trouble!? He tucked his khaki undershirt into his white rayon bellbottoms and called for more drink. ?You?re going to need plenty of legal advice before this thing is over,? he said. ?And my first advice is that you should rent a very fast car with no top and get the hell out of L.A. for at least forty - eight hours.? He shook his head sadly. ?This blows my weekend, because naturally I?ll have to go with you - and we?ll have to ann ourselves.?
?Why not?? I said. ?If a thing like this is worth doing at all, it?s worth doing right. We?ll need some decent equipment and plenty of cash on the line - if only for drugs and a super - sensitive tape recorder, for the sake of a permanent record.?
?What kind of a story is this?? he asked.
?The Mint 400,? I said. ?It?s the richest off - the - road race for motorcycles and dune - buggies in the history of organized sport - a fantastic spectacle in honor of some fatback grossero named Del Webb, who owns the luxurious Mint Hotel in the heart of downtown Las Vegas . . . at least that?s what the press release says; my man in New York just read it to me.?
?Well,? he said, ?as your attorney I advise you to buy a motorcycle. How else can you cover a thing like this righteously??
?No way,? I said. ?Where can we get hold of a Vincent Black Shadow??
?What?s that??
?A fantastic bike,? I said. ?The new model is something like two thousand cubic inches, developing two hundred brake - horsepower at four thousand revolutions per minute on a magnesium frame with two styrofoam seats and a total curb weight of exactly two hundred pounds.?
?That sounds about right for this gig,? he said.
?It is? I assured him. ?The fucker?s not much for turning, but it?s pure hell on the straightaway. It?ll outrun the F - ill until takeoff.?
?Takeoff?? he said. ?Can we handle that much torque??
?Absolutely,? I said. ?I?ll call New York for some cash.?
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2. The Seizure of $300 from a Pig Woman In Beverly Hills
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The New York office was not familiar with the Vincent Black Shadow: they referred me to the Los Angeles bureau - which is actually in Beverly Hills just a few long blocks from the Polo Lounge - but when I got there, the money - woman refused to give me more than $300 in cash. She had no idea who I was, she said, and by that time I was pouring sweat. My blood is too thick for California: I have never been able to properly explain myself in this climate. Not with the soaking sweats . . . wild red eyeballs and trembling hands.
So I took the $300 and left. My attorney was waiting in a bar around the corner. ?This won?t make the nut,? he said, ?unless we have unlimited credit.?
I assured him we would. ?You Samoans are all the same,? I told him. ?You have no faith in the essential decency of the white man?s culture. Jesus, just one hour ago we were sitting over there in that stinking baiginio, stone broke and paralyzed for the weekend, when a call comes through from some total stranger in New York, telling me to go to Las Vegas and expenses be damned - and then he sends me over to some office in Beverly Hills where another total stranger gives me $300 raw cash for no reason at all . . . I tell you, my man, this is the American Dream in action! We?d be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way out to the end.?
?Indeed,? he said. ?We must do it.?
?Right,? I said. ?But first we need the car. And after that, the cocaine. And then the tape recorder, for special music, and some Acapulco shirts.? The only way to prepare for a trip like this, I felt, was to dress up like human peacocks and get crazy, then screech off across the desert and cover the stary.
Never lose sight of the primary responsibility. But what was the story? Nobody had bothered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own. Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Horatio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas. Do it now: pure Gonzo journalism.
There was also the socio - psychic factor. Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax, as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether.
Getting hold of the drugs had been no problem, but the car and the tape recorder were not easy things to round up at 6:30 on a Friday afternoon in Hollywood. I already had one car, but it was far too small and slow for desert work. We went to a Polynesian bar, where my attorney made seventeen calls before locating a convertible with adequate horsepower and proper coloring.
?Hang onto it,? I heard him say into the phone. ?We?ll be over to make the trade in thirty minutes.? Then after a pause, he began shouting: ?What? Of course the gentleman has a major credit card! Do you realize who the fuck you?re talking to??
?Don?t take any guff from these swine,? I said as he slammed the phone down. ?Now we need a sound store with the finest equipment. Nothing dinky. We want one of those new Belgian Heliowatts with a voice - activated shotgun mike, for picking up conversations in oncoming cars.?
We made several more calls and finally located our equip - ment in a store about five miles away. It was closed, but the salesman said he would wait, if we hurried. But we were de - layed en route when a Stingray in front of us killed a pedestrian on Sunset Boulevard. The store was closed by the time we got there. There were people inside, but they refused to come to the double - glass door until we gave it a few belts and made ourselves clear.
Finally two salesmen brandishing tire irons came to the door and we managed to negotiate the sale through a tiny slit. Then they opened the door just wide enough to shove the equipment out, before slamming and locking it again. ?Now take that stuff and get the hell away from here,? one of them shouted through the slit.
My attorney shook his fist at them. ?We?ll be back,? he yelled. ?One of these days I?ll toss a fucking bomb into this place! I have your name on this sales slip! I?ll find out where you live and burn your house down!?