Fear And Loating In Las Vegas Part 2

>(What did he ask you, Rusty?) "Did you fight or did you run?"

>(and what did you tell him, Rusty?) " . . . We responded to their rifle fire with everything we had . . . "

No! I can't be hearing this! It must be the drug. I glanced over at my attorney, but he was staring up at the sky, and I could see that his brain had gone off to that campground beyond the sun. Thank christ he can't hear this music, I thought. It would drive him into a racist frenzy.

Mercifully, the song ended. But my mood was already shattered . . . and now the fiendish cactus juice took over, plunging me into a sub - human funk as we suddenly came up on the turnoff to the Mint Gun Club. "One mile," the sign said. But even a mile away I could hear the crackling scream of two - stroke bike engines winding out . . . and then, coming closer, I heard another sound.

Shotguns! No mistaking that fiat hollow boom.

I stopped the car. What the h.e.l.l is going on down there?

I rolled up all the windows and eased down the gravel road, hunched low on the wheel . . . until I saw about a dozen figures pointing shotguns into the air, firing at regular intervals.

Standing on a slab of concrete out here in the mesquite - desert, this scraggly little oasis in a wasteland north of Vegas . . They were cl.u.s.tered, with their shotguns, about fifty yards away from a one - story concrete/block - house, half - shaded by ten or twelve trees and surrounded by cop - cars, bike - trailers and motorcycles.

Of course. The Mint Gun Club! These lunatics weren't letting anything interfere with their target practice. Here were about a hundred bikers, mechanics and a.s.sorted motorsport types milling around in the pit area, signing in for tomorrow's race, idly sipping beers and appraising each other's machinery - and right in the middle of all this, oblivious to everything but the clay pigeons flipping out of the traps every five seconds or so, the shotgun people never missed a beat.

Well, why not? I thought. The shooting provided a certain rhythm - sort of a steady ba.s.s - line - to the high - pitched chaos of the bike scene. I parked the car and wandered into the crowd, leaving my attorney in his coma.

I bought a beer and watched the bikes checking in. Many Husquavarnas, high - tuned Swedish fireb.a.l.l.s . . . also Yamahas, Kawasakis, a few 500 Triumphs, Maicos, there a CZ, a Pursang . . . all very fast, super - light dfrt bikes. No Hogs in this league, not even a Sportster . . . that would be like entering our Great Red Shark in the dune buggy compet.i.tion.

Maybe I should do that, I thought. Sign my attorney up as the driver, then send him out to the starting line with a head full of ether and acid. How would they handle it?n.o.body would dare go out on the track with a person that crazy. He would roll on the first turn, and take out four or five dune buggies - a Kamikaze trip.

"What's the entry fee?" I asked the desk - man.

"Two fifty," he said.

"What if I told you I had a Vincent Black Shadow?"He stared up at me, saying nothing, not friendly. I noticed he was wearing a .38 revolver on his belt. "Forget it," I said. "My driver's sick, anyway."

His eyes narrowed. "Your driver ain't the only one sick around here, buddy."

"He has a bone in his throat," I said.

"What?"

The man was getting ugly, but suddenly his eyes switched away. He was staring at something else My attorney no longer wearing his Danish sungla.s.ses, no longer wearing his Acapulco shirt . . . a very crazy looking ,half - naked and breathing heavily.

"What's the trouble here?" he croaked. "This man is my client - Are you prepared to go to court?" grabbed his shoulder and gently spun him around.

"Never " I said. "It's the Black Shadow - they won't accept it."

"Wait a minute!" he shouted. "What do you mean mean, they won't accept it? Have you made a deal with these pigs?"

"Certainly not," I said, pushing him along toward the gate. "But you notice they're all armed. We're the only people here without guns. Can't you hear that shooting shooting over there?" over there?"

He paused, listened for an instant, then suddenly began,running toward the car. "You c.o.c.ksuckers!" he screamed over his shoulder. "We'll be back!"

By the time we got the shark back on the highway he was able to talk. "Jesus christ! How did we get mixed up with that gang of psychotic bigots? Let's get the f.u.c.k out of this town. Those sc.u.mbags were trying to kill us!

5.Covering the Story . . . A Glimpse of the Press in Action . . . Ugliness Failure

The racers were ready at dawn. Fine sunrise over the desert. Very tense. But the race didn't start until nine, so we had to kill about three long hours in the casino next to the pits, and that's where the trouble started.

The bar opened at seven. There was also a "koffee donut canteen" in the bunker, but those of us who had been up all night in places like the Circus - Circus were in no mood for coffee donuts. We wanted strong drink. Our tempers were ugly and there were at least two hundred of us, so they opened the bar early. By eight - thirty there were big crowds around the c.r.a.p - tables. The place was full of noise and drunken shouting.

A boney, middle - aged hoodlum wearing a Harley - Davidson T - shirt boomed up to the bar and yelled: "G.o.d d.a.m.n! What day is this - Sat.u.r.day?"

"More like Sunday," somebody replied.

"Hah! That's a b.i.t.c.h, ain't it?" the H - D boomer shouted to n.o.body in particular. "Last night I was out home in Long and somebody said they were runnin' the Mint 400 so I says to my old lady, 'Man, I'm goin'." He laughed.

"So she gives me a lot of c.r.a.p about it, you know . . . so I started slappin' her around and the next thing I knew two guys I never even seen before got me out on the sidewalk workin' me over. Jesus! They beat me stupid."

He laughed again, talking into the crowd and not seeming listened.

"h.e.l.l yes!" he continued. "Then one of em says, 'Where you going?' And I says, 'Las Vegas, to the Mint 400.' So they gave me ten bucks and drove me down to the bus station . . . ." He paused. "At least I think it was them . . . "

"Well, anyway, here I am. And I tell you that was one h.e.l.l of a long night, man! Seven hours on that G.o.dd.a.m.n bus! But when I woke up it was dawn and here I was in downtown Vegas and for a minute I didn't know what the h.e.l.l I was doin' here. All I could think was, '0 Jesus, here we go again: Who's divorced me this time?'"

He accepted a cigarette from somebody in the crowd, still grinning as he lit up. "But then I remembered, by G.o.d! I was here for the Mint 400 . . . and, man, that's all I needed to know. I tell you it's wonderful to be here, man. I don't give a d.a.m.n who wins or loses. It's just wonderful to be here with you people.

n.o.body argued with him. We all understood. In some circles, the "Mint 400" is a far, far better thing than the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby and the Lower Oakland Roller Derby Finals all rolled into one. This race attracts a very special breed, and our man in the Harley T - shirt was clearly one of them.

The correspondent from Life nodded sympathetically and screamed at the bartender: "Senzaman wazzyneeds!"

"Fast up with it," I croaked. "Why not five?" I smacked the bar with my open, bleeding palm. "h.e.l.l yes! Bring us ten!"

"I'll back it!" The Life man screamed. He was losing his grip on the bar, sinking slowly to his knees, but still speaking with definite authority: "This is a magic moment in sport! It may never come again!" Then his voice seemed to break. "I once did the Triple Crown," he muttered. "But it was nothing like this."

The frog - eyed woman clawed feverishly at his belt. "Stand up!" she pleaded. "Please stand up! You'd be a very handsome man if you'd just stand up! You'd be a very handsome man if you'd just stand stand up!" up!"

He laughed distractedly. "Listen, madam," he snapped. "I'm d.a.m.n near intolerably handsome down here where I am. You'd go crazy go crazy if I stood up!" if I stood up!"

The woman kept pulling at him. She'd been mooning at his elbows for two hours, and now she was making her move. The man from Life wanted no part of it; he slumped deeper into his crouch.

I turned away. It was too horrible. We were, after all, the absolute cream of the national sporting press. And we were gathered here in Las Vegas for a very special a.s.signment: to cover the Fourth Annual "Mint 400" . . . and when it comes to things like this, you don't fool around.

But now - even before the spectacle got under way - there were signs that we might be losing control of the situation. Here we were on this fine Nevada morning, this cool bright dawn on the desert, hunkered down at some greasy bar in a concrete blockhouse gambling casino called the "Mint Gun Club" about ten miles out of Vegas . . . and with the race about to start, we were dangerously disorganized.

Outside, the lunatics were playing with their motorcycles, taping the headlights, topping off oil in the forks, last minute bolt - tightening (carburetor screws, manifold nuts, etc.) and the first ten bikes blasted off on the stroke of nine. It was extremely exciting and we all went outside to watch. The flag went down and these ten poor b.u.g.g.e.rs popped their clutches and zoomed into the first turn, all together, then somebody grabbed the lead (a 405 Husquavarna, as I recall), and a cheer went up as the rider screwed it on and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

"Well, that's that," somebody said. "They'll be back around in an hour or so. Let's go back to the bar."

But not yet. No. There were something like a hundred and ninety more bikes waiting to start. They went off ten at a time, every two minutes. At first it was possible to watch them out to a distance of some two hundred yards from the starting line. But this visibility didn't last long. The third brace of ten disappeared into the dust about a hundred yards from where we stood . . . and by the time they'd sent off the first hundred (with still another hundred to go), our visibility was down to something like fifty feet. We could see as far as the hay - bales at the end of the pits . . .

Beyond that point the incredible dustcloud that would hang over this part of the desert for the next two days was already formed up solid. None of us realized, at the time, that this was the last we would see of the "Fabulous Mint 400" - By noon it was hard to see the pit area from the bar/casino, one hundred feet away in the blazing sun. The idea of trying to "cover this race" in any conventional press - sense was absurd: It was like trying to keep track of a swimming meet in an Olympic - sized pool filled with talc.u.m powder instead of water. The Ford Motor Company had come through, as promised, with a "press Bronco" and a driver, but after a few savage runs across the desert - looking for motorcycles and occasionally finding one - I abandoned this vehicle to the photographers and went back to the bar.

It was time, I felt, for an Agonizing Reappraisal of the whole scene. The race was definitely under way. I had witnessed the start; I was sure of that much. But what now? Rent a helicopter? Get back in that stinking Bronco? Wander out on that G.o.dd.a.m.n desert and watch these fools race past the checkpoints? One every thirteen minutes. . . .

By ten they were spread out all over the course. It was no longer a "race"; now it was an Endurance Contest. The only visible action was at the start/finish line, where every few minutes some geek would come speeding out of the dustcloud and stagger off his bike, while his pit crew would gas it up and then launch it back onto the track with a fresh driver for another fifty - mile lap, another brutal hour of kidney killing madness out there in that terrible dust - blind limbo.

Somewhere around eleven, I made another tour in the press vehicle, but all we found were two dune - buggies full of what looked like retired petty - officers from San Diego. Theycut us off in a dry - wash and demanded, "Where is the d.a.m.n thing?"

"Beats me," I said. "We're just good patriotic Americans like yourselves." Both of their buggies were covered with ominous symbols: Screaming Eagles carrying American Flags in their claws, a slant - eyed snake being chopped to bits by a buzz - saw made of stars stripes, and one of the vehicles had what looked like a machine - gun mount on the pa.s.senger side.

They were having a bang - up time - just crashing around the desert at top speed and ha.s.sling anybody they met. "What outfit you fellas with?" one of them shouted. The engines were all roaring; we could barely hear each other."The sporting press," I yelled. "We're friendlies - hired geeks."

Dim smiles.

"If you want a good chase," I shouted, "you should get after that skunk from CBS News up ahead in the big black jeep. He's the man responsible for The Selling Of The Pentagon The Selling Of The Pentagon."

"Hot d.a.m.n!" two of them screamed at once. "A black jeep, you say?"

They roared off, and so did we. Bouncing across the rocks scrub oak/cactus like iron tumbleweeds. The beer in my hand flew up and hit the top, then fell in my lap and soaked my crotch with warm foam.

"You're fired," I said to the driver. "Take me back to the pits."

It was time, I felt, to get grounded - to ponder this rotten a.s.signment and figure out how to cope with it. Lacerda insisted on Total Coverage. He wanted to goback out in the dust storm and keep trying for some rare combination of film and lense that might penetrate the aweful stuff.

"Joe," our driver, was willing. His name was not really "Joe," but that's what we'd been instructed to call him. I had talked to the FOMOCO boss the night before, and when we mentioned the driver he was a.s.signing to us he said, "His real name is Steve, but you should just call him Joe."

"Why not?" I said, We'll call him anything he wants. How about "Zoom"?"

"No dice," the FOrd man said, "It has to be "Joe".

Lacerda agreed, and sometime around noon he went out on the desert again, in the company of our driver Joe. I went back to the blockhouse bar/casino that was actually the Mint Gun Club - where I began to drink heavily, think heavily, and make many heavy notes . . .

6. A Night on the Town . . . Confrontation at the Desert Inn . . . Drug Frenzy at the Circus Circus . . .

Sat.u.r.day midnight . . . Memories of this night are extremely hazy. All I have, for guide - pegs, is a pocketful of keno cards and c.o.c.ktail napkins, all covered with scribbled notes. Here is one: "Get the Ford man, demand a Bronco for race - observation purposes . .. photos? . . . Lacerda/call . . . why not a helicopter? . . . Get on the phone, lean on the f.u.c.kers . . . heavy yelling."

Another says: "Sign on Paradise Boulevard - 'Stopless and Topless' . . . bush - league s.e.x compared to L.A.; pasties here - total naked public humping in L.A. . . . Las Vegas is a society of armed masturbators/gambling is the kicker here/s.e.x is extra/weird trip for high rollers . . . house - wh.o.r.es for winners, hand jobs for the bad luck crowd."

A long time ago when I lived in Big Sur down the road from Lionel Olay I had a friend who liked to go to Reno for the c.r.a.p - shooting. He owned a sporting - goods store in Carmel. And one month he drove his Mercedes highway - cruiser to Reno on three consecutive weekends - winning heavilyinch time. After three trips he was something like $15,000 ahead, so he decided to skip the fourth weekend and take friends to dinner at Nepenthe. "Always quit winners," explained. "And besides, it's a long drive."

On Monday morning he got a phone call from Reno - from the general manager of the casino he'd been working out on. "We missed you this weekend," said the GM. "The pit - men were bored."

"Shucks," said my friend.

So the next weekend he flew up to Reno in a private plane, with a friend and two girls - all "special guests" of the GM. Nothing too good for high rollers . . .

And on Monday morning the same plane - the casino's plane - flew him back to the Monterey airport. The pilot lent him a dime to call a friend for a ride to Carmel. He was $30,000 in debt, and two months later he was looking down the barrel of one of the world's heaviest collection agendes.

So he sold his store, but that didn't make the nut. They could wait for the rest, he said - but then he got stomped, which convinced him that maybe he'd be better off borrowing enough money to pay the whole wad.

Mainline gambling is a very heavy business - and Las Vegas makes Reno seem like your friendly neighborhood grocery store. For a loser, Vegas is the meanest town on earth. Until about a year ago, there was a giant billboard on the outskirts of Las Vegas, saying:

DON'T GAMBLE WITH MARIJUANA!

IN NEVADA: POSSESSION - 20 YEARS SALE - LIFE!.

So I was not entirely at ease drifting around the casinos on this Sat.u.r.day night with a car full of marijuana and head full of acid. We had several narrow escapes: at one point I tried to drive the Great Red Shark into the laundry room of the Landmark Hotel - but the door was too narrow, and the people inside seemed dangerously excited.

We drove over to the Desert Inn, to catch the Debbie Reynolds/Harry James show. "I don't know about you," I told my attorney, "but in my line of business it's important to be Hep."

"Mine too," he said. "But as your attorney I advise you to drive over to the Tropicana and pick up on Guy Lombardo. He's in the Blue Room with his Royal Canadians."

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what?"

"Why should I pay out my hard - earned dollars to watch a f.u.c.king corpse?"

"Look," he said. "Why are we out here? To entertain ourselves, or to do the job?"

"The job, of course," I replied. We were driving around in circles, weaving through the parking lot of a place I thought was the Dunes, but it turned out to be the Thunderbird or maybe it was the Hacienda My attorney was scanning The Vegas Visitor The Vegas Visitor, looking for hints of action. "How about "'Nickel Nick's Slot Arcade?'" he said. "'Hot Slots,' that sounds heavy . . . Twenty - nine cent hotdogs . .