WASHINGTON (AP)—A House Subcommittee report says

illegal drugs killed 160 American GI’s last year—40 of

them in Vietnam ...Drugs were suspected, it said, in another

56 military deaths in Asia and the Pacific Command ...It

said the heroin problem in Vietnam is increasing in

seriousness, primarily because of processing laboratories in

Laos, Thailand and Hong Kong. “Drug suppression in

Vietnam is almost completely ineffective,” the report said,

“partially because of an ineffective local police force and

partially because some presently unknown corrupt officials

in public office are involved in the drug traffic.”

To the left of that grim notice was a four-column center-page photo of Washington, D.C., cops fighting with “young anti-war demonstrators who staged a sit-in and blocked the entrance to Selective Service Headquarters.”And next to the photo was a large black headline:

TORTURE TALES TOLD IN WAR HEARINGS.

WASHINGTON—Volunteer witnesses told an informal

congressional panel yesterday that while serving as

miliy interrogators they routinely used electrical tele -

tione hookups and helicopter drops to torture and kill

ietnamese prisoners. One Army intelligence specialist

iid the pistol slaying of his Chinese interpreter was de -

by a superior who said, “She was just a slope,

Lyway,” meaning she was an Asiatic. ...

Right underneath that story was a headline saying: FIVE

WOUNDED NEAJi NYC TENEMENT ... by an unidentified

gunman who fired from the roof of a building, for no apparent reason. This item appeared just above a headline that said:

PHARMACY OWNER ARRESTED IN PROBE ...“a

result,” the article explained, “of a preliminary investigation (of a Las Vegas pharmacy) showing a

shortage of over 100,000 pills considered dangerous drugs. . .

Reading the front page made me feel a lot better. Against that heinous background, my crimes were pale and meaningless. I was a relatively respectable citizen—a multiple felon, perhaps, but certainly not dangerous. And when the Great Scorer came to write against my name, that would surely make a difference.

Or would it? I turned to the sports page and saw a small item about Muhammad Ali; his case was before the Supreme Court, the final appeal. He’d been sentenced to five years in prison for refusing to kill “slopes.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ against them Viet Congs,” he said.

Five years.

10. Western Union Intervenes: A Warning from Mr. Heem ...New Assignment from the Sports Desk and a Savage Invitation from the Police

Suddenly I felt guilty again. The Shark! Where was it? I tossed the paper aside and began to pace. Losing control. I felt my whole act slipping ...and then I saw the car, swooping down a ramp in the next-door garage.

Deliverance! I grasped my leather satchel and moved forward to meet my wheels.

“MISTER DUKE!”

The voice came from over my shoulder.

“Mister Duke! We’ve been looking for you!”

I almost collapsed on the curb. Every cell in my brain and body sagged. No! I thought. I must be hallucinating. There’s nobody back there, nobody calling ...it’s a paranoid delusion, amphetamine psychosis ... just keep walking towards the car, always smiling ....

“MISTER DUKE! Wait!”

Well ... why not? Many fine books have been written in on. And it’s not like I’ll be a total stranger up there in Carson City. The warden will recognize me; and the Con Boss—I once interviewed them for The New York Times. Along with a lot of other cons, guards, cops and assorted hustlers who got ugly, by mail, when the article never appeared.

Why not? They asked. They wanted their stories told. And it was hard to explain; in those circles, that everything they told me went into the wastebasket or at least the dead-end file because the lead paragraphs I wrote for that article didn’t satisfy some editor three thousand miles away—some nervous drone behind a grey formica desk in the bowels of a journalistic bureaucracy that no con in Nevada will ever understand—and that the article finally died on the vine, as it were, because I refused to rewrite the lead. For reasons of my own.

None of which would make much sense in The Yard. But what the hell? Why worry about details? I turned to face my accuser, a small young clerk with a big smile on his face and a yellow envelope in his hand. “I’ve been calling your room,” he said. “Then I saw you standing outside.”

I nodded, too tired to resist. By now the Shark was beside me, but I saw no point in even tossing my bag into it. The game was up. They had me.

The clerk was still smiling. “This telegram just came for you,” he said. “But actually it isn’t for you. It’s for somebody named Thompson, but it says ‘care of Raoul Duke’; does that make sense?”

I felt dizzy. It was too much to absorb all at once. From freedom, to prison, and then back to freedom again—all in thirty seconds. I staggered backwards and leaned on the car, feeling the white folds of the canvas top beneath my trembling hand. The clerk, still smiling, was poking the telegram at me.

I nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes,” I said finally, “it makes sense.” I accepted the envelope and tore it open:

URGENT SPEED LETTER

HUNTER S. THOMPSON

c/o RAOUL DUKE

SOUNDPROOF SUITE 1850

MINT HOTEL LAS VEGAS

CALL ME AT ONCE REPEAT AT ONCE WE HAVE A NEW ASSIGNMENT BEGINNING TOMORROW ALSO VEGAS DONT WE STOP THE NATIONAL CONFERENCE OF DISTRICT ATTORNEYS INVITES YOU TO THEIR FOUR DAY SEMINAR ON NARCOTICS AND DANGEROUS DRUGS AT DUNES HOTEL STOP ROLLING STONE CALLED THEY WANT 50 THOUSAND WORDS MASSIVE PAYMENT TOTAL EXPENSES INCLUDING ALL SAMPLES STOP WE HAVE RESERVATIONS AT HOTEL FLAMINGO AND WHITE CADDY CONVERTIBLE STOP EVERYTHING IS ARRANGED CALL IMMEDIATELY FOR DETAILS URGENT REPEAT URGENT STOP

DOCTOR GONZO

“Holy shit!” I muttered. “This can’t be true!”

“You mean it’s not for you?” the clerk asked, suddenly nervous. “I checked the register for this man Thompson. We don’t show him, but I thought he was part of your team.”

“He is,” I said quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it to him.” I tossed my bag into the front seat of the Shark, wanting to leave before my stay of execution ran out. But the clerk was still curious.

“What about Doctor Gonzo?” he said.

I stared at him, giving him a full taste of the mirrors.

“He’s fine,” I said. “But he has a vicious temper. The Doctor handles our finances, makes all our arrangements.”

I slid into the driver’s seat and prepared to leave.

The clerk leaned into the car. “What confused us,” he said, “was Doctor Gonzo’s signature on this telegram from Los Angeles—when we knew he was here in the hotel.” He shrugged. “And then to have the telegram addressed to some guest we couldn’t account for .. . well, this delay was unavoidable. You understand, I hope ....”

I nodded, impatient to flee. “You did the right thing,” I “Never try to understand a press message. About half time we use codes—especially with Doctor Gonzo.” I smiled again, but this time it seemed a trifle odd. “Tell me,” he said, “when will the doctor be awake?”

I tensed at the wheel, “Awake? What do you mean?”

He seemed uncomfortable. “Well ... the manager, Mister Heem, would like to meet him.” Now his grin was definitely malevolent. “Nothing unusual. Mr. Heem likes to meet all our large accounts ... put them on a personal basis ... just a chat and a handshake, you understand.”