Volume 2, Number 5 -- May, 1997
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Volume 2, Number 5 -- May, 1997 |
 
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Sympathy for the Devil - Book IIby Dean Shutt(Ed note: Book I of this reportage can be found here)
We screamed into the darkness towards the edge of my
associate's sanity. Even though he seemed much more calm now
than he had in hours, I was still concerned. I'll grant you
that the whole purpose of this trip had been to watch him go
brilliantly mad when he met the deep-seated venality that is
modern baseball. However, I had thought he would have the
good grace to wait until we actually got to spring training
before that would happen. Yet here we were, not yet to the
Arizona border, and it had taken all of my professional
training and skill to keep us from being pulped not once but
twice. The radio scene was bad enough, but when you rush the
stage at a strip club the best you can hope for is that they
even need to bother with an ambulance. Lucky for him I am a
professional.
As we headed deeper into the desert two thoughts plagued me.
Why had he snapped so early and how was I to get him to
maintain long enough for us to get the story? Neither
question presented itself with a ready answer. A man once
said that there were a lot of bodies in the desert that will
never be found. In a pinch I was fairly certain I could have
him under the wheels of the Über-Geo and out of my hair. Of
course if I were to do that then my story would go the way
of his skull, so realistically I needed a more subtle
solution. I had to come up with something that modulate his
outbursts long enough to get the story without completely
sedating him. He might have to drive after all.
The bigger question was what had happened in the first
place? I knew that he was high-strung, had counted on it in
fact. I knew that when presented with the fact the sport he
loved was populated by all manner of thugs at every level,
he would snap, I would write about it and all would be well.
Unfortunately, I realized, I had not taken into account how
excited he was about this trip. He had managed to work
himself into such a state before we had even left home that
it was surprising he had lasted as long as he did. It's like
rough-housing with a big dog. You can't blame the dog if it
gets excited and snaps at you, you were the one that wound
him up in the first place.
So the question remained, what was I to do with all of his
excess madness. As I've said before, I couldn't very well
kill him and dump his carcass in the desert, what would I
write about? Sometimes fortune smiles on the deserving. Out
of the darkness there arose a cacophony of light that awed
us both. Right here in the California desert, just outside
of Palm Springs, was a casino. Not one of those cheesy
cardrooms either, but a full blown Indian Casino. This was
just what we both needed, an all you can eat dinner buffet
for me and a hour's worth of relaxation for my associate.
With any luck at all, he would take his edge off and we
would resume our journey a few dollars ahead.
As we wandered through the huge glass doors of the gaming
palace, I kept my eyes open for potential trouble. He had
snuck up on me with his outbursts earlier and I wasn't about
to let it happen again. It was a fairly large place, not
much by Vegas standards, mind you, but not bad for a wide spot
in the highway. Directly in front of us was the sunken slots
area. Glassy-eyed elders from LA mingled with the locals in
a search for the American dream, the jackpot. You could tell
the pros as they kept four and five machines spinning
nonstop, waving away waitresses, totally focused. They were
utterly convinced that some skill was involved here. More
pathetic was the fact that they thought they possessed it. I
have met more than one professional gambler in my time, and
none them saw the slots as anything other than a way to get
a drink for a quarter.
My associate was already on his way to the gaming tables. I
had thought we might partake of the buffet first and then
gamble. However, when you are with man who is hanging onto
his sanity with piece of dental floss, you learn to make
adjustments in your planning. We sat down heavily at one of
the quieter tables and I felt a chill go up my spine. I had
that feeling before - on Alcatraz, in an airport terminal in
Orange County, and most recently at a Strip Club in San
Bernadino. There was trouble here, it was just a matter of
from what quarter would it appear? I glanced quickly about
checking for signs. My associate seemed to be holding up
well. The large plainclothes security men that were
sprinkled about seemed relaxed. In fact everything seemed
just fine. But in my line of work, you learn early on about
seeing below the surface.
There was nothing to do but play some cards at this point.
If I asked my associate to leave there would be a scene,
quite possibly an ugly one. I certainly wasn't going to
leave him alone until I was sure he had calmed down a bit.
So I played a little lackadaisical blackjack, betting at the
wrong times, hitting when I shouldn't, far more interested
in the unsettling feeling in my stomach than the cards I was
ostensibly playing. Finally, down about twenty dollars I
decided it was time to check out the buffet. I said my good-
byes to my associate, who mumbled something back at me and
made my way to the restaurant.
I assumed that if anything could help me shake this uneasy
feeling, it would be a good buffet. For my money, there is
nothing that says "America" like an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The invitation to gluttony, the bland approximations of
ethnic cuisine, the promise of unlimited bounty for one low,
low price. This much I can tell you, they never had all-you-
can-eat buffets in the Soviet Union, and if we had shown
Stalin a Vegas style buffet, the Cold War would have been
over long before it was. So you can understand how deflated
I was when the sense of unease followed me into the
restaurant. I sat down and a young waiter type came up and
gave me a menu. I waved it away and asked how the buffet
looked tonight. He replied that he wasn't sure but he could
check if I would like. Now thoroughly defeated, I shook my
head and told him that I would take my chances.
As I settled down with my plate of food I noticed my
associate making his way through the room. He didn't looked
pleased and again I went to alert status. This was quickly
becoming more work than it was worth. He sat down muttering
about "lousy, thieving, Indians..." and I asked how bad he
had been hit. He said they had tagged him for one hundred
and forty dollars and he was sure the game was rigged. He
said he was going grab some food and then teach those
bastards about blackjack. This really ought to have been my
cue to get us out of there. If ever there were audible
warning bells going off now was the time. Still, he hadn't
actually done anything yet. As a matter of fact, he had
walked away and found me rather than starting any trouble.
Maybe he had calmed down, maybe when we were finished eating
he would just as soon leave as lose any more money.
It was not to be - he started in on our waiter. The poor soul
who didn't know how the buffet looked caught a load of my
associate's attitude. Either through heroic restraint or
perhaps just plain stupidity, our waiter would not rise to
my associate's attacks. Now I was nervous. My associate had
a gleam in his eye that screamed malice. Perhaps worst of
all, I was fairly sure it was directed at me. This puzzled
me until I realized he was on his way to a story as well and
his tale didn't prominently feature me. The swine was going
to try and throw me to these wolves and make off with the
Über-Geo and literary stardom.
All of a sudden it was clear as day. He hadn't walked away
from that table to calm down at all. He had come here to set
me up. He wanted to make sure that everyone, including the
oversized security men, knew that we were together. At least
I had found him out before he had finished his preparations.
He may have already linked me to himself in the eyes of the
staff, but he had tipped his hand too soon. When he made his
move I would be one step ahead of him.
I excused myself to the men's room, a plan already forming
in my mind. Once I was out of sight I flagged down one of
the security goons. I explained that my friend suffered from
strange unexplained seizures of a rather nasty variety. We
were on our way to Phoenix so that he might take a cure. I
had brought his medication along, but he hadn't had any in a
while, would the goon mind keeping an eye on him for me?
Seeing an opportunity to possibly put someone in a headlock,
the guard readily agreed. He also assured me that he would
let the rest of the staff know of the situation.
When I returned to the table my associate was paying the tab
and seemed at ease. He suggested it was time for another
crack at the blackjack tables and I acquiesced. We sat down
at a fairly crowded table and began playing. My associate
would glance at me from time with pure malice in his gaze.
For my part, I felt rather sorry for my psychotic compadre,
how could he know what was coming next. We played for a full
hour, I was doing well, having recouped my earlier losses
and my dinner. Occasionally I would look up to exchange
knowing nods with security.
Suddenly my "friend" made his move. He jumped up and whirled
to face me. "Stop telling me what's coming next, you card
counting sonofabitch...I play for the sport of it, damn
you!!!!" he screamed at me while I sat there feigning
surprise. It would really have been elegant if I hadn't
caught on earlier. As it was the bouncers moved in and
plucked up my "buddy" like a rag doll. I followed along
reminding them not to hurt him. He was sick after all. My
associate was now screaming at the top of his lungs that I
was the filthy cheat, that they could have me if they would
just let him go on his way. Pathetic, really.
I made it to the Über-Geo at the head of our little convoy.
When the others arrived I was already waiting for them with
a syringe full of horse tranquilizer I had procured before
the trip. To those of you out there wondering just why I
might go to the trouble of buying horse tranquilizers, all I
can say is, "you never know". My associate calmed down almost
the minute the needle pierced the skin. I strapped him in
the passenger seat just to be safe but I needn't have
bothered. He would easily be out until we hit Phoenix. I
thanked the security guards for their care in handling my
very sick friend and accepted their wishes of luck. I also
gave them all of my associate's chips to split amongst
themselves. This of course had the desired reaction of
making us all the best of friends. I apologized again for my
"friend's' behavior and they assured me not to worry about
it. With hearty handshakes all around (including our long
suffering waiter who followed all the commotion out to the
parking lot) MY now nearly comatose associate and I were on
our way.
So once again we were headed for the story. This time I was
certainly a little wiser than I had been before. Obviously I
would need to keep a much closer eye on my associate than I
had imagined. I had misread him totally, he wasn't insane,
he was just a greedhead who thought he could get the story
all by himself. Unfortunately for him I had dealt with his
ilk before and I had yet to be taken by any of them. We
would have a little chat he and I, about journalism, about
professionalism and about teamwork. Just as soon as he awoke
in a few hours.
To be continued...
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