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

this
is”
I said, “is a speed message to Doctor Gonzo, upstairs, saying Thompson is on his way out from L.A. with a new assignment—a new work order.” I waved him off the car. “See you later,” I snapped. “I have to get out to the track.”
    He backed away as I eased the car into low gear. “There’s no hurry,” he called after me. “The race is
over.”
    “Not for me,” I said, tossing him a quick friendly wave.
    “Let’s have lunch!” he shouted as I turned into the street.
    “Righto!” I yelled. And then I was off into traffic. After a few blocks in the wrong direction on Main Street, I doubled back and aimed south, towards L.A. But with all deliberate speed. Keep cool and slow, I thought. Just
drift
to the city limits. . . .
    What I needed was a place to get safely off the road, out of sight, and ponder this incredible telegram from my attorney. It was true; I was certain of that. There was a definite valid urgency in the message. The tone was unmistakable. . . .
    But I was in no mood or condition to spend another week in Las Vegas. Not
now.
I had pushed my luck about as far as it was going to carry me in this town . . . all the way out to the edge. And now the weasels were closing in; I could
smell
the ugly brutes.
    Yes, it was definitely time to leave. My margin had shrunk to nothing.

    Now idling along Las Vegas Boulevard at thirty miles an hour, I wanted a place to rest and formalize the decision. It was settled, of course, but I needed a beer or three to seal the bargain and stupefy that one rebellious nerve end that kept vibrating negative. . . .
    It would have to be dealt with. Because there
was
an argument, of sorts, for staying on. It was treacherous, stupid and demented in every way—but there was no avoiding the stench of twisted humor that hovered around the idea of a gonzo journalist in the grip of a potentially terminal drug episode being invited to cover the National District Attorneys’ Conference on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.
    There was also a certain bent appeal in the notion of running a savage burn on one Las Vegas Hotel and then—instead of becoming a doomed fugitive on the highway to L.A.—just wheeling across town, trading in the red Chevy convertible for a white Cadillac and checking into
another
Vegas hotel, with press credentials to mingle with a thousand ranking cops from all over America, while they harangued each other about the Drug Problem.
    It was dangerous lunacy, but it was also the kind of thing a real connoisseur of edge-work could make an argument for. Where, for instance, was the
last
place the Las Vegas police would look for a drug-addled fraud-fugitive who just ripped off a downtown hotel?
    Right. In the middle of a National District Attorneys’ Drug Conference at an elegant hotel on the strip. . . . Arriving at Caesar’s Palace for the Tom Jones dinner show in a flashing white Coupe de Ville . . . At a cocktail party for narcotics agents and their wives at the Dunes?
    Indeed, what better place to hide? For
some
people. But not for me. And certainly not for my attorney—a very conspicuous person. Separately, we might pull it off. But together, no—we would blow it. Too much aggressive chemistry in that mix; the temptation to run a deliberate freakout would be too heavy.
    And that of course would finish us. They would show us no mercy. To infiltrate the infiltrators would be to accept the fate of all spies: “As always, if you or any member of your organization is apprehended by the enemy, the Secretary will deny any Knowledge, etc. . . .”
    No, it was too much. The line between madness and masochism was already hazy; the time had come to pull back . . . to retire, hunker down, back off and “cop out,” as it were. Why not? In every gig like this, there comes a time to either cut your losses or consolidate your winnings—whichever fits.
    I drove slowly, looking for a proper place to sit down with an early morning beer and get my head together . .