Fear and loathing in Las Vegas, and other American stories by Hunter S. Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

“while you were out getting the car washed. He said he was turning in early, so he can get out there to the starting line at dawn.”
    My attorney was not listening. He uttered an anguished cry and smacked the wall with both hands. “That dirty bastard!” he shouted. “I
knew
it! He got hold of my woman!”
    I laughed. “That little blonde groupie with the film crew? You think he sodomized her?”
    “That’s right—
laugh
about it!” he yelled. “You goddamn honkies are all the same.” By this time he’d opened a new bottle of tequila and was quaffing it down. Then he grabbed a grapefruit and sliced it in half with a Gerber Mini-Magnum—a stainless-steel hunting knife with a blade like a fresh-honed straight razor.
    “Where’d you get that knife?” I asked.
    “Room service sent it up,” he said. “I wanted something to cut the limes.”
    “What limes?”
    “They didn’t have any,” he said. “They don’t grow out here in the desert.” He sliced the grapefruit into quarters . . . then into eighths . . . then sixteenths . . . then he began slashing aimlessly at the residue. “That dirty toad bastard,” he groaned. “I
knew
I should have taken him out when I had the chance. Now he
has
her.”

    I remembered the girl. We’d had a problem with her on the elevator a few hours earlier: my attorney had made a fool of himself.
    “You must be a rider,” she’d said. “What class are you in?”
    “Class?” he snapped. “What the fuck do you mean?”
    “What do you
ride?”
she asked with a quick smile. “We’re filming the race for a TV series—maybe we can use you.”
    “
Use
me?”
    Mother of God, I thought. Here it comes. The elevator was crowded with race people: it was taking a long time to get from floor to floor. By the time we’d stopped at Three, he was trembling badly. Five more to go. . . .
    “I ride the
big ones!”
he shouted suddenly. “The really
big
fuckers!”
    I laughed, trying to de-fuse the scene. “The Vincent Black Shadow,” I said. “We’re with the factory team.”
    This brought a murmur of rude dissent from the crowd. “Bullshit,” somebody behind me muttered.
    “Wait a minute!” my attorney shouted . . . and then to the girl: “Pardon me, lady, but I think there’s some kind of ignorant chicken-sucker in this car who needs his face cut open.” He plunged his hand into the pocket of his black plastic jacket and turned to face the people crowded into the rear of the elevator. “You cheap honky faggots,” he snarled. “Which one of you wants to get cut?”
    I was watching the overhead floor-indicator. The door opened at Seven, but nobody moved. Dead silence. The door closed. Up to Eight . . . then open again. Still no sound or movement in the crowded car. Just as the door began to close I stepped off and grabbed his arm, jerking him out just in time. The doors slid shut and the elevator light dinged Nine.
    “Quick! Into the room,” I said. “Those bastards will have the pigs on us!” We ran around the corner to the room. My attorney was laughing wildly. “Spooked!” he shouted. “Did you see
that?
They were
spooked.
Like rats in a death-cage!” Then, as we bolted the door behind us, he stopped laughing. “God damn,” he said. “It’s
serious
now. That girl understood. She fell in love with me.”
    Now, many hours later, he was convinced that Lacerda—the so-called photographer—had somehow got his hands on the girl. “Let’s go up there and
castrate
that fucker,” he said, waving his new knife around in quick circles in front of his teeth. “Did
you
put him onto her?”
    “Look,” I said, “you’d better put that goddamn blade away and get your head straight. I have to put the car in the lot.” I was backing slowly towards the door. One of the things you learn, after years of dealing with drug people, is that
everything
is serious. You can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug—especially when it’s waving