Savage
Journey
Copyright
2014 by Ben Begley
Based
upon characters created by Hunter S. Thompson
Day
One
We
were just past Baker in the middle of the desert when our vacation
began to fall apart. Of course, we couldn't know that then, but the
first in a series of weird events was about to appear on our horizon.
But
I don't want to get ahead of myself. My name is Hank, and I am an
insurance investigator. Oh, it's not as glamorous as it sounds, but
it does have its moments. When I'm not investigating possible
insurance fraud, I sell insurance. All kinds – life, home, health,
auto – you name it, I've sold it, and if I haven't, I'll find it
for you. I don't mean to brag, but I've been chosen Amalgamated
Insurance's “Best Salesman” for my region for five straight
years. It's something I'm pretty proud of, let me tell you, mister.
Not that it's hard to sell insurance these days – everyone is so
scared that some drug-crazed band of hippies is going to burst into
their homes and kill them all with machetes, or some heroin-addicted
kid back from Vietnam is going to stab them for their wallet, or a
race riot is going to break out while they're trying to buy some
southern friend chicken in a black neighborhood. The horror stories
are everywhere, and most of them are real, believe you me. So while
the world seemed to be going to heck in a hand basket, the insurance
business had been booming, and 1971 was shaping up to be our best
year yet.
In
fact, that's part of the reason why I, my wife Madge, my pal Bob and
his wife Betty were out there in that desert that day. As a reward
for my winning “Best Salesman” for the fifth straight year (did I
already mention that? Silly me!), Amalgamated was sending me and my
wife on an all expenses-paid weekend to fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada,
including tickets to see Debbie Reynolds and Harry James at the
Desert Inn that night.
Bob
had won second place in sales (a distant second, I might add, but
don't tell him I said that, ha ha!). There wasn't really a prize for
second place, other than a plaque, but since Bob and I were pals, and
he was my partner in the investigation aspect of the job, the company
generously included a second room for him and Betty, but they had to
pay for their own food and tickets. Bob groused a little about that,
but that's Bob for you.
It
was a good thing the company had booked our rooms well in advance,
because this was going to be a big weekend for Las Vegas. People were
coming from all around the country for this Mint 400 off-road race
they've had going there these last few years. We weren't particularly
interested in that. We just wanted to see Debbie, maybe do a little
gambling, some sightseeing – you know, touristy stuff. The wives
wanted to do some shopping, of course. You know how the ladies are.
There
was another facet to this trip, however - one that was going to make
it sort of a “working vacation”, but I never shy away from an
opportunity to make a sale. You see, in my capacity as an insurance
investigator, I work pretty closely with our local law enforcement
agencies. If I find evidence of a crime, I step aside and let the
boys in blue take the wrongdoer away. Amalgamated also handles the
life and health insurance for all the cops in the area (thanks to me
- heh heh). I've become pretty close friends with several important
lawmen in my area, especially “Big Bill” Fleem, the District
Attorney of my home county of Buena Vista.
When
Bill heard I was going to Vegas for the weekend, he asked me if I
could do him a favor. Of course I would, I told him. Anything for my
friends on the force - that's my attitude! He said that he had
bookings for himself and the police chief of Pumpkin Center at the
National District Attorneys' Association's Third National Institute
on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. It was being held that same week in
Las Vegas, shortly after the Mint 400. He said the police chief
couldn't attend because he was embroiled in some kind of personal
drama involving his son, who had been arrested for marijuana
possession. As top cop for the county, it was Bill's job to oversee
the investigation, so he was stuck too.
Bill
explained that since the rooms were already paid for and it was too
late to cancel, it would be a shameful waste of the tax-payers'
money. Besides, as professional investigators, Bob and I could be his
representatives at the convention and fill him in on any new
information we could glean. I had some vacation days coming to me,
and my bosses at Amalgamated were practically salivating at the
prospect of their number one and two men getting to press the flesh
with representatives of law enforcement agencies from all over the
country.
As
the cherry on top of this already sweet deal, “Big Bill” lent us
a gorgeous, brand-new blue Ford Galaxy 500 that he had confiscated
from some nefarious characters who had come here from Oklahoma (of
all places) to broker a drug deal. So all in all, we were getting a
nice five-day vacation in “Sin City” at little or no
out-of-pocket expense to us.
We
wanted to get started Friday evening, but one of my wealthier clients
got himself into a little scrape when he struck and killed a
pedestrian while tooling along Sunset Strip in his new Corvette
Stingray, and I was up late dealing with that.
So
bright and early on that fine spring Saturday we were on our way to
Las Vegas. Bob almost had a fit when he saw the Oklahoma plates on
the car. He said people would think we were Okies. I said, “What's
wrong with that?” He responded by doing a goofy dance, all hunched
over, knees and elbows pumping up and down and singing, “I'm proud
to be an Okie from Muskogee...” It was kind of funny, if a little
embarrassing. I guess that's how Bob thinks people from Oklahoma
dance. I've known Bob since high school, and we served overseas
together in the war. Other than boot camp in Georgia and our station
in Japan, Bob's never been out of Southern California.
As
I was saying, we had just passed through the little crossroads town
of Baker on I-15 when I noticed something up ahead. It was a young
man, and he was running for all he was worth towards town. It was
pretty hot already, and as we drew closer you could see the kid was
beet red in the face, his hair and shirt were soaked with sweat. He
looked like he was running for his life. He kept looking back over
his shoulder at the road behind him, like someone might be chasing
him, but there was no other car in sight.
I
started to pull off to the side of the road. Bob said, “Are you
crazy? Stopping for a hitch-hiker these days? He could be some kind
of fugitive from the Manson Family or something!” I told Bob to
relax, that the kid obviously wasn't hitch-hiking. He looked like he
needed help. Bob huffed and puffed but kept quiet.
When
we pulled alongside the kid, he had stopped and was bent over with
his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He looked pretty
startled when he caught sight of us, but calmed down when he saw a
nice car with four average folks (except for Bob glowering in the
back seat). I got out and asked him if he was okay.
He
took another nervous look back down the road from where he'd come and
shakily said, “Yeah, I guess so. I just had a close call with some
real weirdos back there.”
I
asked, “What happened? Do you need the police?”
“No,”
he said. “They didn't really DO anything to me. I just don't want
to run into those guys again”.
He
was still red in the face and perspiring heavily. I turned to the car
and said, “Betty, why don't you give the kid some Coke?” Betty
started digging into the big red ice chest that was sitting between
her and Bob for a cool, tall bottle of America's favorite soft drink.
The
kid practically jumped out of his skin. “Coke? No way! I don't do
that!”, he hollered. He started to edge away from me until he saw
the greenish bottle of dark brown liquid that Betty had just handed
to me. Then he calmed down again and said, “Oh! Coca Cola! Ha ha!
Yeah, sure, please! Sorry!”
I
said, “Well of course - Coke. What did you think I meant?”
He
said, “Oh, nothing. It's just those two guys I was telling you
about were putting all kinds of weird things up their noses and
acting crazy. They offered me some, but I don't do that kind of
stuff.”
I
said, “Why don't you sit here and tell us about it?” I had Madge
scoot over behind the wheel and offered the kid her seat. He said he
was hitch-hiking to Vegas. At this I couldn't help glancing over at
Bob, and sure enough, he was giving me an “I told you so” look.
Getting
a closer look at the kid, I was beginning to have some doubts myself.
He was tall and muscular in a gawky kind of way, like someone who
would be comfortable on either the football field or the basketball
court. He had a perfectly round head, like a real-life Charlie Brown.
Now that his color (or rather lack of it – he was the palest white
boy I had ever seen) was returning to normal, I could see that he had
a bunch of freckles under his round, deep-set eyes. The most
remarkable thing about him, though, was his hair. It was sparse and
stringy, long on the sides but short on top. At first I thought that
he had cut it like that, but then I noticed that he was nearly bald
on the top of his head. He couldn't have been but 19 or 20. Strange.
Actually,
the strangest thing about him, and the one that gave me the most
trouble, was his shirt. It had this terrible rendition of Mickey
Mouse on it, flashing “peace” symbols with both hands, and –
get this – with a gosh darned swastika on his chest! Mickey Mouse,
for crying out loud! Can you believe that?
But
for all that, he seemed like a decent kid. He was polite and mannerly
as he sipped his Coke and told us about how he had gotten picked up
by two degenerates who were driving a red convertible. When he said
that, I remembered that earlier on the road we had been passed by a
red convertible that must have been doing over a hundred. Even with
our windows rolled up so we could enjoy that good old American
air-conditioning, you could hear the most gosh awful racket coming
from that car. It sounded like they somehow had two radios blaring
away at top volume on two different stations. They flashed by so fast
I couldn't get a good look at the occupants - just a brief glimpse of
wild hair blowing in the wind and arms waving around. I know it
sounds crazy, but one of the arms looked like it was swinging a fly
swatter. Who tries to swat flies at a hundred miles an hour in a
convertible? I don't know what this country is coming to.
I
decided not to say anything about what I had seen. The other three
hadn't seen it, and I didn't want to worry them - especially Bob. As
he listened to the kid's story, his face was getting as red as the
kid's had been. And he wouldn't stop staring at the kid's crazy
shirt. I was afraid he was going to say something, and I thought that
the poor kid had already been through enough.
The
kid seemed better after a couple of Cokes and after getting his story
off his chest. I offered to give him a ride into Baker, but he said
he'd be alright walking. He said he had lost interest in going to Las
Vegas if there were people like that going there. As he started to
walk away, he spotted our rear license plate. His eyes lit up and he
said, “Are you folks from Oklahoma, too?” I heard a sharp intake
of breath from Bob's corner of the car.
I
said, “No, that's just how the car came. Why, is that where you're
from?”
“Yeah,
it sure is,” he said proudly pointing at his chest with his thumb,
“Oklahoma City, O-KAY!” He said that he was just hitching around,
seeing the country before he had to report for the draft. That made
me feel alright about the young man, and I could practically feel Bob
relaxing in his seat when he heard. I couldn't resist giving him a
bit of fatherly advice, telling him that he might want to lose that
shirt - that it could be considered offensive to those of us who had
served in Dubya Dubya Two. Bob chimed in with “Damn straight”.
The
kid clapped his hand self-consciously over the offending symbol and
said, “Gosh! Did you fight Nazis?”
I
said, “No, not really. Bob and I came late to the party. We were
part of the occupation force in Japan after they surrendered. But the
principle is the same.”
“Oh,
yeah,” he said. “I guess I just thought it was funny. You know,
on account of Disney not liking Jews and all.”
This
was news to me. Bob said, “So? Lots of people hate Jews. That
doesn't make them Nazis.” The kid looked confused, but I shook my
head to indicate he should ignore Bob, although he was starting to
get on my nerves.
I
said, “Well, I don't know about that, but think about what I said.”
He said he would, and thanked us for our kindness. I handed him one
of my business cards, telling him to call me if he needed anything. I
figured it was a long shot, but any meeting is a chance for a sale,
after all. He looked at my card, which said,
Henry
Savage
Licensed
Insurance Agent
Fraud
Investigator
Amalgamated
Insurance, Inc.
Life
– Home- Auto
(800)
GET-LIFE
When
he looked back up, his eyes were as big as dinner plates, and he had
gone a paler shade of white, if that were possible. I said, “What's
wrong?”. He stammered, “Savage? Savage Henry?” I laughingly
said, “Well, that's how they used to say it in the service, but
yeah, that's me!”
He
said, “Listen, those two guys I was telling you about? They said
they were going to kill you!”
I
couldn't believe what I was hearing. I asked him what in the heck he
was talking about. He said, “The one guy, the big guy, he said they
were going to Vegas to 'croak' a scag baron – whatever that is -
named 'Savage Henry'.”
My
mind was reeling. It had to be some kind of crazy coincidence. I
mean, in my line of work, I've made a few people mad when I uncovered
their insurance flim-flams, but I seriously doubted anyone would kill
me for it. Besides, why would they be looking for me in Las Vegas? I
had never been there in my life. No one outside company headquarters
and the District Attorney's office knew I was making this trip.
I
decided it couldn't be serious, but I couldn't help asking if these
characters had given their names. The kid said, “I'm not sure, but
I think the foreign guy's name was Sam Owen.”
“ 'Sam
Owen' ?”, I repeated. “That's an awfully American-sounding name
for a foreigner. Are you sure?”
“That's
what the other guy called him, but he didn't seem sure himself. He
said, 'I think he's probably Sam Owen”. The skinny guy said he was
some kind of doctor, and the big guy was his attorney, It was weird!
Sir, I don't think you should go to Las Vegas!”
I
tried to laugh it off, but I was rattled. “Oh, I'm sure it's just a
coincidence. Crazy talk from a couple of hop heads!”
“Well,”
he said. “I hope you're right. But please be careful.”
I
told him I would and thanked him for his concern. He went on his way
toward Baker. I got back in the car and sat and pondered what I'd
just heard.
Bob
was all agitated again. He said, “We need to call the police and
have these weirdos picked up!” I told him we didn't have enough to
go on - that it had to be nothing anyway. After all, the kid hadn't
mentioned the whole “Savage Henry” thing until after he saw my
name on my card. Maybe his recent experience and running around in
the desert sun with that bald head and no hat had done something
funny to his brain.
“Come
on,” I said. “Let's forget all this and get on with our vacation!
Let's have some fun!” I tried to sound as cheerful as I could as we
drove off into the bright desert day, but it felt like an invisible
cloud had gone over the sun.
Later
We
got to Las Vegas without further incident, and the sights of that
crazy town were enough to drive any dark thoughts from my mind. Even
in the bright sunshine, the lights on the casinos were something to
see. I looked forward to the night to see what they really looked
like.
We
got to the Mint Hotel – the epicenter of the craziness that had
descended upon the city for the race. I said a silent prayer of
gratitude to Amalgamated for those reservations. A smartly-uniformed
valet whisked our Galaxy off to park it while an equally spectacular
bell hop took our luggage up to our room. Even with our reservations,
what with all the hub-bub over the race, we had to stand in a long
line to check in. There was some kind of hold-up because a guy at the
front of the line seemed to be having an epileptic fit or something
until he was led away by a large fellow.
I
was surprised to see that they went right over to the table set up
across the lobby for the members of the press to register for their
passes. I couldn't imagine a couple of flamboyantly dressed peacocks
like those two being reporters, but I guess they can't all be Edward
R. Murrow. They were probably from the so-called “alternative
press” or maybe one of those magazines advocating sex, drugs and
rock and roll. Why those hippies would be interested in the fine
American tradition of motor racing was beyond me. They probably just
wanted to make fun of it all.
We
got up to our rooms and freshened up and ordered some room service
while we eagerly waited till it was time to leave to see Debbie. Bob
kept whining about having to pay for his and Betty's room service
food. I finally offered to order double on my tab. I figured
Amalgamated wouldn't care considering all the new accounts Bob and I
were sure to bring them from this trip.
When
it was time, we waited out front while the valet brought the car
around. He told us that we could have called down before we left the
room so we wouldn't have to wait, but I didn't mind because I was too
busy looking at all the lights of the city. Boy, I'd sure hate to
have to pay their electric bill!
The
valet told us how to get to the Desert Inn, and we arrived in short
order. Madge thought she saw Liberace walking along the Strip, but I
think it was just a fairy in a fur coat. We were treated like
royalty. We got seats in the front row. The lights went down and
Debbie came onstage wearing a silver Afro wig. Crazy! She launched
into some Beatles' song from their drug days. I don't care for that
kind of music myself, but Debbie and Harry James made it all so fun.
Shortly
after the song started, there seemed to be some kind of commotion at
the back of the auditorium. The doors banged opened while there was a
lot of shouting and hysterical laughter, which faded out as the doors
were quickly but quietly closed. Some people have no respect. If
Debbie even noticed, she never missed a beat. What a professional!
The
show was great. We hated to see it end, but we were getting hungry,
so we made a bee-line back to the Mint and had a great dinner in the
restaurant. Then back up to our rooms. I was exhausted, and soon fell
asleep in the big bed while watching Walter Cronkite.
My
slumber was interrupted by some kind of gosh awful din that seemed to
coming from another floor. Someone was playing some psychedelic music
at top volume. A woman's voice was yelling something that sounded
like “feed your head!” over and over again. I looked at the clock
on the nightstand. It was 5 o'clock in the morning! What sort of
maniac plays music that loud at that time of night? And in a hotel -
where decent people are trying to sleep! Even through the thick walls
and floors the noise was unbearable. Suddenly the music stopped but
was immediately followed by all kinds of screaming and howling and
crashing. I was about to call down to the front desk and complain,
but then the noises subsided. All was quiet, except for a dull roar
that sounded like snow on a TV at top volume. Even that was
eventually absorbed by the night sounds of the city, but I had a hard
time getting back to sleep after that. So much for getting some rest
on my vacation!
Day
Two
I
guess I did fall back asleep, but it seemed like only minutes later I
was again awakened by some gosh awful roaring. I sat bolt upright in
the bed and yelled, “Goddamit! They're at it again!” Light was
streaming in the open curtains. My wife stuck her head in from the
balcony and said, “What are you yelling about? You should come see
this!”
I
put my robe on and joined her on the balcony. Bob and Betty were out
on their balcony next door. Then I saw the source of all the noise.
The street below was full from curb to curb with row upon row of
four-wheel-drive trucks and dune buggies and motorcycles, all gunning
their engines as loudly as they could. Of course! I had heard there
was going to be a parade of all the vehicles that were going to be in
the Mint 400 before they headed out to the race course outside of
town. They were quite a sight, I must say. I had to keep my hands
over my ears for all the noise, though. Eventually, the smelly
exhaust got to be too much, even up on the seventh floor where we
were, so we went inside and closed the sliding doors.
I
went in the bathroom to take a shower. The soap the hotel provided
was this weird, translucent orange stuff. It smelled good, but boy,
was it strange-looking. I stuck my head out and asked my wife what
was up with the soap. She said, “Oh, it's called Neutrogena, and
it's wonderful! I love it!” I wasn't so sure, but I used it. It was
pretty good, I guess, but I felt like some kind of sissy European
using anything other than good old white Ivory.
The
rest of the day was pretty uneventful. The town seemed to have
emptied out to watch the start of the race. I don't know what they
expected to be able to see. You could see a cloud of dust rising up
into the sky from the direction of the racecourse.
We
all did some sightseeing, and later the wives did some shopping while
Bob and I hung out in the casino, making a few contacts and even a
couple of sales to nervous-looking tourists from the Midwest. We had
a few drinks and did a little gambling. Actually, Bob did more than a
little. He was starting to lose too much and was getting hot under
the collar until I grabbed him and forced him to leave with me.
I
stopped in the hotel gift shop to see if I could find some full-size
bars of that soap my wife liked. The clerk sheepishly said they were
all out, which was unusual, since - as she explained - the owner of
the hotel also owned the soap company. She couldn't understand where
it had all gone. I told her to send a message up to my room if they
got some more in She promised to do so, but I never heard from her.
Days
Three and Four
The
next couple of days were pretty quiet. The race was over, but I have
no idea who won. The company-sponsored portion of my vacation had
come to an end, so we moved over to our new Buena Vista County
District Attorney's Office-sponsored “digs” at the Flamingo in
preparation for the conference. The cops were starting to trickle
into town. In the lull between the race and the conference, we
enjoyed ourselves as much as we could while making as many contacts
and sales as possible. Unfortunately, it was getting harder and
harder to keep Bob away from the slot machines. He was spending more
time losing money than making sales.
There
were a couple of odd notes to those days. On Monday I was making
conversation with a Portuguese photographer at the bar at the Mint.
He was about to leave town after covering the race. He looked a
little frazzled. I thought he seemed like a man in need of insurance.
When I gave him my card, he stared at it for a long time with a
quizzical expression on his face.
“Savage,
Savage. Henry Savage,” he said. “Where have I heard that name
before?” Suddenly it seemed to dawn on him, and he looked at me
strangely. Then he just stood up and left without a word. He didn't
even finish his drink. After the incident with the hitchhiker, this
spooked me a little, but I decided to write off his unusual behavior
to the stresses of his profession.
Another
weird incident occurred shortly after we checked in at the Flamingo.
From a room below us some idiot seemed to be arguing with someone on
the phone. He bellowed that someone was kicking his door in, but I
heard no sounds like that. There was same banging and clanging,
however, and he was yelling about someone named Duke and Lucy. Just
as quickly as it started, it seemed to be over, with one final bang.
What is happening in this country?
I
couldn't imagine any of the attendees of the conference acting like
that, and cops seemed to be about the only people in the hotel that
week. Bob and I were probably the least law enforcement-related
people there, except maybe some reporters, but I think they were
keeping them at another hotel. At least I hoped they were, especially
if they were anything like those two weirdos we'd seen at the Mint.
Ha! What was I worrying about? Those types wouldn't dare show their
faces at a cop convention!
On
Tuesday afternoon, I stopped one of the maids as I passed her in the
hall. I asked her if the hotel had any of that Neutrogena soap. She
seemed rather nervous, and just stared at me funny. I noticed she had
an American-enough name on her badge – Alice - but maybe she didn't
speak English. I pantomimed washing my hands. I said, “You know?
Soap? Orange soap?”
She
said, “Do you mean, 'one hand washes the other' ?”, in acceptable
but Mexican-accented English.
I
said, “Well, yeah, that's how it usually works.”
She
sidled up uncomfortably close and whispered, “I fear nothing”. I
told her that was nice, but all I wanted was some orange soap. She
looked at me doubtfully and said, “Inspector Rock?” I said, “No,
my name is Savage”. She turned without another word and started
trundling her little supply cart as fast as her old legs would carry
her, casting fearful glances over her shoulder at me until she
rounded a corner and disappeared.
I
walked slowly back to my room, trying to make sense of it all. Was it
just this town, or was the whole world going crazy? All these little
run-ins probably would have seemed like nothing before this week, but
after that first day outside Baker, I had been feeling a little –
well – fearful. A sense of foreboding had been following me ever
since. Thank goodness tomorrow was the DA conference. I could lose
myself in some good, old-fashioned American salesmanship, and then
get the heck out of this loathsome town.
Day
Five
The
D.A. conference was held in the main ballroom of the Dunes Hotel.
Boy, there were a lot of police types and their wives there. Bob and
I were lucky to find some seats near the back. I won't bore you with
the details of the conference. I was pretty bored myself, to tell you
the truth. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have anything
of value to report back to my friend “Big Bill” Fleem. I felt
like I owed him that much for the free accommodations. Oh, well,
maybe I could just grab some pamphlets and such from the many tables
in the lobby.
I
was having a hard time concentrating on the guest speaker's lecture,
however, despite being nice and close to one of the many speakers
spaced around the room. The source of my trouble were a couple of
jackasses a couple of rows away who wouldn't stop whispering too
loudly to one another. Finally one of them, a big Hispanic fellow in
an expensive-looking pin-stripe suit, got up and made a big scene of
trying to get out of the ballroom. He was yelling something about not
belonging there, and I had to agree with him. Bob had to make things
worse by loudly saying, “Good riddance.” The big guy stopped and
looked around, trying to find who had spoken. Bob was glaring at him
with his fists clenched against the sides of his legs. Thankfully,
the Spic turned and made his way to the door. He was followed
immediately by his bald-headed companion who said he was going to be
sick. Bob muttered, “Yeah, you're sick, alright”, and I couldn't
argue with him on that count.
After
awhile Bob started getting fidgety. He said he had to use the
restroom, but I knew where he was going. I couldn't stop him. I
didn't want to make a disruption like those two other guys, so I let
him go.
Finally
after what seemed like hours the conference broke up. I wandered out
to get a drink and look for Bob. No sooner had I gotten to the bar
when I was accosted by a District Attorney from Georgia whom I had
met earlier. He looked pretty shook up. I asked him if everything was
alright. He said he needed insurance, and lots of it – which was
funny, because he had resisted my charms when we had spoken earlier.
He said he'd been talking to a couple of cops from Los Angeles, and
the things they had told him that were going on there were something
terrible. Tales of vampires and beheadings by giants. And that they
were working their way to his neck of the woods, he claimed. I wanted
to tell him that I was from Southern California, and I hadn't heard
about anything that bad, but I didn't want to scotch a potential
sale.
Before
I could start making a pitch, he whipped out his check book and
signed a blank check and thrust it into my hand. He said, “Here,
just make me the most comprehensive policy you've got for me and my
wife, and send it to me by express mail! And make sure it contains
coverage for accidental dismemberment!” He then scurried off to
goodness knows where while I just stared after him with my mouth
open.
I
found Bob at one of the slot machines (of course). He was in a worse
mood than usual, having lost the last of his money. He and Betty had
been arguing a lot the last couple of days about how much money he'd
been losing. I told him of my windfall. I suggested we round up the
gals and go out for one last night on the town to celebrate before
heading home tomorrow. We hadn't been to the Circus Circus yet. I'd
heard it was pretty wild.
On
our way to the Circus Circus, we were sitting at a red light when a
white Cadillac convertible pulled up on our left. The guy in the
passenger seat was a fat Mexican wearing a yellow fish-net shirt. He
was leaning over the side, which was streaked with vomit, and yelling
that he wanted to sell us heroin. It was disgusting.
The
ladies and I stared straight ahead - we didn't want to make eye
contact. Bob, however, couldn't take his eyes off the maniac. When
the guy said the word 'scag' I couldn't help but look over at him.
There was something familiar about him. Of course! It was the Spic
who made the ruckus at the conference earlier that day! I couldn't
see much of the driver, other than his fingers drumming nervously on
the steering wheel, a fishing hat, aviator sunglasses and a cigarette
in one of those holders, like he was freaking FDR or something. I
couldn't be sure, but I was willing to bet it was the bald-headed guy
from earlier, too.
The
light was taking forever to change, and the Spic was getting more and
more out of control. He didn't look typically Hispanic. What with his
long, wavy hair flying everywhere, he looked more exotic-like. I
could see how someone might mistake him for, say, a...
“SAMOAN!”,
I shouted. It had all clicked in my head in a fraction of a second.
“Not 'Sam Owen'! Samoan! The kid was right! It's them!” The car
wasn't the right color, but what's to stop creeps like that from just
stealing whatever car suited their fancies? Before the others could
ask me what I was talking about, the light changed. I stomped on the
gas and the big 500 shot forward. It was only a short ways to the
Circus Circus. I felt if I could just get there, we'd be safe from
these maniacs.
The
driver of that white Caddy knew what he was about, though. He kept
right alongside us. Suddenly Bob leaned across Betty and began
hurling the foulest language at the guys in the Caddy. It was a good
thing the 500 is a two-door, or he probably would have jumped right
into that Caddy and started biting them. The Circus Circus was coming
up fast. I started edging left, trying to force the Caddy to make way
for us. Suddenly the driver jammed on his brakes and veered to the
right in our wake, across three lanes and down a side street.
Now
I was at the turn-off to the Circus Circus. I was going too fast for
the turn. I hit the brakes while cranking the wheel hard to the left.
We stalled, sitting diagonally across the middle of the intersection.
Bob was yelling, “What the hell are you doing? We can't stop here!”
Cars were honking, fists were waving, in the distance I could hear
the wail of sirens. Even though we were the victims, I didn't feel
like trying to explain the whole mess to anyone.
I
got the Galaxy restarted, and as quickly but nonchalantly as I could
I pulled into the parking area of the Circus Circus. The lights and
sirens flashed on by. It was an ambulance! All that insanity had
taken only a few seconds, and no cops had even noticed. Thousands of
extra cops in town, and those two maniacs were careening around,
terrorizing innocent tourists, Scot free.
We
parked and sat for a few minutes. We were all pretty shaken up.
Finally I said, “Come on, folks. Let's put this behind us and have
something to eat.” But there wasn't much heart in it.
We
ate in silence at the buffet. I reluctantly agreed to loan Bob 10
bucks and he hightailed it the machines. Betty went off in the
direction of the bar. I guess she had managed to keep some money away
from her husband. Madge and I wandered around the place.
Boy,
that Circus Circus is really something else. It's just like a real
circus inside, with high wire acts and carnival booths - the works!
Bob turned up a little while later, looking (my) ten dollars poorer.
He just followed us around with his head down, casting longing
glances toward the gambling floor.
This
one barker was trying to get us lay down a buck or two to have our
image projected 200 feet tall over the Las Vegas skyline, but we
weren't interested. We moved on. After a bit I realized Bob was no
longer with us. Just then there was a commotion from the direction of
the booth with the 200-foot projection.
I
couldn't believe what I was seeing. There was Bob, grappling with the
barker and another carny. He had grabbed the microphone and was
screaming something into it. I rushed back there. There was a TV
connected to a camera outside so you could see yourself looming over
the city. Sure enough, there was a 200-foot-tall Bob, flanked by two
even larger carnies, who were now being joined by a couple of
uniformed security guards. Bob was shrieking, “Hey, you two
chicken-shit motherfuckers in the white Caddy! Come back here! I'll
kick your asses! I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you!”
The
two security guards and the carny managed to wrest the microphone
away from Bob while the barker hit the switch to turn off the
projection. It was quite a scene. They hauled Bob off to the security
office. I sent Madge to look for Betty while I hustled after Bob.
The
casino was ready to press charges against Bob, because not only had
he not paid for the use of their projector, but he had bitten a carny
on the arm. I showed them my identification badge from the
conference, proving I was an official representative of the Buena
Vista County District Attorney. I gave them a couple of bucks for the
projection, and explained that Bob had been under a great deal of
stress from our job as investigators – you know, dealing with the
scummier elements of society.
Finally
I got things smoothed over, and I fast-walked Bob out of there,
collecting Madge and a now-inebriated Betty along the way. We got in
the Galaxy, and I just started to drive. I didn't even care where I
was going. I needed some time to calm down. Eventually we came across
an all-night diner called the North Star. I suggested we get some
coffee and pie to settle our nerves.
We
entered the place. It was empty except for the waitress – who kind
of looked like Jane Russell - behind the counter. She didn't even
look at us. She was staring out the window with a vacant look on her
face. She said, “We're closed.” I said, “But your sign says
'Open 24 Hours' “. As I was saying it, my eyes began to take in
certain details. There were two barely-touched plates of hamburgers
on the counter, along with a five dollar bill, and oddest of all, the
receiver from the payphone was laying next to one of the plates.
Something very strange had happened there.
Suddenly
the waitress came to life. She came around the end of counter, fast,
screaming, “I said 'We're CLOSED' !”. She was a big gal, and she
looked ready to hurt someone. We hightailed it out of there. As we
piled into the car, I saw her lock the doors and then she walked over
and yanked the cord for the neon 'open' sign out of the wall. Then
she disappeared into the back, shutting off the lights as she went.
Madge
said, “Let's just go back to the hotel and try to get some sleep,
so we can get out of this town.” I couldn't have agreed with her
more. As I was pulling out into the street, Betty began to vomit
copiously all over herself, the back of my seat and the floor. The
smell was horrendous. I almost barfed myself. I opened all the
windows, and tried to keep my head as close to the fresh air as I
could while navigating toward the Flamingo. Bob didn't even look at
his poor wife. I guess he was sulking because she had gotten drunk on
money he could have been gambling with.
When
we got back to the hotel, Madge helped the puke-covered Betty up to
the rooms. I pressed two twenty dollar bills into the valet's hand
and asked him to have the boys in the garage see if they could do
something with the mess in the car. He didn't look too enthused
especially when he got a whiff of the car, but you can't argue with a
tip like that.
Bob
hadn't said anything since we'd left the Circus Circus. As we
shuffled toward the lobby, he said, “Say, Hank. Can you loan me
another 10 bucks? I know my luck's got to change.”
I
lost it. I laid into him - telling him things I'd been holding back
for years. Things like how the only reason he was even number two at
Amalgamated was because he had been riding on my coat tails ever
since the service. Hell, the only reason he was even on this trip was
because of his association with me. And now he had thrown away his
money and was trying to do the same with mine.
Bob
said, “Screw you, Hank! I'm sick of your 'holier than thou'
attitude. You've been making me feel second-best ever since high
school! Hell, you're lucky to be alive tonight! I tried to tell you
to call the cops about those two degenerates when the kid first told
us about them, but oh, no! Not the great Hank Savage! He can handle
it! Well, you almost got us killed tonight!”
This
was too much. I hauled off and punched him square in the nose. I felt
something crunch under my fist, and blood squirted all over Bob's
shirt. He staggered backwards, with his hands over his nose. He
screamed, “Fuck you!”
I
tried to apologize (even though it had felt good). I tried to calm
him down, saying “Let's just try to get some rest, so we can get
out of this damned city tomorrow!”
Bob
yelled, “Fuck you! I'm not going anywhere with you! I can make my
own way back home!”
I
said, “Oh, yeah - with what money? And what about Betty?”
He
said, “I don't give a shit. Take her with you. Hell, maybe I won't
even go back. I think I'll stay here. I can make it in this town just
fine without any help from the great Hank Savage.” With that he
turned and stomped into the casino, bloody shrit and all. As soon as
the doors swung shut, there was screaming and yelling from inside. I
never saw him again after that.
I
went back up to the room. Madge had cleaned Betty up and put her to
bed on the couch in our suite. We were both exhausted and went to bed
without a word.
Day
Six
We
got up late, and ordered breakfast in the room. I got a Bloody Mary
for Betty. She needed a little hair of the dog that had bit her. She
didn't ask about Bob, and I was glad.
After
we packed, I called downstairs to have them bring the car around.
When we got to the car, I edged up to it nervously. The guys had done
a great job. The car was spotless, and they had perfumed it so it
smelled like new again. After we got in, however, you could detect a
faint odor of barf under the deodorant. Oh, well. I'm not sure Betty
even noticed. I didn't know if she even remembered what she'd done. I
hoped for her sake she didn't.
I
cracked the windows and ran the air-conditioning – the ultimate
American luxury. We drove slowly out of town, then picked up speed on
the interstate. It felt good to see that awful city disappear into
the haze of the desert sun in our rear-view mirror.
When
we stopped at a traffic light in Baker, who should we see but the
hitchhiking kid. He didn't look so good. I guess a week in Baker can
do that to you. At least he had changed out of that awful shirt. He
was just standing in the shade of one of the few trees, with barely
enough energy to hold his thumb up. I tootled the horn. When he
looked our way his face lit up when he recognized us. He scurried
over.
“Where
you heading?”, I said.
“West,”
he said. “Actually, anywhere but here. I gotta find an induction
center soon. I've been stuck here all week. I can't get a ride.”
“Well,
son,” I said, “Your luck just changed. Hop in!”
Madge
stepped out to let the kid into the back, next to Betty. I saw his
nose wrinkle up when he caught his first whiff of the faint smell of
vomit, but he was too polite to say anything.
He
said, “Where's your friend?”
“It's...complicated,”I
said, nodding toward Betty, hoping he'd take the hint.
He
didn't. “Those guys didn't get him, did they?”, he asked with
genuine alarm.
“No!
No,” I said. “Well, not exactly. It's a long story. I'll tell you
about it sometime. Why don't we listen to some music?” I turned on
the radio. “Okie from Muskogee” was playing.
We
all laughed, even Betty, who seemed perkier since the kid had gotten
in. I turned the music up and we sang along, as we drove west, back
to civilization, or what was left of it.
The
End
