The decision to flee came suddenly. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd planned it all along -- subconsciously waiting for the right moment. The bill was a factor, I think. Because I had no money to pay it. And no more of these devilish credit-card/reimbursement deals. Not after dealing with Sidney Zion. They seized my American Express card after that one, and now the bastards are suing me -- along with the Diner's Club and the IRS. ...


And besides, the magazine is legally responsible. My attorney saw to that. We signed nothing. Except those room service tabs. We never knew the total, but -- just before we left -- my attorney figured we were running somewhere between $29 and $36 per hour, for forty-eight consecutive hours.


"Incredible," I said. "How could it happen?"


But by the time I asked this question, there was nobody around to answer. My attorney was gone.


He must have sensed trouble. On Monday evening he ordered up a set of fine cowhide luggage from room service, then told me he had reservations on the next plane for L.A. We would have to hurry, he said, and on the way to the airport he borrowed $25 for the plane ticket.


I saw him off, then I went back to the airport souvenir counter and spent all the rest of my cash on garbage -- complete shit, souvenirs of Las Vegas, plastic fake-Zippo-lighters with a built-in roulette wheel for $6.95, JFK half-dollar money clips for $5 each, tin apes that shook dice for $7.50 ... I loaded up on this crap, then carried it out to the Great Red Shark and dumped it all in the back seat ... and then I stepped into the driver's seat in a very dignified way (the white top was rolled back, as always) and I sat there and turned the radio on and began thinking.


How would Horatio Alger handle this situation?