Fear and Loating in Las Vegas. A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream

Indeed. There is always room on TV for a man who can beat people to jelly in nine flat ...But not many of these gathered, on this night, in the North Star Coffee Lounge. We had the place to ourselves—which proved to be fortunate, because we’d eaten two more pellets of mescaline on way over, and the effects were beginning to manifest.

My attorney was no longer vomiting, or even acting sick. He ordered coffee with the authority of a man long accustmed to quick service. The waitress had the appearance of a hooker who had finally found her place in life. She was definitely in charge here, and she eyed us with obvious disapproval as we settled onto our stools.

I was’nt paying much attention. The North Star Coffee Lounge seemed like a fairly safe haven from our storms. There are some you go into—in this line of work—that you know will be heavy. The details don’t matter. All you know, for sure, is that your brain starts humming with brutal vibes as you approach the front door. Something wild and evil is about to happen; and it’s going to involve you.

But there was nothing in the atmosphere of the North Star to put me on my guard. The waitress was passively hostile, but I was accustomed to that. She was a big woman. Not fat, but large in every way, long sinewy arms and a brawler’s jawbone. A burned-out caricature of Jane Russell: big head of dark hair, face slashed with lipstick and a 48 Double-E chest that was probably spectacular about twenty years ago when she might have been a Mama for the Hell’s Angels chapter in Berdoo ...but now she was strapped up in a giant pink elastic brassiere that showed like a bandage through the sweaty white rayon of her uniform.

Probably she was married to somebody, but I didn’t feel like speculating. All I wanted from her, tonight, was a cup of black coffee and a 29 cent hamburger with pickles and onions. No hassles, no talk—just a place to rest and re-group. I wasn’t even hungry.

My attorney had no newspaper or anything else to compel his attention. So he focused, out of boredom, on the waitress. She was taking our orders like a robot when he punched through her crust with a demand for “two glasses of ice water—with ice.”

My attorney drank his in one long gulp, then asked for an other. I noticed that the waitress seemed tense.

Fuck it, I thought. I was reading the funnies.

About ten minutes later, when she brought the hamburg ers, I saw my attorney hand her a napkin with something printed on it. He did it very casually, with no expression at all on his face. But I knew, from the vibes, that our peace was about to be shattered.

“What was that?” I asked him.

He shrugged, smiling vaguely at the waitress who was standing about ten feet away, at the end of the counter, keeping her back to us while she pondered the napkin. Finally she turned and stared ...then she stepped resolutely forward and tossed the napkin at my attorney.

“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.