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HEAD WILL DIEâ
This line appears in my notebook, for some reason. Perhaps some connection with Joe Frazier. Is he still alive? Still able to talk? I watched that fight in Seattleâhorribly twisted about four seats down the aisle from the Governor. A very painful experience in every way, a proper end to the sixties: Tim Leary a prisoner of Eldridge Cleaver in Algeria, Bob Dylan clipping coupons in Greenwich Village, both Kennedys murdered by mutants, Owsley folding napkins on Terminal Island, and finally Cassius/Ali belted incredibly off his pedestal by a human hamburger, a man on the verge of death. Joe Frazier, like Nixon, had finally prevailed for reasons that people like me refused to understandâat least not out loud.
⦠But that was some other era, burned out and long gone from the brutish realities of this foul year of Our Lord, 1971. A lot of things had changed in those years. And now I was in Las Vegas as the motor sports editor of this fine slick magazine that had sent me out here in the Great Red Shark for some reason that nobody claimed to understand. âJust check it out,â they said, âand weâll take it from there. â¦â
Indeed. Check it out. But when we finally arrived at the Mint Hotel my attorney was unable to cope artfully with the registration procedure. We were forced to stand in line with all the othersâwhich proved to be extremely difficult under the circumstances. I kept telling myself: âBe quiet, be calm, say nothing ⦠speak only when spoken to: name, rank and press affiliation, nothing else, ignore this terrible drug, pretend itâs not happening. â¦â
There is no way to explain the terror I felt when I finally lunged up to the clerk and began babbling. All my well-rehearsed lines fell apart under that womanâs stoney glare. âHi there,â I said. âMy name is ⦠ah, Raoul Duke ⦠yes, on the list, thatâs for sure. Free lunch, final wisdom, total coverage. ⦠why not? I have my attorney with me and I realize of course that his name is not on the list, but we must have that suite, yes, this man is actually my driver. We brought this Red Shark all the way from the Strip and now itâs time for the desert, right? Yes. Just check the list and youâll see. Donât worry. Whatâs the score here? Whatâs next?â
The woman never blinked. âYour roomâs not ready yet,â she said. âBut thereâs somebody looking for you.â
âNo!â I shouted. âWhy? We havenât done anything yet!â My legs felt rubbery. I gripped the desk and sagged toward her as she held out the envelope, but I refused to accept it. The womanâs face was changing: swelling, pulsing ⦠horrible green jowls and fangs jutting out, the face of a Moray Eel! Deadly poison! I lunged backwards into my attorney, who gripped my arm as he reached out to take the note. âIâll handle this,â he said to the Moray woman. âThis man has a bad heart, but I have plenty of medicine. My name is Doctor Gonzo. Prepare our suite at once. Weâll be in the bar.â
The woman shrugged as he led me away. In a town full of bedrock crazies, nobody even notices an acid freak. We struggled through the crowded lobby and found two stools at the bar. My attorney ordered two cuba libres with beer and mescal on the side, then he opened the envelope. âWhoâs Lacerda?â he asked. âHeâs waiting for us in a room on the twelfth floor.â
I couldnât remember. Lacerda? The name rang a bell, but I couldnât concentrate. Terrible things were happening all around us. Right next to me a huge reptile was gnawing on a womanâs neck, the carpet was a blood-soaked spongeâimpossible to walk on it, no footing at all. âOrder some golf shoes,â I whispered. âOtherwise, weâll never get out of this place alive. You notice these lizards donât have any trouble moving around in this muckâthatâs because they have claws on their feet.â
âLizards?â he said. âIf you think weâre in trouble now, wait till you see whatâs happening in the elevators.â He took off his Brazilian sunglasses and I could see heâd been crying. âI just went upstairs to see this man Lacerda,â he said. âI told him we knew what he was up to. He says heâs a photographer, but when I mentioned Savage Henryâwell, that did it; he freaked. I could see it in his eyes. He knows weâre onto him.â
âDoes he understand we have magnums?â I said.
âNo. But I told him we had a Vincent Black Shadow. That scared the piss out of him.â
âGood,â I said. âBut what about our room? And the golf shoes? Weâre right in the middle of a fucking reptile zoo! And somebodyâs giving booze to these goddamn things! It wonât be long before they tear us to shreds. Jesus, look at the floor! Have you ever seen so much blood? How many have they killed already?â I pointed across the room to a group that seemed to be staring at us. âHoly shit, look at that bunch over there! Theyâve spotted us!â
âThatâs the press table,â he said. âThatâs where you have to sign in for our credentials. Shit, letâs get it over with. You handle that, and Iâll get the room.â
4.Hideous Musicand the Sound ofMany Shotguns â¦Rude Vibes on aSaturday Evening in Vegas (#ulink_f769d6cd-9d86-51ac-9935-1ce379f397bf)
We finally got into the suite around dusk, and my attorney was immediately on the phone to room serviceâordering four club sandwiches, four shrimp cocktails, a quart of rum and nine fresh grapefruits. âVitamin C,â he explained. âWeâll need all we can get.â
I agreed. By this time the drink was beginning to cut the acid and my hallucinations were down to a tolerable level. The room service waiter had a vaguely reptilian cast to his features, but I was no longer seeing huge pterodactyls lumbering around the corridors in pools of fresh blood. The only problem now was a gigantic neon sign outside the window, blocking our view of the mountainsâmillions of colored balls running around a very complicated track, strange symbols & filigree, giving off a loud hum. â¦
âLook outside,â I said.
âWhy?â
âThereâs a big ⦠machine in the sky, ⦠some kind of electric snake ⦠coming straight at us.â
âShoot it,â said my attorney.
âNot yet,â I said. âI want to study its habits.â
He went over to the corner and began pulling on a chain to close the drapes. âLook,â he said, âyouâve got to stop this talk about snakes and leeches and lizards and that stuff. Itâs making me sick.â
âDonât worry,â I said.
âWorry? Jesus, I almost went crazy down there in the bar. Theyâll never let us back in that placeânot after your scene at the press table.â
âWhat scene?â
âYou bastard,â he said. âI left you alone for three minutes! You scared the shit out of those people! Waving that goddamn marlin spike around and yelling about reptiles. Youâre lucky I came back in time. They were ready to call the cops. I said you were only drunk and that I was taking you up to your room for a cold shower. Hell, the only reason they gave us the press passes was to get you out of there.â
He was pacing around nervously. âJesus, that scene straightened me right out! I must have some drugs. What have you done with the mescaline?â
âThe kit-bag,â I said.
He opened the bag and ate two pellets while I got the tape machine going. âMaybe you should only eat one of these,â he said. âThat acidâs still working on you.â
I agreed. âWe have to go out to the track before dark,â I said. âBut we have time to watch the TV news. Letâs carve up this grapefruit and make a fine rum punch, maybe toss in a blotter ⦠whereâs the car?â
âWe gave it to somebody in the parking lot,â he said. âI have the ticket in my briefcase.â
âWhatâs the number? Iâll call down and have them wash the bastard, get rid of that dust and grime.â
âGood idea,â he said. But he couldnât find the ticket.
âWell, weâre fucked,â I said. âWeâll never convince them to give us that car without proof.â
He thought for a moment, then picked up the phone and asked for the garage. âThis is Doctor Gonzo in eight-fifty,â he said. âI seem to have lost my parking stub for that red convertible I left with you, but I want the car washed and ready to go in thirty minutes. Can you send up a duplicate stub? ⦠What ⦠Oh? ⦠Well, thatâs fine.â He hung up and reached for the hash pipe. âNo problem,â he said. âThat man remembers my face.â
âThatâs good,â I said. âTheyâll probably have a big net ready for us when we show up.â
He shook his head. âAs your attorney, I advise you not to worry about me.â
The TV news was about the Laos Invasionâa series of horrifying disasters: explosions and twisted wreckage, men fleeing in terror, Pentagon generals babbling insane lies. âTurn that shit off!â screamed my attorney âLetâs get out of here!â
A wise move. Moments after we picked up the car my attorney went into a drug coma and ran a red light on Main Street before I could bring us under control. I propped him up in the passenger seat and took the wheel myself ⦠feeling fine, extremely sharp. All around me in traffic I could see people talking and I wanted to hear what they were saying. All of them. But the shotgun mike was in the trunk and I decided to leave it there. Las Vegas is not the kind of town where you want to drive down Main Street aiming a black bazooka-looking instrument at people.
Turn up the radio. Turn up the tape machine. Look into the sunset up ahead. Roll the windows down for a better taste of the cool desert wind. Ah yes. This is what itâs all about. Total control now. Tooling along the main drag on a Saturday night in Las Vegas, two good old boys in a fireapple-red convertible ⦠stoned, ripped, twisted ⦠Good People.
Great God! What is this terrible music?
âThe Battle Hymn of Lieutenant Calleyâ:
â⦠as we go marching on â¦
When I reach my final campground, in that land beyond the sun,
and the Great Commander asks me â¦â
(What did he ask you, Rusty?)
â⦠Did you fight or did you run?â
(and what did you tell him. Rusty?)
â⦠We responded to their rifle fire with everything we had . . .â
No! I canât 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 canât 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. âOne mile,â 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 flat hollow boom.
I stopped the car. What the hell 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 clustered, 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 werenât letting anything interfere with their target practice. Here were about a hundred bikers, mechanics and assorted motorsport types milling around in the pit area, signing in for tomorrowâs race, idly sipping beers and appraising each otherâs machineryâand 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 rhythmâsort of a steady bass-lineâto 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 405 Husquavarnas, high-tuned Swedish fireballs ⦠also many Yamahas, Kawasakis, a few 500 Triumphs, Maicos, here & there a CZ, a Pursang ⦠all very fast, super-light dirt bikes. No Hogs in this league, not even a Sportster ⦠that would be like entering our Great Red Shark in the dune buggy competition.
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?
Nobody 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 buggiesâa Kamikaze trip.
âWhatâs the entry fee?â I asked the desk-man.
âTwo fifty,â he said.
âWhat if I told you I had a Vincent Black Shadow?â
He stared up at me, saying nothing, not friendly. I noticed he was wearing a .38 revolver on his belt. âForget it,â I said. âMy driverâs sick, anyway.â
His eyes narrowed. âYour driver ainât the only one sick around here, buddy.â
âHe has a bone in his throat,â I said.
âWhat?â
The man was getting ugly, but suddenly his eyes switched away. He was staring at something else â¦
My attorney; no longer wearing his Danish sunglasses, no longer wearing his Acapulco shirt ⦠a very crazy looking person, half-naked and breathing heavily.
âWhatâs the trouble here?â he croaked. âThis man is my client. Are you prepared to go to court?â
I grabbed his shoulder and gently spun him around. âNever mind,â I said. âItâs the Black Shadowâthey wonât accept it.â
âWait a minute!â he shouted. âWhat do you mean, they wonât accept it? Have you made a deal with these pigs?â
âCertainly not,â I said, pushing him along toward the gate. âBut you notice theyâre all armed. Weâre the only people here without guns. Canât you hear that shooting over there?â
He paused, listened for an instant, then suddenly began running toward the car. âYou cocksuckers!â he screamed over his shoulder. âWeâll be back!â
By the time we got the shark back on the highway he was able to talk. âJesus christ! How did we get mixed up with that gang of psychotic bigots? Letâs get the fuck out of this town. Those scumbags were trying to kill us!â
5.Covering the Story â¦A Glimpse of thePress in Action â¦Ugliness & Failure
The racers were ready at dawn. Fine sunrise over the desert. Very tense. But the race didnât start until nine, so we had to kill about three long hours in the casino next to the pits, and thatâs where the trouble started.
The bar opened at seven. There was also a âkoffee & donut canteenâ 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 crap-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: âGod damn! What day is thisâSaturday?â
âMore like Sunday,â somebody replied.
âHah! Thatâs a bitch, ainât it?â the H-D boomer shouted to nobody in particular. âLast night I was out home in Long Beach and somebody said they were runninâ the Mint 400 today, so I says to my old lady, âMan, Iâm goinâ.â He laughed. âSo she gives me a lot of crap about it, you know ⦠so I started slappinâ her around and the next thing I knew two guys I never even seen before got me out on the sidewalk workinâ me over. Jesus! They beat me stupid.â
He laughed again, talking into the crowd and not seeming to care who listened. âHell yes!â he continued. âThen one of âem says, âWhere you going?â And I says, âLas Vegas, to the Mint 400.â So they gave me ten bucks and drove me down to the bus station. â¦â He paused. âAt least I think it was them. â¦
âWell, anyway, here I am. And I tell you that was one hell of a long night, man! Seven hours on that goddamn bus! But when I woke up it was dawn and here I was in downtown Vegas and for a minute I didnât know what the hell I was doinâ here. All I could think was, âO Jesus, here we go again: Whoâs divorced me this time?ââ
He accepted a cigarette from somebody in the crowd, still grinning as he lit up. âBut then I remembered, by God! I was here for the Mint 400 ⦠and, man, thatâs all I needed to know. I tell you itâs wonderful to be here, man. I donât give a damn who wins or loses. Itâs just wonderful to be here with you people. â¦â
Nobody argued with him. We all understood. In some circles, the âMint 400â 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: âSenzaman wazzyneeds!â
âFast up with it,â I croaked. âWhy not five?â I smacked the bar with my open, bleeding palm. âHell yes! Bring us ten!â
âIâll back it!â The Life man screamed. He was losing his grip on the bar, sinking slowly to his knees, but still speaking with definite authority: âThis is a magic moment in sport! It may never come again!â Then his voice seemed to break. âI once did the Triple Crown,â he muttered. âBut it was nothing like this.â
The frog-eyed woman clawed feverishly at his belt. âStand up!â she pleaded. âPlease stand up! Youâd be a very handsome man if youâd just stand up!â
He laughed distractedly. âListen, madam,â he snapped. âIâm damn near intolerably handsome down here where I am. Youâd go crazy if I stood up!â
The woman kept pulling at him. Sheâd 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 assignment: to cover the Fourth Annual âMint 400â ⦠and when it comes to things like this, you donât fool around.
But nowâeven before the spectacle got under wayâthere 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 âMint Gun Clubâ 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 buggers 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.
âWell, thatâs that,â somebody said. âTheyâll be back around in an hour or so. Letâs go back to the bar.â
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 didnât last long. The third brace of ten disappeared into the dust about a hundred yards from where we stood ⦠and by the time theyâd 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. â¦
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 âFabulous Mint 400ââ
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 âcover this raceâ 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 talcum powder instead of water. The Ford Motor Company had come through, as promised, with a âpress Broncoâ and a driver, but after a few savage runs across the desertâlooking for motorcycles and occasionally finding oneâI 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 goddamn 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 âraceâ; 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.