I laughed, but it sounded like the bleating of a dead man. The adrenaline rush of the sheep crash was gone, and now I was sliding into pure Fatigue Hysteria.
The Endicott “Office” was a darkened hut in the middle of the horseshoe. We parked in front of it, and then the Judge began hammering on the wooden front door, but there was no immediate response ... “Wake up, goddamn it! It’s me—the Judge! Open up! This is Life and Death! I need help!”
He stepped back and delivered a powerful kick at the door, which rattled the glass panels and shook the whole building. “I know you’re in there,” he screamed. “You can’t hide! I’ll kick your ass till your nose bleeds!”
There was still no sign of life, and I quickly abandoned all hope. Get out of here, I thought. This is wrong. I was still in the car, half in and half out ... The Judge put another fine snap-kick at a point just over the doorknob and uttered a sharp scream in some language I didn’t recognize. Then I heard the sound of breaking glass.
I leapt back into the car and started the engine. Get away! I thought. Never mind sleep. It’s flee or die, now. People get killed for doing this kind of shit in Nevada. It was far over the line. Unacceptable behavior. This is why God made shotguns . . .
I saw lights come on in the Office. Then the door swung open, and I saw the Judge leap quickly through the entrance and grapple briefly with a small bearded man in a bathrobe, who collapsed to the floor after the Judge gave him a few blows to the head ... Then he called back to me. “Come on in, Boss,” he yelled. “Meet Mr. Henry.”
I shut off the engine and staggered up the gravel path. I felt sick and woozy, and my legs were like rubber bands.
The Judge reached out to help me. I shook hands with Mr. Henry, who gave me a key and a form to fill out. “Bullshit,” said the Judge. “This man is my guest. He can have anything he wants. Just put it on my bill.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Henry. “Your bill. Yes. I have it right here.” He reached under his desk and came up with a nasty-looking bundle of adding-machine tapes and scrawled Cash/Payment memos ... “You got here just in time,” he said. “We were about to notify the Police.”
“What?” said the Judge. “Are you nuts?” I have a goddamn platinum American Express card! My credit is impeccable.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Henry. “We know that. We have total respect for you. Your signature is better than gold bullion.”
The Judge smiled and whacked the flat of his hand on the counter. “You bet it is!” he snapped. “So get out of my goddamn face! You must be crazy to fuck with Me like this! You fool! Are you ready to go to court?”
Mr. Henry sagged. “Please, Judge,” he said. “Don’t do this to me. All I need is your card. Just let me run an imprint. That’s all.” He moaned and stared more or less at the Judge, but I could see that his eyes were not focused . . . “They’re going to fire me,” he whispered. “They want to put me in jail.”
“Nonsense!” the Judge snapped. “I would never let that happen. You can always plead.” He reached out and gently gripped Mr. Henry’s wrist. “Believe me, Bro,” he hissed. “You have nothing to worry about. You are cool. They will never lock you up! They will Never take you away! Not out of my courtroom!”
“Thank you,” Mr. Henry replied. “But all I need is your card and your signature. That’s the problem: I forgot to run it when you checked in.”
“So what?” the Judge barked. “I’m good for it. How much do you need?”
“About twenty-two thousand dollars,” said Mr. Henry. “Probably twenty-three thousand dollars by now. You’ve had those suites for nineteen days with total room service.”
“What?” the Judge yelled. “You thieving bastards! I’ll have you crucified by American Express. You are finished in this business. You will never work again! Not anywhere in the world !” Then he whipped Mr. Henry across the front of his face so fast that I barely saw it. “Stop crying!” he said. “Get a grip on yourself! This is embarrassing!”
Then he slapped the man again. “Is that all you want?” he said. “Only a card? A stupid little card? A piece of plastic shit?”
Mr. Henry nodded. “Yes, Judge,” he whispered. “That’s all. Just a stupid little card.”
The Judge laughed and reached into his raincoat, as if to jerk out a gun or at least a huge wallet. “You want a card, whoreface? Is that it? Is that all you want? You filthy little scumbag! Here it is!”