Fear and Loathing at Rolling Stone (79 page)

Wonderful, I thought. But meanwhile we were leaving the scene of a very conspicuous wreck that was sure to be noticed by morning, and the whole front of my car was gummed up with wool and sheep’s blood. There was no way I could leave it parked on the street in Elko, where I’d planned to stop for the night (maybe two or three nights, for that matter) to visit with some old friends who were attending a kind of Appalachian Conference for sex-film distributors at the legendary Commercial Hotel . . .

Never mind that, I thought. Things have changed. I was suddenly a Victim of Tragedy—injured and on the run, far out in the middle of sheep country—one thousand miles from home with a car full of obviously criminal hitchhikers who were spattered with blood and cursing angrily at each other as we zoomed through the blinding monsoon.

Jesus, I thought. Who
are
these people?

Who indeed? They seemed not to notice me. The two women fighting in the backseat were hookers. No doubt about that. I had seen them in my headlights as they struggled in the wreckage of the Cadillac, which had killed about sixty sheep. They were desperate with Fear and
Confusion, crawling wildly across the sheep ... One was a tall black girl in a white minidress ... and now she was screaming at the other one, a young blond white woman. They were both drunk. Sounds of struggle came from the backseat. “Get your hands off me,
Bitch
!” Then a voice cried out: “
Help
me, Judge! Help! She’s
killing
me!”

What? I thought.
Judge
? Then she said it again, and a horrible chill went through me . . .
Judge
? No. That would be over the line. Unacceptable.

He lunged over the seat and whacked their heads together. “Shut up!” he screamed. “Where are your fucking
manners
?”

He went over the seat again. He grabbed one of them by the hair. “God
damn
you,” he screamed. “Don’t embarrass this man. He saved our lives. We owe him respect—not this goddamned squalling around like whores.”

A shudder ran through me, but I gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, ignoring this sudden horrible freak show in my car. I lit a cigarette, but I was not calm. Sounds of sobbing and the ripping of cloth came from the backseat. The man they called Judge had straightened himself out and was now resting easily in the front seat, letting out long breaths of air ... The silence was terrifying: I quickly turned up the music. It was Los Lobos again—something about “One Time One Night in America,” a profoundly morbid tune about Death and Disappointment:

A lady dressed in white
With the man she loved
Standing along the side of their pickup truck
A shot rang out in the night
Just when everything seemed right

Right. A shot. A shot rang out in the night. Just another headline written down in America ... Yes. There was a loaded .454 Magnum revolver in a clearly marked oak box on the front seat, about halfway between me and the Judge. He could grab it in a split second and blow my head off.

“Good work, Boss,” he said suddenly. “I owe you a big one for this. I was
done for
, if you hadn’t come along.” He chuckled. “Sure as hell, Boss,
sure as hell. I was Dead Meat—killed a lot worse than what happened to those goddamn stupid sheep!”

Jesus! I thought. Get ready to hit the brake. This man is a Judge on the lam with two hookers. He has
no choice
but to kill me, and those floozies in the backseat, too. We were the only witnesses . . .

This eerie perspective made me uneasy ... Fuck this, I thought. These people are going to get me locked up. I’d be better off just pulling over right here and killing all three of them.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Terminate the scum.

“How far is town?” the Judge asked.

I jumped, and the car veered again. “Town?” I said. “
What
town?” My arms were rigid and my voice was strange and reedy.

He whacked me on the knee and laughed. “Calm down, Boss,” he said. “I have everything under control. We’re almost home.” He pointed into the rain, where I was beginning to see the dim lights of what I knew to be Elko.

“Okay,” he snapped. “Take a left, straight ahead.” He pointed again, and I slipped the car into low. There was a red and blue neon sign glowing about a half mile ahead of us, barely visible in the storm. The only words I could make out were “No” and “Vacancy.”

“Slow down!” the Judge screamed. “This is
it
! Turn! Goddamn it, turn!” His voice had the sound of a whip cracking. I recognized the tone and did as he said, curling into the mouth of the curve with all four wheels locked and the big engine snarling wildly in Compound Low and blue flames coming out of the tailpipe ... It was one of those long perfect moments in the human driving experience that makes
everybody
quiet.

We were sliding sideways very fast and utterly out of control and coming up on a white steel guardrail at seventy miles an hour in a thunderstorm on a deserted highway in the middle of the night.

Why not? On some nights Fate will pick you up like a chicken and slam you around on the walls until your body feels like a beanbag . . .
Boom! Blood! Death!
So Long, Bubba—You knew it would End like this . . .

We stabilized and shot down the loop. The Judge seemed oddly calm
as he pointed again. “This is it,” he said. “This is my place. I keep a few suites here.” He nodded eagerly. “We’re finally safe, Boss. We can do anything we want in this place.”

The sign at the gate said:

Endicott’s Motel
Deluxe Suites and Waterbeds
Adults Only/No Animals

Thank God, I thought. It was almost too good to be true. A place to
dump
these bastards. They were quiet now, but not for long. And I knew I couldn’t handle it when these women woke up.

The Endicott was a string of cheap-looking bungalows, laid out in a horseshoe pattern around a rutted gravel driveway. There were cars parked in front of most of the units, but the slots in front of the brightly lit places at the darker end of the horseshoe were empty.

“Okay,” said the Judge. “We’ll drop the ladies down there at our suite, then I’ll get you checked in.” He nodded. “We both need some
sleep
, Boss—or at least
rest
, if you know what I mean. Shit, it’s been a long night.”

I laughed, but it sounded like the bleating of a dead man. The adrenaline rush of the sheep crash was gone, and now I was sliding into pure Fatigue Hysteria.

The Endicott “Office” was a darkened hut in the middle of the horseshoe. We parked in front of it, and then the Judge began hammering on the wooden front door, but there was no immediate response ... “Wake up, goddamn it! It’s
me
—the
Judge
! Open up! This is Life and Death! I need
help
!”

He stepped back and delivered a powerful kick at the door, which rattled the glass panels and shook the whole building. “I know you’re in there,” he screamed. “You can’t hide! I’ll kick your ass till your nose bleeds!”

There was still no sign of life, and I quickly abandoned all hope. Get out of here, I thought. This is wrong. I was still in the car, half in and half out ... The Judge put another fine snap-kick at a point just over the
doorknob and uttered a sharp scream in some language I didn’t recognize. Then I heard the sound of breaking glass.

I leapt back into the car and started the engine. Get away! I thought. Never mind sleep. It’s flee or die, now. People get killed for doing this kind of shit in Nevada. It was far over the line. Unacceptable behavior. This is why God made shotguns . . .

I saw lights come on in the Office. Then the door swung open, and I saw the Judge leap quickly through the entrance and grapple briefly with a small bearded man in a bathrobe, who collapsed to the floor after the Judge gave him a few blows to the head ... Then he called back to me. “Come on in, Boss,” he yelled. “Meet Mr. Henry.”

I shut off the engine and staggered up the gravel path. I felt sick and woozy, and my legs were like rubber bands.

The Judge reached out to help me. I shook hands with Mr. Henry, who gave me a key and a form to fill out. “Bullshit,” said the Judge. “This man is my
guest
. He can have anything he wants. Just put it on my bill.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Henry. “Your
bill
. Yes. I have it right here.” He reached under his desk and came up with a nasty-looking bundle of adding-machine tapes and scrawled Cash/Payment memos ... “You got here just in time,” he said. “We were about to notify the Police.”

“
What
?” said the Judge. “Are you
nuts
?” I have a goddamn
platinum
American Express card! My credit is
impeccable
.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Henry. “We
know
that. We have total respect for you. Your signature is better than gold bullion.”

The Judge smiled and whacked the flat of his hand on the counter. “You bet it is!” he snapped. “So get out of my goddamn
face
! You must be
crazy
to fuck with Me like this! You
fool
! Are you ready to go to
court
?”

Mr. Henry sagged. “
Please
, Judge,” he said. “Don’t
do
this to me. All I need is your
card
. Just let me run an
imprint
. That’s all.” He moaned and stared more or less at the Judge, but I could see that his eyes were not focused . . . “They’re going to
fire
me,” he whispered. “They want to put me in
jail
.”

“Nonsense!” the Judge snapped. “I would
never
let that happen. You can always
plead
.” He reached out and gently gripped Mr. Henry’s wrist. “Believe me, Bro,” he hissed. “You have
nothing to worry about
. You are
cool
. They will
never
lock you up! They will
Never
take you away! Not out of
my
courtroom!”

“Thank you,” Mr. Henry replied. “But all I need is your card and your signature. That’s the problem: I forgot to run it when you checked in.”

“So what?” the Judge barked. “I’m good for it. How much do you need?”

“About twenty-two thousand dollars,” said Mr. Henry. “Probably twenty-three thousand dollars by now. You’ve had those suites for nineteen days with total room service.”

“What?” the Judge yelled. “You thieving bastards! I’ll have you crucified by American Express. You are
finished
in this business. You will
never work again
! Not
anywhere in the world
!” Then he whipped Mr. Henry across the front of his face so fast that I barely saw it. “Stop crying!” he said. “Get a grip on yourself! This is embarrassing!”

Then he slapped the man again. “Is that all you want?” he said. “Only a
card
? A stupid little card? A piece of plastic
shit
?”

Mr. Henry nodded. “Yes, Judge,” he whispered. “That’s all. Just a stupid little card.”

The Judge laughed and reached into his raincoat, as if to jerk out a gun or at least a huge wallet. “You want a
card
, whoreface? Is that
it
? Is that all you want? You filthy little scumbag! Here it
is
!”

Mr. Henry cringed and whimpered. Then he reached out to accept the Card, the thing that would set him free ... The Judge was still grasping around in the lining of his raincoat. “What the fuck?” he muttered. “This thing has
too many pockets
! I can
feel
it, but I can’t find the slit!”

Mr. Henry seemed to believe him, and so did I, for a minute ... Why not? He was a Judge with a platinum credit card—a very high roller. You don’t find many Judges, these days, who can handle a full case-load in the morning and run wild like a goat in the afternoon. That is a very hard dollar, and very few can handle it ... but the Judge was a Special Case.

Suddenly he screamed and fell sideways, ripping and clawing at the lining of his raincoat. “Oh, Jesus!” he wailed. “I’ve lost my wallet! It’s
gone
. I left it out there in the Limo, when we hit the fucking sheep.”

“So what?” I said. “We don’t need it for this. I have
many
plastic cards.”

He smiled and seemed to relax. “How many?” he said. “We might need more than one.”