God only knows what that kid said about us when he finally got back to town. Get out of sight at once. How could I be surerecognized me? But the car was hard to miss. And why would he back away from the road?
Suddenly I had two personal enemies in this godforsaken town. The CHP cop would bust me for sure if I tried to go on through to L.A., and this goddamn rotten kid/hitchhiker would have me hunted down like a beast if I stayed. (Holy Jesus, Sam! There he is! That guy the kid told us about! He’s
back!)
Either way, it was horrible - and if these righteous outback predators ever got their stories together… and they would; it was inevitable in a town this small… that would cash my check all around. I’d be lucky to leave town alive. A ball of tar and feathers dragged onto the prison bus by angry natives.
This was it: The crisis. 1 raced through town and found a telephone booth on the northern outskirts, between a Sinclair station and… yes… the Majestic Diner. I placed an emergency collect call to my attorney in Malibu. He answered at once.
“They’ve nailed me!” I shouted. “I’m trapped in some stinking desert crossroads called Baker. I don’t have much time. The fuckers are closing in.”
“Who?” he said. “You sound a little paranoid.”
“You bastard!” I screamed. “First I got run down by the CHP, then that kid spotted me! I need a lawyer immediately!”
“What are you doing in Baker?” he said. “Didn’t you get my telegram?”
“What? Fuck telegrams. I’m in trouble.”
“You’re supposed to be in Vegas,” he said. “We have a suite at the Flamingo. I was just about to leave for the airport…
I slumped in the booth. It was too horrible. Here I was calling my attorney in a moment of terrible crisis and the fool was deranged on drugs - a goddamn vegetable! “You worthless bastard,” I groaned. “I’ll cripple your ass for this! All that shit in the car is yours! You understand that? When I finish testifying out here, you’ll be disbarred!”
“You brainless scumbag!” he shouted. “I sent you a telegram! You’re supposed to be covering the National District Attorneys’ Conference! I made all the reservations… rented a white Cadillac convertible… the whole thing is arranged! What the hell are you doing out there in the middle the fucking desert?”
Suddenly I remembered. Yes. The telegram. It was all very clear. My mind became calm. I saw the whole thing in a flash. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s all a big joke. I’m actually sitting beside the pool at the Flamingo. I’m talking from a portable phone. Some dwarf brought it out from the casino. I have total credit! Can you grasp that?” I was breathing heavily, feeling crazy, sweating into the phone.
“Don’t come anywhere near this place!” I shouted.
“Foreigners aren’t welcome here.”
I hung up and strolled out to the car. Well, I thought. This is how the world works. All energy flows according to the whims of the Great Magnet. What a fool I was to defy him.
He knew. He knew all along. It was He who sacked me in Baker. I had run far enough, so He nailed me… closing off all my escape routes, hassling me first with the CHP and then with this filthy phantom hitchhiker… plunging me into fear and confusion.
Never cross the Great Magnet. I understood this now.and with understanding came a sense of almost terminal relief. Yes, I would go back to Vegas. Slip the Kid and confound the CHP by moving East again, instead of West. This would be the shrewdest move of my life. Back to Vegas and sign
up for the Drugs and Narcotics conference; me and a thousand pigs. Why not? Move coilfidently into their midst. Register at the Flamingo and have the White Caddy sent over at once. Do it right; remember Horatio Alger…
I looked across the road and saw a huge red sign that said BEER. Wonderful. I left the Shark by the phone booth and reeled across the highway into the Hardware Barn. A Jew loomed up from behind a pile of sprockets and asked me what I wanted.
“Ballantine Ale,” I said… a very mystic long shot, unknown between Newark and San Francisco.
He served it up, ice - cold.
I relaxed. Suddenly everything was going right; I wasfinally getting the breaks.
The bartender approached me with a smile. “Where yaheadin’, young man?”
“Las Vegas,” I said.
He smiled. “A great town, that Vegas. You’ll have good luck there; you’re the type.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m a Triple Scorpio.”
He seemed pleased. “That’s a fine combination,” he said. “You can’t lose.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m actually the districtattorney from Ignoto county. Just another good American like yourself.”
His smile disappeared. Did he understand? I couldn’t be sure. But that hardly mattered now. I was going back to Vegas. I had no choice.
Part Two
About 20 miles east of Baker I stopped to check the drug bag. The sun was hot and I felt like killing something. Anything. Even a big lizard. Drill the fucker. I got my attorney’s.357 Magnum out of the trunk and spun the cylinder. It was loaded all the way around: Long, nasty little slugs - 158 grains with a fine flat trajectory and painted aztec gold on the tips. I blew the horn a few times, hoping to call up an iguana. Get the buggers moving. They were out there, I knew, in that goddamn sea of cactus - hunkered down, barely breathing, and every one of the stinking little bastards was loaded with deadly poison.
Three fast explosions knocked me off balance. Three deafening, double - action blasts from the.357 in my right hand. Jesus! Firing at nothing, for no reason at all. Bad craziness. I tossed the gun into the front seat of the Shark and stared nervously at the highway. No cars either way; the road was empty for two or three miles in both directions.Fine luck.
It would not do to be found in the desert under these circumstances: firing wildly into the cactus from a car full of drugs. And especially not now, on the lam from the Highway Patrol.
Awkward questions would arise: “Well now, Mister… ah… Duke; you understand, of course, that it is illegal to dise a firearm of any kind while standing on a federal way?”
What? Even in self - defense? This goddamn gun has a hair trigger, officer. The truth is I only meant to fire once - just to scare the little bastards.”
A heavy stare, then speaking very slowly: “Are you saying, Mister Duke… that you were attacked out here?”
“Well… no… not literally attacked, officer, but seriously menaced. I stopped to piss, and the minute I stepped out of the car these filthy little bags of poison were all around me. They moved like greased lightning! ”
Would this story hold up?
No. They would place me under arrest, then routinely search the car - and when that happened all kinds of savage hell would break loose. They would never believe all these drugs were necessary to my work; that in truth I was a professional journalist on my way to Las Vegas to cover the National District Attorneys’ Conference on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.
“Just samples, officer. I got this stuff off a road man for the Neo - American Church back in Barstow. He started acting funny, so I worked him over.”
Would they buy this?
No. They would lock me in some hellhole of a jail and beat me on the kidneys with big branches - causing me to piss blood for years to come.
Luckily, nobody bothered me while I ran a quick inventory on the kit - bag. The stash was a hopeless mess, all churned together and half - crushed. Some of the mescaline pellets had disintegrated into a reddish - brown powder, but I counted about thirty - five or forty still intact. My attorney had eaten all the reds, but there was quite
