IVIV (14): Grill Cooks and Tire Salesmen

[Robin Landseadel]

	Grill cooks, tire salesmen, house framers, eye doctors, stickmen
	and change girls and other black-and-whites off shift from ritzier
	rooms where they weren't allowed to play, old horsemen fallen
	on faster and more crowded times, their feelings of custody now
	transferred to F-100s and Chevy Apaches, were ranged
	sparsely in the softly shadowed light, weaving in place as if
	trying to stay alert.

Again, distinct echos of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, chapter eight  
in particular:

	This is Nevada's answer to East St. Louis—a slum and a
	graveyard, last stop before permanent exile to Ely or
	Winnemuca. North Las Vegas is where you go if you're a
	hooker turning forty and the syndicate men on the Strip decide
	you're no longer much good for business out there with the high
	rollers . . . or if you're a pimp with a bad credit at the Sands . . .
	or what they still call, in Vegas, "a hophead." This can mean
	almost anything from a mean drunk to a junkie, but in terms of
	commercial acceptability, it means you're finished in all the right
	places.

	The big hotels and casinos pay a lot of muscle to make sure the
	high rollers don't have even momentary hassles with
	"undesirables." Security in a place like Caesar's Palace is super
	tense and strict. Probably a third of the people on the floor at
	any given time are either shills or watchdogs. Public drunks and
	known pickpockets are dealt with instantly—hustled out to the
	parking lot by Secret Service-type thugs and given a quick,
	impersonal lecture about the cost of dental work and the
	difficulties of trying to live with two broken arms.

	The "high side" of Vegas is probably the most closed society
	west of Sicily—and it makes no difference, in terms of the day to
	day life-style of the place, whether the Man at the Top is Lucky
	Luciano or Howard Hughes. In an economy where Tom Jones
	can make $75,000 a week for two shows a night at Caesar's,
	the palace guard is indispensable, and they don't care who
	signs their paychecks. A gold mine like Vegas breeds its own
	army, like any other gold mine. Hired muscle tends to
	accumulate in fast layers around money/ power poles . . . and
	big money, in Vegas, is synonymous with the Power to protect
	it.
	Hunter S. Thompson: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 155/156

That's the backdrop for Doc's scenes in North Vegas, the room seems to  
be twisted into a non-parallel universe, where the slot machines have  
developed an attitude, the carpets have been melted by cigarette into  
a nylon sea of despair and the drinks are cheap and plentiful, as to  
help distract from the decaying infrastructure. There may not be as  
many floorwalkers at the Kismet as at the Sands, but "Hophead" Doc is  
spotted just as soon as he downs a grapefruit margarita:

	"And without meanin to pry or nothing, I notice you're not
	playing, just sort of wandering around, meanin you're either
	some deep guy, mysterious master of intrigue, or one more
	jaded sharp looking for a bargain."

	"Hey, maybe I'm the Mob."

	"Wrong shoes. Give me some credit, for goodness' sakes. I'd
	say L.A., and like every other tripper in from L.A., all you think
	you want to do is bet the Mickey book."

I don't know what kinds of betting lines there were in Vegas circa  
1970, but now there are many betting installations that cover just  
about anything and in this case, these are bets as regards the fate of  
Mickey Wolfmann.