The sun was coming up when I got to the airport. I left the Whale in the VIP parking lot. A kid about fifteen years old checked it in, but I refused to answer his questions. He was very excited about the overall condition of the vehicle. "Holy G.o.d!" he kept shouting. "How did this happen?" He kept moving around the car, pointing at various dents, rips and crushed places.

"I know," I said. "They beat the s.h.i.t out of it. This is a ter rible G.o.dd.a.m.n town for driving around in convertibles. The worst time was right out on the Boulevard in front of the Sahara. You know that corner where all the junkies hang out? Jesus, I couldn't believe it when they all went crazy at once."

The kid was none too bright. His face had gone blank early on, and now heseemed in a state of mute fear.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm insured." I showed him the contract, pointin to the small-print clause where it said I was insured against ALL damages, for only two dollars a day.

The kid was still nodding when I fled. I felt a bit guilty about leaving him to deal with the car. There was no way explain the ma.s.sive damage. It was finished, a wreck, totaled out. Under normal circ.u.mstances I would have been seized and arrested when l tried to turn it in . . . but not at this of the morning, with only this kid to deal with. I was, all, a "VIP." Otherwise, they would never have chartered the car to me in the first place . . . ..

Let the chickens come home to roost, I thought as I hurried into the airport. It was still too early to act normal, so I hunkered down in the coffee shop behind the LA. Times. Some where down the corridor a jukebox was playing "One Toke Over the Line." I listened for a moment, but my nerve ends no longer receptive. The only song I might have been to relate to, at that point, was "Mister Tambourine ." Or maybe "Memphis Blues Again . . .

"Aww, mama.. . can this really. . . be the end . . . ?"

>My plane left at eight, which meant I had two hours to kill. Feeling desperately visible. There was no doubt in my mind they were looking for me; the net was closing down . . . only a matter of time before they ran me down like some kind of rabid animal.

I checked all my luggage through the chute. All but the satchel, which was full of drugs. And the .357. Did they have the G.o.dd.a.m.n metal detector system in this airport? I strolled around to the boarding gate and tried to look casual while I cased the area for black boxes. None were visible. I to take the chance-just zip through the gate with a big smile on my face, mumbling distractedly about "a bad slump in the hardware market. ..

Just another failed salesman checking out. Blame it all on that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Nixon. Indeed. I decided it might look more natural if I found somebody to chat with-a routine line of small talk, between pa.s.sengers: "Hy're yew, fella! I huess you're probably wonderin' what make sme sweat like this? Yeah! Well, G.o.d d.a.m.n, man! Have you read the newspapers today? . . . You'd never believe what those dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have doen this time!"

I figured that would cover it . . . But I could'nt find anybody who looked safe enough to talk to. The whole airport was full of people who looked like they might go for my float ing rib if I made a false move. I felt very paranoid . . . like some kind of criminal skullsucker on the lam from Scotland Yard.

Everywhere I looked I saw Pigs . . . because on that morn ing the Las Vegas airport was full of cops: the ma.s.s exodus after the climax of the District Attorneys' Conference. When I finally put this together I felt much better about the health of my own brain

EVERYTHING.

seems to be ready.

Are you Ready?

Ready?

Well, why not? This is a heavy day in Vegas. A thousand cops are checking out of town, scurrying through the airport in groups of three and six. They are heading back home. The drug conference is finished. The Airport Lounge is humming with mean talk and bodies. Short beers and b.l.o.o.d.y Marys, here and there a victim of chest rash rubbing Mexsana under the armpit straps of a thick shoulder holster. No point hiding this business any longer. Let it all hang out . . . or at least get some air to it.

Yes, thank you kindly. . I think I busted a b.u.t.ton on my trousers. I hope they don't fall down. You don't want my trousers to fall down now, do you?

f.u.c.k no. Not today. N ot right here in the middle of the Las Vegas airport, on this sweaty -hard morning at the tail end of this ma.s.s meeting on the Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.

"When the train . . . come in the station . . . I looked her in the eye. . . "

>Grim music in the airport.

"Yes, it's hard to tell it''s hard to tell, when all your love's in Vain..."

Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everythings in vain . . . a stone b.u.mmer from start to finish; if you know what's good for you, on days like these you sortof hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit. Lay back on a cheap wooden chair, screened off from traffic, and shrewdly rip the poptops out of five or eight Budweisers . . . smoke off a pack of King Marlboros, eat a nut-b.u.t.ter sandwich, and finally toward evening gobble a wad of good mescaline . .. then drive out, later on, to the beach. Get out in the surf, in the fog, and slosh along on numb-frozen feet about ten yards out from the tideline. . . stomping through tribes of wild sandp.e.c.k.e.rs . . . riderunners, wh.o.r.ehoppers, stupid little birds and crabs and saltsuckershere and there a big pervert or woolly reject gimp off in the distance, wandering alone by themselves behind dunes and driftwood. . . .

These are the ones you will never be properly introduced to - at least not if your luck holds. But the beach is less complicated than a boiling fast morning in the Las Vegas airport.

I felt very obvious. Amphetamine psychosis? Paranoid dementia? - What is it? My Argentine luggage? This crippled, walk that once made me a reject from the Naval ROTC?"

Indeed. This man will never be able to walk straight, Captain! Because one leg is longer than the other. . . . This man will never be able to walk straight, Captain! Because one leg is longer than the other. . . . Not much. Three eighths of an inch or so, which counted out to about two eights more than the Captain could tolerate. Not much. Three eighths of an inch or so, which counted out to about two eights more than the Captain could tolerate.

So we parted company. He accepted a command in the South China Sea, and I became a Doctor of Gonzo Journalism . . . andmany years later, killing time in the Las Vegas airport this terrible morning, I picked up a newspaper and saw where teh Captain had f.u.c.ked up very badly: Ship Commander Butchered by Natives After "Accidental" a.s.sault on Guam.

(AOP)-Aboard the USS. Crazy Horse: Somewhere in the Pactfic (Sept. 25)-The entire 3485-man crew of this newest American aircraft carrier is in violent mourning today, after five crewmen including the Captain were diced uplike pineapple meat in a brawl with the Heroin Police at the neutral port of Hong See. Dr. Bboor, the ship's chaplain, presided over tense funeral services at dawn on the flight deck. The 4th Fleet Service Choir sang "Tom Thumb's Blues" . . . and then, while the ship's bells tolled frantically, the remains of the five were set afire in a gourd and hurled into the Pacific by a hooded officer known only as "The Commander." Shortly after the services ended, the crewmen fell to fighting among themselves and all communications with the ship were severed for an indefinite period. Official spokesmen at 4th Fleet Headquarters on Guam said the Navy had "no comment" on the situation, pending the re sults of a top-level investigation by a team of civilian specialists headed by former New Orleans district attor ney James Garrison. (Sept. 25)-The entire 3485-man crew of this newest American aircraft carrier is in violent mourning today, after five crewmen including the Captain were diced uplike pineapple meat in a brawl with the Heroin Police at the neutral port of Hong See. Dr. Bboor, the ship's chaplain, presided over tense funeral services at dawn on the flight deck. The 4th Fleet Service Choir sang "Tom Thumb's Blues" . . . and then, while the ship's bells tolled frantically, the remains of the five were set afire in a gourd and hurled into the Pacific by a hooded officer known only as "The Commander." Shortly after the services ended, the crewmen fell to fighting among themselves and all communications with the ship were severed for an indefinite period. Official spokesmen at 4th Fleet Headquarters on Guam said the Navy had "no comment" on the situation, pending the re sults of a top-level investigation by a team of civilian specialists headed by former New Orleans district attor ney James Garrison.

. . . Why bother with newspapers, if this is all they offer? Agnew was right. The press is a gang of cruel f.a.ggots. Journalism is not a profession or a trade. It is a cheap catch-all for f.u.c.koffs and misfits- a false doorway to the backside of life, a filthy p.i.s.s-ridden little hole nailed off by the building inspector, but just deep enough for a wine to curl up from the sidewalk and m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e like a chimp in a zoo-cage.

14. Farewell to Vegas . . . "G.o.d's Mercy on You Swine!"

I skulked around the airport, I realized that I was still wearing my police ,identification badge. It was a flat orange rectangle, sealed in clear plastic, that said: "Raoul Duke, Spe cial Investigator, Los Angeles." I saw it in the mirror above urinal.

Get rid of this thing, I thought. Tear it off. The gig is finished.. . and it proved nothing. At least not to me. And certainly not to my attorney-who also had a badge-but he was back in Malibu, nursing his paranoid sores.

It been a waste of time, a lame f.u.c.karound that was only - in clear retrospect - a cheap excuse for a thousand cops to spend a few days in Las Vegas and lay the bill on the taxpayers. n.o.body had learned anything- or at least nothing except new. Except maybe me .. . and all I learned was that the District Attorneys' a.s.sociation is about ten years behind the grim truth and harsh kinetic realities of what they just recently learned to call "the Drug Culture" in tyhe Year of Our lord, 1971.

They are still burning the taxpayers for thousands of dollars to make films about "the dangers of LSD," at a time when acid is widely known - to everybody but cops-to be the Studenbaker of the drug market, the popularity of psychedelics has fallen off so drastically drastically that most voluime dealers no longer even handle qualioty acid or mescaline except as a favor to special customers: Mainly jaded, over thirty drug dilettantes - likeme, and my attorney.

The big market, these days, is in Downers. Reds and smack -Seconal and heroin-and a h.e.l.lbroth of bad domestic gra.s.s sprayed with everything from a.r.s.enic to horse tranquillizers. What sells, today, is whateverf.u.c.ks You Up-whatever short-circuits your brain and grounds it out for the longest possible time. The ghetto market has mushroomed into subur bia. The Miltown man has turned, with a vengeance, to skin- popping and even mainlining. . . and for every ex-speed freak who drifted, for relief, into smack, there are 200 kids who went straight to the needle off Seconal. They never even bothered to try speed.

Uppers are no longer stylish. Methedrine is almost as rare, on the 1971 market, as pure acid or DMT. "Consciousness Ex pansion" went out with LBJ . . and it is worth noting, historically, that downers came in with Nixon.

I limped onto the plane with no problem except a wave of ugly vibrations from the other pa.s.sengers . . . but my head was so burned out, by then, that I wouldn't have cared if I'd had to climb aboard stark naked and covered with oozing chancres. It would have taken extreme physical force to keep me off that plane. I was so far beyond simple fatigue that I was beginning to feel nicely adjusted to the idea of perma nent hysteria. I felt like the slightest misunderstanding with the stewardess would cause me to either cry or go mad . . . and the woman seemed to sense this, because she treated me very gently.

When I wanted more Ice Cubes for my b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, she brought them quickly . . and when I ran out of cigarettes, she gave me a pack from her own purse. The only time she seemed nervous was when I pulled a grapefruita grapefruit out of my satchel and began slicing it up with a hunting knife. I noticed her watching me closely, so I tried to smile. "I never go anywhere without grapefruit,' "It's hard to get a really good one - unless you're rich."

She nodded.

I flashed her the grimace/smile again, but it was hard to know what she was thinking. It was entirely possible, I knew, that sge'd already decided to have me taken off the plane iin a cage when we got to Denver. I stared fixedly into her eyes for a time, but she kept herself under control.

I was asleep when our plane hit the runway, but the jolt brought me instantly awake. I looked out the window and saw the Rocky Mountains. What the f.u.c.k was I doing here here?I wondered. I t made so sense at all. I decided to call my attorney as soon as possible. Have him iwre me some money to buy a huge albino Doberman. Denver is a national clearinghouse for stolen Dobermans; they come from all parts of the country.

Since i was already here, I though I might as well pick up a vicious do. But first, something for my nerves. Immediately after the plane landed I rushed up the corridor to the airport drugstore adn asked the clerk for a box of amyls.

She began to fidget and shake her head. "Oh, no," she said finally. "I can't sell you those things except by precription."

"I know," I said. "But you see, I'm a doctor. I don't need a precription."

She was still fidgeting. "Well. . . you'll have to show me some I.D.," she moaned.

"Of course." I jerked out my wallet and let her see the police basge while I flipped through the deck until I located my Ecclesiastical Discount Card - which identifies me as a Doctor of Divinity, a certified Minister of the Church of the New Truth.

She inspected it carefully, then handed it back. I sensed a new respect in her manner. Her eyes grew warm. She seemed to want to touch me. "I hope you'll forgive me, Doctor." she said with a fine smile. "But I had to ask. We get some real freaks in this place. All kinds of dangerous addicts. You'd never believe it."

"Don't worry," I said. "I understand perfectly. but I have a bad heart, and I hope - "

"Certainly!" she exclaimed-and within seconds she was back with a dosen amyls. I paid without quibbling about the ecclesiastical discount. Then I opened the box and cracked one under my nose immediately, while she watched.

"Just be thankful your heart is young and strong," I said. "If I were you I would never . . . ah . . . holy s.h.i.t! . . . what? Yes, you'll have to excuse me now; I feel it coming on." I turned away and reeled off in the general direction of the bar.

"G.o.d's mercy on you swine!" I shouted at two Marines com ing out of the men's room.

They looked at me, but said nothing. By this time I was laughing crazily. But it made no difference. I was just an other f.u.c.ked-up cleric with a bad heart. s.h.i.t, they'll love me down at the Brown Palace. I took another big hit off the amyl, and by the time I got to the bar my heart was full of joy. I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger . . . a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.