A/N: Here's another quick chapter for Hate and Mayhem. Oh, and I'm glad you like the nickname, Dawnie. I wanted Josie to be given a nickname like everyone else in the Thompson world. And Greenhorn was the only one that felt right to me. There you have it.
"Welcome to the Riviera Bar and Restaurant!" said the cheery woman behind the podium. "Smoking or none?"
We stood in the entrance lobby of the restaurant, surrounded by sunburned strangers in colorful bucket hats.
The hostess's blue shaded eyes bore into my head, which felt like it had been shot. Repeatedly.
Thankfully though, it didn't look like I was going to be the one doing the talking.
A husky voice to my right said, "What do you think, woman?" and 'accidentally' spat cigarette ashes in her general direction. I noted that Duke was not a morning person. "Uh… and we need a big table… with, uh, room for… eight people, at least!"
My heart swelled with pride at the look on our hostess's face. I can't fully explain it, but somewhere between that first step into the Red Shark and last night's major memory blockage, I found my loathing for my kidnapper somehow drifting away. You see, over the past day or so my gripping fear and awkwardness toward Raoul Duke had been forgotten, and now I saw him more as a deviant playmate. My position had gone from panicked victim of kidnapping, to hazy victim of compelled drug use, to almost …comfortable. The feeling seems strange even now, but it's there.
The hostess took a few moments to wipe the searing embers from her face and hair. Then we were led to a huge, circular table by a bay window. We dropped the case and typewriter with a massive clatter and sat down, taking up three chairs each.
The waiter came and went, then arrived back again bearing all that we'd ordered. That list included only the vitals, mind you; things like orange juice, rum, mandarins, multicolored spritzers, Singapore Slings, malt liquor, tangerines, Brazilian jumbos, and bowls of orange pulp.
"Vitamin C," Duke would say knowledgably. "Can never get enough, Greenhorn. Remember that."
Then he asked for the hotel Gazette and was soon hidden behind great sheets of newspaper. I doubt he was actually reading anything, by who's to judge in these situations?
Thinking of which, my mind was beginning to clear. Threads of memory came back to me. Memories that roused hundreds (if not dozens) of reasonable questions in my mind. Rational thought was at last taking the wheel.
I began to wonder why the hell I'd let this joyride go so far; if there was a missing person notice out for me; just how Duke had gotten this hotel room; what his plan of action was; and –just how the hell he was going to pay for all the shit we'd ordered last night. The latter of which seemed pretty important at our present juncture.
Desperate for answers now, I tossed a hefty orange at Duke's newspaper. An action soon followed by a yelp of pain from the Doctor. It got his attention, anyhow.
"Howdy," I said sweetly. Duke massaged his forehead, and muttered some fowl insult under his breath. "Do you mind telling me just what's going on here, Duke?"
As I expected, I didn't get a straight answer out of him. But after a few more minutes' poking, prodding and threatening the Good Doctor into the right directions, I got the info I needed. And, as things folded out, I wasn't in such a bad state of affairs after all.
Turns out that Duke was at the Beverly Wills convention as a side-job, to promote his book as it hit the market. He said he'd been cocksuckered into the whole thing by his literary agent, and bitterly said that he planned to murder her this coming Fall. Anyway that night, Duke had had an appointment with a young journalist his superiors thought had 'special potential.' The cracker was being set up as his apprentice, as Duke put it; wanting to steal his secrets and sell them to baseball-loving pansies, says the Doctor. Translation: Duke got stuck as mentor to a snooty, bright-eyed, I've-got-talent, rookie journalist trying to learn the ropes from a master. But Duke wasn't going to take that guff; not from those swine. He'd been trying to think of a way out, an escape. And he was about ready for hell when I came to talk to him, and his gleam of hope was rekindled. So, instead of taking the 'special potential' as his apprentice to Las Vegas, he took me. Of course, he figured that I wouldn't see his logic back at the convention, so a little influencing came standard: argo, spiking everything I touched.
It was then that I asked him what we were doing in Vegas anyway. And in answer, received a handful of orange pulp hurled at me, flying right by me cheek.
Wrong question, I thought, but asked again anyway. He didn't miss the second time.
But by the fifth throw of pulp, I understood. Duke had told me the whole story yesterday, but I'd been too stoned to remember.
"You gave me that stuff!" I cried. "You treacherous bastard!"
"Why you lowly sh—"
Our mild-mannered conversation was rudely interrupted by a soft voice clearing its throat.
Duke looked up first, his arm still stretched back in the wind-up of his pitch. By our table, stood a thin woman with short blond hair and a massive red bowtie reminiscent of 'Minney Mouse' perched atop her head.
"Excuse me," she said flatly. "But we've had some complaints from the other guests. If you could keep the noise level down, that would be great."
Long, bewildered pause.
I stared at her fearfully for a moment, then turned to Duke for instructions. I assumed that the typewriter would knock her out cold if thrown hard enough and that we could drag her away before the waiters knew what was happening. It was a surefire plan. All we'd need…
But Duke had already made to hide the orange in his shirt and had sunk inconspicuously into his chair. "Right-o… uh-huh… yeah, will do. Mm-hm, okay. Bye."
The woman nodded, smiled and left. I was in shock.
"We should've done something," I said, disappointedly.
Duke threw a small glass of orange juice at my head. I ducked just in time. "And bring the cops down on us? No, no, I'd rather die fighting…" he tenderly patted his case, while his eyes darted every which direction with suspicion of onlookers.
"Right," I said with a nod, and leaned forward. "Now what were you saying about the assignment?"
Duke blinked. His cigarette holder drooped as he frowned, deep in thought. "Oh!" He said after a moment. "Oh yeah, man, the story."
He went on to explain that we were to report to the Las Vegas Sports Center to cover a boxing match at seven o'clock tonight, and that we'd set up the technicalities from there.
I leaned back, satisfied with what I knew. Until one more question struck me.
"You never said how we're paying for all this stuff," I said, gesturing the table. "And the room."
It was hard to remember it and not shutter.
"Hm," said Duke thoughtfully, sipping his Singapore Sling. "Good question, Greenhorn, a damn good question…"
And with that, Duke stood up picked up our belongings (and the drinks) and we left the restaurant.
I had a bad feeling about what was happening. The way Duke walked cautiously towards the elevator and stood rigidly, even more paranoid than before, were not good signs. I could only hope the management hadn't spotted us yet, and that we could slip in and out of our room before they realized what was going on.
But that wasn't what happened at all.