She nodded. "I'll help any way that I can," she said. "But who should I call?"

"Don't worry," said my attorney. "What's your name?"

"Alice." she said. "Just ring Linen Service and ask for Alice."

"You'll be contacted," I said. "It'll take about a week. But keep your eyes open and try to act normal. Can you do that?"

"Oh, yes sir!" she said. "Will I see you gentlemen again?" She grinned sheepishly. "After this, I mean..

"No," said my attorney. "They sent us down from Carson City. You'll be contacted by Inspector Rock. Arthur Rock. He'll be posing as a politician, but you won't have any trouble recognizing him."

She seemed to be shuffling nervously.

"What's wrong?" I said. "Is there something you haven't told us?"

"Oh no!" she said quickly. "I was just wondering - who's going to pay me?"

"Inspector Rock will take care of that," I said. "It'll all be in cash: a thousand dollars on the ninth of every month."

"Oh Lord!" she exclaimed. "I'd do just about anything for that!"

"You and a lot of other people," said my attorney. "You'd be surprised who we have on the payroll - right here in this same hotel."

She looked stricken. "Would I know them?"

"Probably," I said. "But they're all undercover. The only way you'll ever know is if something really serious happens and one of them has to contact you in public, with the pa.s.s word."

"What is it?" she asked.

"'One Hand Washes the Other,"' I said. "The minute you hear that, you say: 'I fear nothing.' That way, they'll know you."

She nodded. repeating the code several times, while we listened tomake sure she had it right.

"OK," said my attorney. "That's it for now. We probably won;t be seeing you again until the hammer comes down. You'll be better off ignoring us until we leave. Don't bother to make up the room. Just elave a pile of towels and soap outside the door, exactly at modnight." He smiled. "That way, we won;t have to risk another one of these little incidents, will we?"

She moved towards the door. "Whatever you say gentlemen. I can;t tell you how sorry I am about what happened . . . but it was only because I didn't realize. realize."

My attorney ushered her out. "We understand," he said "But it's all over now. Thank G.o.d for the decent decent people." people."

She smiled as she closed the door behind her.

She nodded, repeating the code several times, while we lis tened to make sure she had it right.

"OK," said my attorney. "That's it for Dow. We probably won't be seeing you again until the hammer comes down. You'll be better off ignoring us until we leave. Don't bother to make up the room. Just leave a pile of towels and soap outside the door, exactly at midnight." lie smiled. "That way, we won't have to risk another one of theep little incidents, will we?"

12. Return to the Circus - Circus . . . Looking for the Ape . . . to h.e.l.l with the American Dream >Almost seventy-two hours had pa.s.sed since that strange encounter, and no maid had set foot in the room. I wondered what Alice had told them. We had seen her once, trundling a laundry cart across the parking area as we rolled up in the Whale but we offered no sign of recognition and she seemed understand.

But it couldn't last much longer. The room was full of used towels; they were hanging everywhere. The bathroom floor was about six inches deep with soap bars, vomit, and grape fruit rinds, mixed with broken gla.s.s. I had to put my boots on every I went in there to p.i.s.s. The nap of the mottled grey rug was so thick with marijuana seeds that it appeared to be turning green.

The general back-alley ambience of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul, that I figured I could probably get away with claiming it was some kind of "Life-slice exhibit" that we'd brought down from Haight Street, to show cops from other parts of the country how deep into filth and degeneracy the drug people will sink, if left to their own devices.

But what kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed catsup on the bureau?

Maybe so. But then why all this booze booze? and these crude p.o.r.nographic photos, ripped out of pulp magazines like Wh.o.r.es of Sweden and Orgies in the Casbah, that were plastered on the broken mirror with smears of mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust . . . and all these signs of violence, these strange red and blue bulbs and shards of broken gla.s.s embedded in the wall plaster . . .

No, these were not the hoofprints of your normal, G.o.dfearing junkie. It was far too aggressive. There was evidence, in this room, of excessive consumption of almost every type of drug known to civilized man since 1544 A.D. It could only be explained as a montage, a sort of exaggerated medical exhibit, put together very carefully to show what might happen if twenty-two serious drug felons - each with a different addiction - were penned up together in the same room for five days and nights, without relief.

Indeed. But of course that would never happen in Real Life, gentlemen. We just put this thing together for demonstration purposes . . .

Suddenly the phone was ringing, jerking me out of my fantasy stupor. I looked at it. Riiiinnnnnggggggg . . . Jesus, what now? Is this it? I could almost hear the shrill voice of the Manager, Mr. Heem, saying the police were on their way up to my room and would I please not shoot through the door when they began kicking it down.

Riinnnngggg . . . No, they wouldn't call first. Once they decided to take me, they would probably set an ambush in the elevator: first Mace, then a gang-swarm. It would come with no warning.

So I picked up the phone. It was my friend Bruce Innes, calling from the Circus-Circus. He had located the man who wanted to sell the ape I'd been inquiring about. The price was $750.

"What kind of a greedhead are we dealing with here?" I said. "Last night it was four hundred."

"He claims he just found out it was housebroken," said Bruce. "He let it sleep in the trailer last noght, and the thing actually shiot in the shower stall."

"That doesn't mean anything," I said. "Apes are attracted to water. Next time it'll s.h.i.t in the sink."

"Maybe you should come down and argue with the guy," said Bruce. "He's here in the bar with me. I told him you really wanted the ape and that you could give it a fine home. I think he'll negotiate. He's really attached to the stinking thing. It's here in the bar with us, sitting up on a G.o.dd.a.m.n stool, s...o...b..ring into a beer schooner."

"Okay," I said. "I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d get drunk. I want to meet him under natural conditions."

When I got to the Circus-Circus they were loading an old man into an ambulance outside the main door. "What happened?" I asked the car-keeper.

"I'm not sure," he said. "Somebody said he had a stroke. But I noticed the back of his head was all cut up." He slid into the Whale and handed me a stub. "You want me to save your drink for you?" he asked, holding up a big gla.s.s of tequila that was on the seat of the car. "I can put it in the cooler if want."

I nodded. These people were familiar with my habits. I had been in and out of the place so often, with Bruce and the and members, that the car-keepers knew me by name - although I'd never introduced myself, and n.o.body had ever asked me. I just a.s.sumed it was all part of the gig here; that that they'd probably rifled the glove compartment and found a notebook with my name on it.

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 a.s.sumed 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, n.o.body with any ambition is really what he appears to be,' there's not much risk in acting like a king-h.e.l.l freak. The, overseers will nod wisely at each other and mutter about "these G.o.dd.a.m.n no-cla.s.s put-ons."

The other side of that coin is the "G.o.dd.a.m.n! Who's that?" syndrome. This comes from people like doormen and floor- walkers who a.s.sume 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d back home on the plane with me. I've already reserved two first-cla.s.s seats - R. Duke and Son."

"Take him on the plane?"

"h.e.l.l 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 ha.s.sling 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."

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit," I said. "What's the bail 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 att.i.tude. 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l of a lot of noise for two hours every night. The Boss didn't give a flying f.u.c.k 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.

Several months later, in Aspen, Bruce sang the same songs in a club jammed with tourists and a former Astronaut* and when the last set was over, ___ came over to our table and began yelling all kinds of drunken, super-patriot gibber ish, hitting on Bruce about "What kind of nerve does a G.o.d d.a.m.n Canadian have to come down here and insult this country?"

"Say man," I said. "I'm an Amei-ican. I live here, and I agree with every f.u.c.king word he says."

At this point the hash-bouncers appeared, grinning inscrutably and saying: "Good evening to you gentlemen. The I Ching says it's time to be quiet, right? And n.o.body ha.s.sles the musicians in this place, is that clear?"

The Astronaut left, muttering darkly about using his in fluence to "get something done, d.a.m.n quick," about the Immigration Statutes. "What's your name?" he asked me, as the hash-bouncers eased him away.

"Bob Zimmerman," I said. "And if there's one thing I hate in this world, it's a G.o.dd.a.m.n bonehead Polack."

"You think I'm a Polack?" he screamed. "You dirty gold bricker! You're all s.h.i.t! You don't represent this country."

"Christ, let's hope to h.e.l.l you don't." Bruce Mmuttered. ____ was still raving as they muscled him out to the street.

T^he nest noght, in another restaurant, the Astronaut was scarfing his chow - stone soer - when a fourteen year old boy approached the table to ask for an autograph. ____ acted coy moment, feigning embarra.s.sment, then he scrawled his signature on the small piece of paper the boy handed him. The boy looked at it for a moment, then tore it into small pieces and dropped it in -____'s lap. "Not everybody loves you, man." he said. Then he went back and sat down at his own table about six feet away.

The Astronaut's party was speechiess. Eight or ten people - wives, managers and favored senior engineers, showing a good time in fabulous Aspen. Now they looked like somebody had just sprayed their table with s.h.i.t-mist. n.o.body a word. They ate quickly, and left without tipping.

So much for Aspen and astronauts. _____ would never have kind of trouble in LasVegas.

A little bit of this town goes a very long way. After five in Vegas you feel like you've been here for five years. Some people say they like it - but then some people like Nixon, too. He would have made a perfect Mayor for this town; with John Mitch.e.l.l as Sheriff and Agnew as Master of Sewers.

13. End of the Road . . .Death of the Whale . . . Soaking Sweats in the Airport.

When I tried to sit down at the baccarat table the bouncers the arm on me. "You don't belong here," one of them said quietly. "Let's go outside."

"Why not?" I said.

They took me out to the front entrance and signaled for the Whale to be brought up.

"Where's your friend?" they asked, while we waited.

'What friend?"

'The big spic."

"Look," I said. "I'm a Doctor of Journalism. You'd never me hanging around this place with a G.o.dd.a.m.n spic."

They. laughed. "Then what about this?" they said. And they confronted me with a big photograph of me and my attorney at a table in the floating bar.

I srugged. "That's not me," I said. "That's a guy named Thompson. He works for Rolling Stone Rolling Stone . . . a really vicious, crazy kind of person. And that guy sitting next to him is a hit man for the Mafia in Hollywood. s.h.i.t, have you studied this photograph? What kind of a maniac would roam around wearing . . . a really vicious, crazy kind of person. And that guy sitting next to him is a hit man for the Mafia in Hollywood. s.h.i.t, have you studied this photograph? What kind of a maniac would roam around wearing one black glove one black glove."

"We noticed that." They said. "Where is he now?"

I shrugged. "He moves around pretty fast. " I said. His oerders come out of St. Loius."

They stared at me. "How do you know all this stuff?"

I showed them my gold PBA badge, flashing it quickly with my back to the crowd. "Act natural," I whispered. "Don't put me on the spot."

They were still standing there when I drove off in the Whale. The geek had brought it up at exactly the right moment. I gave him a five-dollar bill and hit the street with a stylish screech of rubber.

It was all ovet now. I drove across to the Flamingo and loaded all my luggage into the car. I tried to put the top up, for privacy, but something was wrong with the motor. The generator light had been on, fiery red, ever since I'd driven the thing into Lake Mead on a water test. A quick run along the dashboard disclosed that every circuit in the car was to tally f.u.c.ked. Nothing worked. Not even the headlights-and when I hit the air conditioner b.u.t.ton I heard a nasty explosion under the hood.

The top was jammed about halfway up, but I decided to try for the airport. If this G.o.dd.a.m.n junker wouldn't run right, I could always abandon it and call a cab. To h.e.l.l with this gar bage from Detroit. They shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.