Fear and loathing in Las Vegas, and other American stories by Hunter S. Thompson

Author:Hunter S. Thompson
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Autobiography, Performing Arts, USA, Editors, Literary, Political Science, Thompson, General, Publishers, American Journalism, History & Criticism, Journalists, Press & journalism, Literature: Texts, Popular Culture & Media: General Interest, Language Arts & Disciplines, Hunter S, Journalism, United States, American English, Film & Video, Modern fiction, Literature: History & Criticism, Biography & Autobiography, Biography
ISBN: 9780679602316
Publisher: Modern Library
Published: 1996-12-13T20:00:00+00:00

I drove straight to the hotel after renting the car. There was still no sign of my attorney, so I decided to check in on my own - if only to get off the street and avoid a public breakdown. I left the Whale in a VIP parking slot and shambled self - consciously into the lobby with one small leather bag - a hand - crafted, custom - built satchel that had just been made for me by a leathersmith friend in Boulder.

Our room was at the Flamingo, in the nerve - center of theStrip: right across the street from Caesar’s Palace and the Dunes - site of the Drug Conference. The bulk of the conferees were staying at the Dunes, but those of us who signed up fashionably late were assigned to the Flamingo.

The place was full of cops. I saw this at a glance. Most of them were just standing around trying to look casual, all dressed exactly alike in their cut - rate Vegas casuals: plaid bermuda shorts, Arnie Palmer golf shirts and hairless white legs tapering down to rubberized “beach sandals.” It was a terrifying scene to walk into - a super stakeout of some kind. If I hadn’t known about the conference my mind might have snapped. You got the impression that somebody was going to be gunned down in a blazing crossfire at any moment - maybe the entire Manson Family.

My arrival was badly timed. Most of the national DAs and other cop - types had already checked in. These were the people who now stood around the lobby and stared grimly at newcomers. What appeared to be the Final Stakeout was only about two hundred vacationing cops with nothing better to do. They didn’t even notice each other.

I waded up to the desk and got in line. The man in front of me was a Police Chief from some small town in Michigan. His Agnew - style wife was standing about three feet off to his right while he argued with the desk clerk: “Look, fella - I told you I have a postcard here that says I have reservations in this hotel. Hell, I’m with the District Attorneys’ Conference! I’ve already paid for my room.”

“Sorry, sir. You’re on the ‘late list.’ Your reservations were transferred to the . . . ah . . . Moonlight Motel, which is out on Paradise Boulevard and actually a very fine place of lodging and only sixteen blocks from here, with its own pool and . . .

“You dirty little faggot! Call the manager! I’m tired of listening to this dogshit!”

The manager appeared and offered to call a cab. This was obviously the second or maybe even the third act in a cruel drama that had begun long before I showed up. The police chief’s wife was crying; the gaggle of friends that he’d mustered for support were too embarrassed to back him up - even now, in this showdown at the desk, with this angry little cop firing his best and final shot.

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