thunter.fearloathinglasvegas-第24节

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　about　two　hundred　yards；　watching　for　cops　in　the　mirror　while　my　attorney　kept　screaming　at　them：　〃Shoot！　Fuck！　Scag！　Blood！　Heroin！　Rape！　Cheap！　munist！　Jab　it　right　into　your　fucking　eyeballs！〃　We　were　approaching　the　Circus…Circus　at　high　speed　and　the　Oklahoma　car　was　veering　left；　trying　to　muscle　into　the　turn　lane。　I　stomped　the　Whale　into　passing　gear　and　we　ran　fender　to　fender　for　a　moment。　He　wasn't　up　to　hitting　me；　there　was　horror　in　his　eyes。
　　The　man　in　the　back　seat　lost　control　of　himself。。。lunging　across　his　wife　and　snarling　wildly：　〃You　dirty　bastards！　Pull　over　and　I'll　kill　you！　God　damn　you！　You　bas　tards！〃　He　seemed　ready　to　leap　out　the　window　and　into　our　car；　crazy　with　rage。　Luckily　the　Ford　was　a　two…door。　He　couldn't　get　out。
　　We　were　ing　up　to　the　next　stoplight　and　the　Ford　was　still　trying　to　move　left。　We　were　both　running　full　bore。　I　glanced　over　my　shoulder　and　saw　that　we'd　left　the　other　traffic　far　behind；　there　was　a　big　opening　to　the　right。　So　I　mashed　on　the　brake；　hurling　my　attorney　against　the　dash　board；　and　in　the　instant　the　Ford　surged　ahead　I　cut　across　his　tail　and　zoomed　into　a　side…street。　A　sharp　right　turn　across　three　lanes　of　traffic。　But　it　worked。　We　left　the　Ford　stalled　in　the　middle　of　the　intersection；　hung　in　the　middle　of　a　screeching　left　turn。　With　a　little　luck；　he'd　be　arrested　for　reckless　driving。
　　My　attorney　was　laughing　as　we　careened　in　low　gear；　with　the　light　sout；　through　a　dusty　tangle　of　backstreets　behind　the　Desert　Inn。　〃Jesus　Christ；〃　he　said。　〃Those　Okies　were　getting　excited。　That　guy　in　the　back　seat　was　trying　to　bite　me！　Shit；　he　was　frothing　at　the　mouth。〃　He　nodded　solemnly。　〃I　should　have　maced　the　fucker。。。a　criminal　psychotic；　total　breakdown。。。you　never　know　when　they're　likely　to　explode。〃　I　swung　the　Whale　into　a　turn　that　seemed　to　lead　out　of　the　maze…but　instead　of　skidding；　the　bastard　almost　rolled。
　　〃Holy　shit！〃　my　attorney　screamed。　〃Turn　on　the　fucking　lights！〃　He　was　clinging　to　the　top　of　the　windshield。。。and　suddenly　he　was　doing　the　Big　Spit　again；　leaning　over　the　side。
　　I　refused　to　slow　down　until　I　was　sure　nobody　was　following　us…especially　that　Oklahoma　Ford：　those　people　were　definitely　dangerous；　at　least　until　they　calmed　down。　Would　they　report　that　terrible　quick　encounter　to　the　police？　Probably　not。　It　had　happened　too　fast；　with　no　witnesses；　and　the　I　were　pretty　good　that　nobody　would　believe　them　anyway。　The　idea　that　two　heroin　pushers　in　a　white　Cadillac　convertible　would　be　dragging　up　and　down　the　Strip；　abusing　total　strangers　at　stoplights；　was　prima　facie　absurd。　Not　even　Sonny　Liston　ever　got　that　far　out　of　control。
　　We　made　another　turn　and　almost　rolled　again。　The　Coupe　de　Ville　is　not　your　ideal　machine　for　high　speed　cornering　in　residential　neighborhoods。　The　handling　is　very　mushy。。。unlike　the　Red　Shark；　which　had　responded　very　nicely　to　situations　requiring　the　quick　four…wheel　drift。　But　the　Whale　Bad　of　cutting　loose　at　the　critical　moment…had　a　tendency　to　dig　in；　which　accounted　for　that　sickening　〃here　we　go'　sensation。
　　At　first　I　thought　it　was　only　because　the　tires　were　soft；　so　I　took　it　into　the　Texaco　station　next　to　the　Flamingo　and　had　the　tires　pumped　up　to　fifty　pounds　each…which　alarmed　the　attendant；　until　I　explained　that　these　were　〃experimental〃　tires。
　　But　fifty　pounds　each　didn't　help　the　cornering；　so　I　swent　back　a　few　hours　later　and　told　him　I　wanted　to　try　seventy　five。　He　shook　his　head　nervously。　〃Not　me；〃　he　said；　handing　me　the　air　hgose。　〃Here。　They're　your　tires。　You　do　it。〃
　　〃What's　wrong？〃　I　asked。　〃You　think　they　can't　take　seventy…five？〃　He　nodded；　moving　away　as　I　stooped　to　deal　with　the　left　front。　〃You're　damn　right；〃　he　said。　〃Those　tires　want　twenty　eight　in　the　front　and　thirty　two　in　the　rear。　Hell；　fifty's　dangerous；　but　seventy　five　is　crazy。　They'll　explode！〃　I　shook　my　head　and　kept　filling　the　left　front。　〃I　told　you；〃　I　said；　〃Sandoz　laboratories　designed　these　tires。　They're　special。　I　could　load　them　up　to　a　hundred。
　　〃God　almighty！〃　he　groaned。　〃Don't　do　that　here。〃
　　〃Not　today；〃　I　replied。　〃I　want　to　see　how　they　corner　with　seventy…five。〃　He　chuckled。　〃You　won't　even　get　to　the　corner；　Mister。〃
　　〃We'll　see；〃　I　said；　moving　around　to　the　rear　with　the　air…　hose。　In　truth；　I　was　nervous。　The　two　front　ones　were　tighter　than　snare　drums；　they　felt　like　teak　wood　when　I　tapped　on　them　with　the　rod。　But　what　the　hell？　I　thought。　If　they　ex　plode；　so　what？　It's　not　often　that　a　man　gets　a　chance　to　run　terminal　experiments　on　a　virgin　Cadillac　and　four　brand…　new　80　tires。　For　all　I　knew；　the　thing　might　start　cornering　like　a　Lotus　Elan。　If　not；　all　I　had　to　do　was　call　the　VIP　agency　and　have　another　one　delivered。。。maybe　threaten　them　with　a　lawsuit　because　all　four　tires　had　exploded　on　me；　while　driving　in　heavy　traffic。　Demand　an　Eldorado；　next　time；　with　four　Michelin　Xs。　And　put　it　all　on　the　card。。。charge　it　to　the　St　Louis　Browns。
　　As　it　turned　out；　the　Whale　behaved　very　nicely　with　the　altered　tire　pressures。　The　ride　was　a　trifle　rough；　I　could　feel　every　pebble　on　the　highway；　like　being　on　roller　skates　in　a　gravel　pit。。；　but　the　thing　began　cornering　in　a　very　stylish　manner；　very　much　like　driving　a　motorcycle　at　top　speed　in　a　hard　rain：　one　slip　and　ZANG；　over　the　high　side；　cartwheel　ing　across　the　landscape　with　your　head　in　your　hands。
　　
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　　About　thirty　minutes　after　our　brush　with　the　Okies　we　pulled　into　an　all…night　diner　on　the　Tonopah　highway；　on　the　kirts　of　a　mean/scag　ghetto　called　〃North　Las　Vegas。〃　Which　is　actually　outside　the　city　limits　of　Vegas　proper。　North　Vegas　is　where　you　go　when　you've　fucked　up　once　too　often　on　the　Strip；　and　when　you're　not　even　wele　in　the　cut…rate　downtown　places　around　Casino　Center。
　　This　is　Nevada's　answer　to　East　St。　Louis…a　slum　and　a　graveyard；　last　stop　before　permanent　exile　to　Ely　or　Winnemuca。　North　Vegas　is　where　you　go　if　you're　a　hooker　turning　thirty　and　the　syndicate　men　on　the　Strip　decide　you're　no　longer　much　good　for　business　out　there　with　the　high　rollers　。。　。　or　if　you're　a　pimp　with　bad　credit　at　the　Sands。。。or　what　they　still　call；　in　Vegas；　〃a　hophead。〃　This　can　mean　almost　anything　from　a　mean　drunk　to　a　junkie；　but　in　terms　of　mercial　acceptability；　it　means　you're　finished　all　the　right　places。
　　The　big　hotels　and　casinos　pay　a　lot　of　muscle　to　make　sure　high　rollers　don't　have　even　momentary　hassles　with　〃undesirables。〃　Security　in　a　place　like　Caesar's　Palace　is　super　tense　and　strict。　Probably　a　third　of　the　people　on　the　floor　at　given　time　are　either　shills　or　watchdogs。　Public　drunks　known　pickpockets　are　dealt　with　instantly…hustled　out　parking　lot　by　Secret　Service　type　thugs　and　given　a　impersonal　lecture　about　the　cost　of　dental　work　and　of　trying　to　make　a　living　with　two　broken　erms。
　　The　〃high　side〃　of　Vegas　is　probably　the　most　closed　society　west　of　Sicily…and　it　makes　no　difference；　in　terms　of　the　lay　life…style　of　the　place；　whether　the　Man　at　the　Top　is　Lucky　Luciano　or　Howard　Hughes。　In　an　economy　where　Tom　Jones　can　make　75；000　a　week　for　two　shows　a　night　at　Caeser's；　the　palace　guard　is　indispensable；　and　they　don't　care　who　signs　their　paychecks。　A　gold　mine　like　Vegas　breeds　it's　own　army；　like　any　other　gold　mine。　Hired　muscle　tends　to　accumulate　in　fast　layers　around　money/power　poles。。。and　big　money；　in　Vegas；　is　synonymous　with　the　Power　to　protect　it。
　　So　once　you　get　blacklisted　on　the　Strip；　for　any　reason　at　all；　you　either　get　out　of　town　or　retire　to　nurse　your　act　along；　on　the　cheap；　in　the　shoddy　limbo　of　North　Vegas。。。out　there　with　the　gunsels；　the　hustlers；　the　drug　cripples　and　all　the　other　losers。　North　Vegas；　for　instance；　is　where　you　go　if　you　need　to　score　smack　before　midnight　with　no　refer　ences。
　　But　if　you're　looking　for　cocaine；　and　you're　ready　up　front　with　some　bills　and　the　proper　code　words；　you　want　to　stay　on　the　Strip　and　get　next　to　a　well…connected　hooker；　which　will　take　at　least　one　bill　for　starters。
　　And　so　much　for　all　that。　We　didn't　fit　the　mold。　There　is　no　formula　for　finding　yourself　in　Vegas　with　a　white　Cadillac　full　of　drugs　and　nothing　to　mix　with　properly。　The　Fillmore　style　never　quite　caught　on　here。　People　like　Sinatra　and　Dean　Martin　are　still　considered　〃far　out〃　in　Vegas。　The　〃underground　newspaper〃　here…the　Las　Vegas　Free　Press…is　a　cautious　echo　of　The　People's　World；　or　maybe　the　National　Guardian。
　　A　week　in　Vegas　is　like　stumbling　into　a　Time　Warp；　a　regression　to　the　late　fifties。　Which　is　wholly　understandable　when　you　see　the　people　who　e　here；　the　Big　Spenders　from　places　like　Denver　and　Dallas。　Along　with　National　Elks　Club　conventions　（no　niggers　allowed）　and　the　All…West　Volunteer　Sheepherders'　Rally。　These　are　people　who　go　abso　lutely　crazy　at　the　sight　of　an　old　hooker　stripping　down　to　her　pasties　and　prancing　out　on　the　runway　to　the　big…beat　sound　of　a　dozen　50…year…old　junkies　kicking　out　the　jams　on　〃September　Song。〃
　　
　　It　was　some　time　around　three　when　we　pulled　into　the　parking　lot　of　the　North　Vegas　diner。　I　was　looking　for　a　copy　of　t