Fear and Loathing at Rolling Stone Read online

  Longer than that, I thought. And at that point I stopped worrying about Frank. A firestorm was brewing in the main room—between me and the door—so I decided it was about time to drift around the corner and meet Restrepo at the Carioca. Frank gave me a big smile as I left.

  “Losing Ruben was a goddamn disaster for the Movement,” Acosta said recently. “He wasn’t really with us, but at least he was interested. Hell, the truth is I never really liked the guy. But he was the only journalist in L.A. with real influence who would come to a press conference in the barrio. That’s the truth. Hell, the only way we can get those bastards to listen to us is by renting a fancy hotel lounge over there in West Hollywood or some bullshit place like that—where they can feel comfortable—and hold our press conference there. With free coffee and snacks for the press. But even then about half the shitheads won’t come unless we serve free booze, too. Shit! Do you know what that costs?”

  This was the tone of our conversation that night when Guillermo and I went over to Oscar’s pad for a beer and some talk about politics. The place was unnaturally quiet. No music, no grass, no bad-mouth bato loco types hunkered down on the pallets in the front room. It was the first time I’d seen the place when it didn’t look like a staging area for some kind of hellish confrontation that might erupt at any moment.

  But tonight it was deadly quiet. The only interruption was a sudden pounding on the door and voices shouting “Hey, man, open up. I got some brothers with me!” Rudy hurried to the door and peered out through the tiny eye-window. Then he stepped back and shook his head emphatically. “It’s some guys from the project,” he told Oscar. “I know them, but they’re all fucked up.”

  “Goddamn it,” Acosta muttered. “That’s the last thing I need tonight. Get rid of them. Tell them I have to be in court tomorrow. Jesus! I have to get some sleep!”

  Rudy and Frank went outside to deal with the brothers. Oscar and Guillermo went back to politics—while I listened, sensing a downhill drift on all fronts. Nothing was going right. He was expecting a decision on his Grand Jury challenge in the “Biltmore Six” case. “We’ll probably lose that one, too,” he said. “The bastards think they have us on the run now; they think we’re demoralized—so they’ll keep the pressure on, keep pushing.” He shrugged. “And maybe they’re right. Shit. I’m tired of arguing with them. How long do they expect me to keep coming down to their goddamn court-house and begging for justice? I’m tired of that shit. We’re all tired.” He shook his head slowly, then ripped the poptop of a Budweiser that Rudy brought in from the kitchen. “This legal bullshit ain’t makin’ it,” he went on. “The way it looks now, I think we’re just about finished with that game. You know at the noon recess today I had to keep a bunch of these goddamn batos locos from stomping the DA. Christ! That would fuck me for good. They’ll send me to the goddamn pen for hiring thugs to assault the prosecutor!” He shook his head again. “Frankly, I think the whole thing is out of control. God only knows where it’s heading, but I know it’s going to be heavy. I think maybe the real shit is about to come down.”

  Later that week, the Los Angeles Board of Supervisors voted to use public funds to pay all legal expenses for several policemen recently indicted for “accidentally” killing two Mexican nationals—a case known in East L.A. as “the murder of the Sanchez brothers.” It was a case of mistaken identity, the cops explained. They had somehow been given the wrong address of an apartment where they thought “two Mexican fugitives” were holed up, so they hammered on the door and shouted a warning to “come out of there with your hands over your head or we’ll come in shooting.” Nobody came out, so the cops went in shooting to kill.

  But how could they have known that they’d attacked the wrong apartment? And how could they have known that neither one of the Sanchez brothers understood English? Even Mayor Sam Yorty and Police Chief Ed Davis admitted that the killings had been very unfortunate. But when the federal DA brought charges against the cops, both Yorty and Davis were publicly outraged. They both called press conferences and went on the air to denounce the indictments—in language that strangely echoed the American Legion outcry when Lt. Calley was charged with murdering women and children at My Lai.

  The Yorty-Davis tirades were so gross that a District Court judge finally issued a “gag order” to keep them quiet until the case comes to trial. But they had already said enough to whip the whole barrio into a rage at the idea that Chicano tax dollars might be used to defend some “mad dog cops” who frankly admitted killing two Mexican nationals. It sounded like a replay of the Salazar bullshit: same style, same excuse, same result—but this time with different names, and blood on a different floor. “They’ll put me in jail if I won’t pay taxes,” said a young Chicano watching a soccer game at a local playground, “then they take my tax money and use it to defend some killer pig. Hell, what if they had come to my address by mistake? I’d be dead as hell right now.”

  There was a lot of talk in the barrio about “drawing some pig blood for a change” if the supervisors actually voted to use tax funds to defend the accused cops. A few people actually called city hall and mumbled anonymous threats in the name of the “Chicano Liberation Front.” But the supervisors hung tough. They voted on Thursday, and by noon the news was out: the city would pick up the tab.

  At five fifteen on Thursday afternoon, the Los Angeles City Hall was rocked by a dynamite blast. A bomb had been planted in one of the downstairs restrooms. Nobody was hurt, and the damage was officially described as “minor.” About $5,000 worth, they said—small potatoes, compared to the bomb that blew a wall out of the District Attorney’s office last fall after Salazar died.

  When I called the sheriff’s office to ask about the explosion they said they couldn’t talk about it. City hall was out of their jurisdiction. But they were more than willing to talk when I asked if it was true that the bomb had been the work of the Chicano Liberation Front.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From the City News Service.”

  “Yeah, it’s true,” he said. “Some woman called up and said it was done in memory of the Sanchez brothers, by the Chicano Liberation Front. We’ve heard about those guys. What do you know about them?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “That’s why I called the sheriff. I thought your intelligence network might know something.”

  “Sure they do,” he said quickly. “But all that information is confidential.”

  __ __ __ __

  First in a Series

  By the summer of 1971, Hunter’s relationship with the magazine was humming; he was an infrequent, if notorious, presence around the office and began to see himself as integrally involved in Rolling Stone’s operations; to that effect, he initiated the first in an occasional and long-running series of “Memos from the Sports Desk”—short diatribes and mini manifestos covering issues of the day ranging from office politics to international conspiracies. The first such memo—on the emerging born-again menace infiltrating the local culture—featured the first Rolling Stone byline of Hunter’s most infamous alter ego, Raoul Duke.

  Letter from HST to JSW

  June 8 ’71

  Jann . . .

  This (enc.) thing began as a one-graf note—sort of a quick edit joke. I’m not sure what it is now. Apparently I was more into it than I thought.

  Which is true. This Jesus trip will tie us all in knots for at least the next year, unless we deal with it quick. I’ve seen what the Zen/Macro influence can do to Realpolitik—and this Jesus bullshit is simply a new twist in the old Big Answer game. These simple bastards refuse to accept the notion that they have to do something. They keep waiting for The Answer to turn up on some fucking scroll—or maybe a Tarot card.

  Anyway, here’s a Memo for you. I hesitate to even suggest what might be done with it. As the Sports Editor, I feel entitled to a certain modicum of craziness, but—even so—I’m not sure I’d like to see this in print with an italicized “editors note” saying “here’s
what crazy Hunter wrote this week.” That last thing about the human drug-testing apparatus was all I need for this season.

  OK for now.

  HST

  Memo from the Sports Desk:

  The So-Called “Jesus Freak” Scare

  September 2, 1971

  A recent emergency survey of our field-sources indicates a firestorm of lunacy brewing on the neo-religious front. Failure to prepare for this madness could tax our resources severely—perhaps to the breaking point. During the next few months we will almost certainly be inundated, even swamped, by a nightmare-blizzard of schlock, gibberish, swill, & pseudo-religious bullshit of every type and description. We can expect no relief until after Christmas. This problem will manifest itself in many treacherous forms—and we will have to deal with them all. To wit:

  1) The mailroom will be paralyzed by wave after wave of pamphlets, records, warnings and half-mad screeds from Persons and/or Commercial Organizations attempting to cash in on this grisly shuck. So we have already made arrangements to establish an alternative mailroom, to handle our serious business.

  2) We expect the main elevators to be jammed up, day and night, by a never-ending swarm of crazies attempting to drag huge wooden crosses and other over-sized gimcracks into the building. To circumvent this, we are even now in the process of installing a powerful glass/cube electric lift on the exterior of the building for employee/business & general editorial use. The ingress/egress door will be cut in the east wall, behind Dave Felton’s cubicle. The ground-floor door will be disguised as a huge packing crate in the parking lot. An armed guard will be on duty at all times.

  3) We expect the phone lines to be tied up almost constantly by hired and/or rabid Jesus Freaks attempting to get things like “Today’s Prayer Message,” etc., into our editorial columns. Our policy will be not to reject these things: no, we will accept them. They will all be switched to a special automated phone extension in the basement of the building. Yail Bloor, the eminent theologist, has prepared a series of recorded replies for calls of this nature. Any callers who resist automation can leave their names & numbers, so Inspector Bloor can return their calls and deal with them personally between the hours of 2:00 and 6:00 AM.

  These are only a few of the specific horrors that we will have to come to grips with between now and September. There will, of course, be others—less tangible and far more sensitive—such as Subversion of Key Personnel. As always, there will be a few brainless scumbags going under—succumbing, as it were—to the lure of this latest cult. We expect this, and when these organizational blow-holes appear, they will be plugged with extreme speed & savagery.

  It is the view of the Sports Desk that a generation of failed dingbats and closet-junkies should under no circumstances be allowed to foul our lines of communication at a time when anybody with access to a thinking/nationwide audience has an almost desperate obligation to speak coherently. This is not the year for a mass reversion to atavistic bullshit—and particularly not in the pages of Rolling Stone.

  We expect the pressure to mount in geometric progressions from now until December, & then to peak around Christmas. Meanwhile, it is well to remember the words of Dr. Heem, one of the few modern-day wizards who has never been wrong. Dr. Heem was cursed by Eisenhower, mocked by Kennedy, jeered by Tim Leary, and threatened by Eldridge Cleaver. But he is still on the stump ... still hustling.

  “The future of Christianity is far too fragile,” he said recently, “to be left in the hands of the Christians—especially pros.”

  The Sports Desk feels very strongly about this. Further warnings will issue, as special problems arise. Which they will. We are absolutely certain of this, if nothing else. What we are faced with today is the same old Rising Tide that’s been coming for the past five years or more ... the same old evil, menacing, frog-eyed trip of a whole generation run amok from too many failures.

  Which is fine. It was long overdue. And once again in the words of Dr. Heem, “Sometimes the old walls are so cock-eyed that you can’t even fit a new window.” But the trouble with the Jesus Freak outburst is that it is less a window than a gigantic ingrown hair. Horrible things have been done in the name of “Christianity”: the Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials, the Rape of the Congo, and the Conquest of the Incas, the Mayans, and the Aztecs. Entire civilizations have been done in by vengeful monsters claiming a special relationship with “God.”

  What we are dealing with now is nothing less than another Empire on the brink of collapse—more than likely of its own bad weight & twisted priorities. This process is already well underway. Everything Nixon stands for is doomed, now or later.

  But it will sure as hell be later if the best alternative we can mount is a generation of loonies who’ve given up on everything except a revival of the same old primitive bullshit that caused all our troubles from the start. What a horror to think that all the fine, high action of the Sixties would somehow come down—ten years later—to a gross & mindless echo of Billy Sunday.

  This is why the Sports Desk insists that these waterheads must be kept out of the building at all costs. We have serious business to deal with, and these fuckers will only be in the way.

  Sincerely,

  Raoul Duke

  Handwritten Note Concerning Hunter’s Invitation to National District Attorneys Conference

  3/4

  Jann

  This just came—& I think it’s a must.

  I insist on doing this one. After all, I’ve been invited.

  Right?

  HST

  __ __ __ __

  Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas

  Hunter’s invitation to the National District Attorneys Association’s institute on narcotics and dangerous drugs wasn’t quite as impossible as it might seem on the surface; having nearly been elected sheriff of Aspen not long earlier, Hunter made sure his name was on various political and law enforcement mailing lists. When the invitation did show up, though, he wasted little time in seizing the moment. What eventually followed, of course, was Hunter’s most sustained and compelling sui generis piece ever, begun in between stints working on the Salazar story.

  “Working with Hunter was already a major hand-holding job,” said Wenner. “It meant a minimum of two, maybe three people assigned to the task, including me. It was too much for any one person to handle, even that early on, because of the hours and the time Hunter took. He liked having a team of people working on his stuff. He liked the company, and he liked the crisis atmosphere. I could never change that pattern.

  “But ‘Vegas’ was completely different. He did that on his own. It took him several months to write it. He’d send me pages. I’d change a word here or suggest a little thing there, but it was already completely formed. I’d ask him to write transitions to make the narrative more complete, but he politely and firmly refused. It was his pure fantasy, coming directly out of his own mind. There was no real reporting involved, except when he wanted to go back and do the District Attorneys Conference, which was hysterical and had pure gonzo potential.”

  Letter from HST to JSW

  June 15 ’71

  Owl Farm

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Dear Jann . . .

  I’m sending today, under sep. cover, an accidental classic of a photo to go with the Vegas thing. As I noted in the margin, Acosta’s name should not be mentioned without his permission. He’s not opposed to use of the photo, but as of now he’s concerned about seeing his name etched permanently in the caption. I understand this, and agreed that he would only be identified as “my attorney.”

  My own caption-ID is personally immaterial to me. The Raoul Duke byline, however, might not be entirely viable if Random House decides to use Vegas II in the American Dream book—by HST. This is an option that [Random House editor in chief James] Silberman bought—very cheap, I think—when he paid the Expense tab for both Vegas pieces (less $500 that was paid out in cash & remains un-reimbursed). What he paid was the Carte Blanche
bill, but not in time to beat the computer that took my card. The swine cut me off last week—no warning at all, just a massive cut-off & a vicious letter from the Harbour Detective Agency, saying I should cut my card in half & send it back. I refused, of course, but that doesn’t alter the fact that my number is now on the “to be arrested at once” list that circulates among CB dealers.

  The fact that I blame you for this is probably unjust in the long run—but of course there was never any real question of “the long run.” All I wanted to do was pay off my card, and talk about “Fiscal Responsibility” later.

  Which is neither here nor there, for now. The deed is done. I am now naked of credit. And this ugly fact is going to put a bad crimp in my working-style for a long time to come. Selah . . .

  As for Vegas, it’s coming along very slowly. Silberman thinks it should go in the AmDream book, but I disagree. The Vegas stuff is too twisted, I think, to anchor a serious book. But what will probably happen, now, is that I’ll have to pursuede [sic] Silberman of that and then trade him book rights on “The Battle of Aspen—An Epitaph for Freak Power?” for the entirety of Vegas. And this dealing will be subject in a lot of ways to The Schedule—my planned departure for Siagon [sic] on Sept 1.

  So we’ll have at least this to ponder when you get here. Sandy says you called Sunday & then today. I was far into madness on Sunday—[Hunter’s friend and writer] Lucian Truscott showed up with a huge bag of mescaline—and today I was too cosmically pissed off to talk about anything. Especially money—which you seem to have indicated would be the subject under discussion. I had a terrible scene with the dentist earlier today: One of the side-horrors of Vegas II was that I bit down on something that cracked three of my teeth—a problem I was unaware of until I went in a few days ago for my routine 6-month cleaning.