might be doing with all that mis - wired energy right now if she didn’t have her sketch pad. And what was she going to do when she got straight enough to read The Vegas Vistitor, as I just had, and learn that Streisand wasn’t due at the Americana for another three weeks?
My attorney finally agreed that Lucy would have to go. The possibility of a Mann Act conviction, resulting in disbarment proceedings and total loss of his livelihood, was a key factor in his decision. A nasty federal rap. Especially for a monster Samoan facing a typical white middle - class jury in Southern California.
“They might even call it kidnapping,” I said. “Straight to the gas chamber, like Chessman. And even if you
manage to beatthat, they’ll send you back to Nevada for Rape and Congensual Sodomy.”
“No!” he shouted. “I felt sorry for the girl, I wanted to help her!”
I smiled. “That’s what Fatty Arbuckle said, and you know what they did to him.”
“Who?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Just picture yourself telling a jury that you tried to help this poor girl by giving her LSD and then taking her out to Vegas for one of your special stark - naked back rubs.”
He shook his head sadly. “You’re right. They’d probably burn me at the goddamn stake… set me on fire right there in the dock. Shit, it doesn’t pay to try to help somebody these days…
We coaxed Lucy down to the car, telling her that we thought it was about time to “go meet Barbra.” We had no trouble convincing her that she should take all her artwork, but she couldn’t understand why my attorney wanted to bring her suitcase along. “I don’t want to embarrass her,” she protested. “She’ll think I’m trying to move in with her, or something.”
“No she won’t,” I said quickly… but that was all I could think of to say. I felt like Martin Bormann. What would happen to this poor wretch when we cut her loose? Jail? White slavery? What would Dr. Darwin do under these circumstances? (Survival of the… fittest? Was that the proper word? Had Darwin ever considered the idea of temporary unfitness? Like “temporary insanity.” Could the Doctor have made room in his theory for a thing like LSD?)
All this was academic, of course. Lucy was a potentially fatal millstone on both our necks. There was absolutely no choice but to cut her adrift and hope her memory was fucked. But some acid victims - especially nervous mongoloids - have a strange kind of idiot - sapient capacity for remembering odd details and nothing else. It was possible that Lucy might spend two more days in the grip of total amnesia, then snap out of it with no memory of anything but ourroom number at the Flamingo…
I thought about this… but the only alternative was to take her out to the desert and feed her remains to the lizards. I wasn’t ready for this; it seemed a bit heavy for the thing we were trying to protect: My attorney. It came down to that.
So the problem was to work out a balance, to aim Lucy in a direction that wouldn’t snap her mind and provoke a disastrous backlash.
She had money. My attorney had ascertained that. “At least $200,” he’d said. “And we can always call the cops up there in Montana, where she lives, and turn her in.”
I was reluctant to do this. The only thing worse than turning her loose in Vegas, I felt, was turning her over to “the authorities”… and that was clearly out of the question, anyway. Not now. “What kind of goddamn monster are you?” I said. “First you kidnap the girl, then you rape her, and now you want to have her locked up!”
He shrugged. “It just occurred to me,” he said, “that she has no witnesses. Anything she says about us is completely worthless.”
“Us?” I said.
He stared at me. I could see that his head was clearing. The acid was almost gone. This meant that Lucy was probably coming down, too. It was time to cut the cord.
Lucy was waiting for us in the car, listening to the radio with a twisted smile on her face. We were standing about ten yards off. Anybody watching us from a distance might have thought we were having some kind of vicious, showdown argurnent about who had “rights to the girl.” It was a standard scene for a Vegas parking lot.
We finally decided to make her a reservation at the Americana. My attorney ambled over to the car and got her last name under some pretense, then I hurried inside and called the hotel - saying that I was her uncle and that I wanted her to be “treated very gently,” because she was an artist and might seem a trifle high - strung. The room clerk assured me they’d give her every courtesy.
Then we drove her out to the airport, saying we were going to trade the White Whale in for a Mercedes 600, and my attorney took her into the lobby with all her gear. She was still unhinged and babbling when he led her away. I drove around a corner and waited for him.
Ten minutes later he shuffled up to the car and got in. “Take off slowly,” he said. “Don’t attract any attention.”
When we got out on Las Vegas Boulevard he explained that he’d given one of the airport cab - hasslers a $10 bill to see that his “drunk girlfriend” got to the Americana, where she had a reservation. “I told him to make sure she got there,” he said.
“You think she will?”
He nodded. “The guy said he’d pay the fare with the extra five bucks I gave him, and tell the cabbie to humor her. I told him I had some business to take care of, but I’d be there myself in an hour - and if the girl wasn’t already checked in, I’d come back out here and rip his lungs out.”
“That’s good,” I said. “You can’t be subtle in this town.” He grinned. “As your attorney, I advise you to tell me where you put the goddamn mescaline.”
I pulled over. The kit - bag was in the trunk. He fetched out two pellets and we each ate one. The sun was going down behind the scrub hills northwest of the city. A good Kristofferson tune was croaking out of the radio. We cruised back to town through the warm dusk, relaxed on the red leather seats of our electric white Coupe de Ville.
“Maybe we should take it easy tonight,” I said as we flashed past the Tropicana.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s find a good seafood restaurant and some red salmon. I feel a powerful lust for red salmon.”
I agreed. “But first we should go back to the hotel and set - in. Maybe have a quick swim and some rum.”
He nodded, leaning back on the seat and staring up at the sky. Night was coming down slowly.
4. No Refuge for Degenerates… Reflections on a Muderous Junkie
We drove through the parking lot of the Flamingo and around the back, through the labyrinth, to our wing. No problem with parking, no problem with theelevator, and the suite was dead quiet when we entered: half-dark and peacefully elegant, with big sliding walls opening out on the lawn and the pool.
The only thing moving in the room was the red-blinking message light on the telephone. “Probably room service,” I said. “I ordered some ice and booze. I guess it came while we were gone.”
My attorney shrugged. “We have plenty,” he said. “But we might as well get more. Hell yes, tell them to send it up.”
I picked up the phone and dialed the desk. “What’s the mes sage?” I asked. “My light is blinking.”
The clerk seemed to hesitate. I could hear papers shuffling. “Ah yes,” he saidfinally. “Mister Duke? Yes, you have two messages. One says, ‘Welcome to Las Vegas, from the National District Attorneys’ Association.’ ”
“Wonderful,” I said.
“… and the other,” he continued, “says, ‘Call Lucy at the Americana, room 1000.’ ”
“What?”
He repeated the message. There was no mistake.
“Holy shit!” I muttered.
“Excuse me?” said the clerk.
I hung up.
