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

The real reason, which didn’t occur to me at the time, was that I was still wearing my ID/badge from the District Attorney’s Conference. It was dangling from the pocket-flap of my multi-colored bird-shooting jacket, but I’d long since forgotten about it. No doubt they all assumed I was some kind of super wierd undercover agent ... or maybe not; maybe they were just humoring me because they figured anybody crazy enough to pose as a cop while driving around Vegas in a white Cadillac convertible with a drink in his hand almost had to be Heavy, and perhaps even dangerous. In a scene where, nobody with any ambition is really what he appears to be,’ there’s not much risk in acting like a king-hell freak. The, overseers will nod wisely at each other and mutter about “these goddamn no-class put-ons.”

The other side of that coin is the “Goddamn! Who’s that?” syndrome. This comes from people like doormen and floor-walkers who assume that anybody who acts crazy, but still tips big, must be important-which means he should be hu mored, or at least treated gently.

But none of this makes any difference with a head full of mescaline. You justblunder around, doing anything that seems to be right, and it usually is. Vegas is so full of natural freaks-people who are genuinely twisted-that drugs aren’t really a problem, except for cops and the scag syndicate. Psychedelics are almost irrelevant in a town where you can wan der into a casino any time of the day or night and witness the crucifixion of a gorilla-on a flaming neon cross that suddenly turns into a pinwheel, spinning the beast around in wild cir cles above the crowded gambling action.

I found Bruce at the bar, but there was no sign of the ape. “Where is it?” I demanded. “I’m ready to write a check. I want to take the bastard back home on the plane with me. I’ve already reserved two first-class seats—R. Duke and Son.”

“Take him on the plane?”

“Hell yes,” I said. “You think they’d say anything? Call at tention to my son’s infirmities?”

He shrugged. “Forget it,” he said. “They just took him away. He attacked an old man right here at the bar. The creep started hassling the bartender about 'allowing barefoot rabble in the place’ and just about then the ape let out a shriek-so the loud the guy threw a beer at him, and the ape went crazy, came out of his seat like a jack-in-the box and took a big bite out of the old man’s head ...the bartender had to call an ambulance, then the cops came and took the ape away.”

“Goddamnit,” I said. “What’s the bail? I want that ape.”

“Get a grip on yourself,” he said. “You better stay clear of that jail. That’s all they need to put the cuffs on you. Forget that ape. You don’t need him.”

I gave it some thought, then decided he was probably right. There was no sense blowing everything just for the sake of some violent ape I’d never met. For all I knew, hed take a bite out of my head if I tried to bail him out. It would take him a while to calm down, after the shock of being put behind bars, and I couldnt afford to wait around.

“When are you taking off?” Bruce asked.

“As soon as possible,” I said. No point hanging around this town any lobger. IU have all I need. Anything else would only confuse me.”

He seemed suprised. “You found the American Dream?” he said. “In this town?”

I nodded. “We’re sitting on the main nerve rightnow,” I said. “You remember that story the manager told us about the owner of this place? How he always wanted to run away and join the circus when he was a kid?”

Bruce ordered two more beers. He looked over the casino for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” he said. “Now the bastard has his own circus, and a license to steal, too.” He nodded. “You’re right—he’s the model.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s pure Horatio Alger, all the way down to his attitude. I tried to tell the woman that I agreed with everything he stood for, but she said if I knew what was good for me I’d get the hell out of town and not even think about bothering the Boss. “He really hates reporters” she said. “I don’t mean this to sound like a warning, bit if I were you I’d take it that way ... “”

Bruce nodded. The Boss was paying him a thousand bucks a week to work two sets a night in the Leopard Lounge, andanother two grand for the group. All they had to do was make a hell of a lot of noise for two hours every night. The Boss didn’t give a flying fuck what kind of songs they sang, just as long as the beat was heavy and the amps were turned up loud enough to lure people into the bar.

It was strange to sit there in Vegas and hear Bruce singing powerful stuff like “Chicago” and “Country Song.” If the management had bothered to hear the lyrics, the whole band would have been tarred and feathered.