Muhammad Ali: Last Tango In Vegas
Muhammad Ali is in town, Ireland that is. He’s here visiting Ennis County Clare to see the home of his great grandfather Abe Grady, who emigrated to Kentucky in the 1860s. Here’s an excerpt from Hunter’s Last Tango in Vegas. It appeared in Rolling Stone #265 May 18 1978.
Wild Ravings of an Autograph Hound. . . A Threat of Public Madness. . .
the Pantyhose Press Conference
I waited until I was sure the Muhammad Ali party was well off the plane
and up the ramp before I finally stood and moved up the aisle, fixing the
stewardess at the door with a blind stare from behind two mirror lenses so dark
that I could barely see to walk — but not so dark that I failed to notice a
touch of mockery in her smile as I nodded and stepped past her. “Goodbye, sir,”
she chirped. “I hope you got an interesting story.”
You nasty little bitch! I hope your next flight crashes in a cannibal
country. . . But I kept this thought to myself as I laughed bitterly and stomped
up the empty tunnel to a bank of pay phones, in the concourse. It was New York’s
La Guardia airport, around eight-thirty on a warm Sunday night in the first week
of March, and I had just flown in from Chicago — supposedly “with the Muhammad
Ali party.” But things had not worked out that way and my temper was hovering
dangerously on the far edge of control as I listened to the sound of nobody
answering the phone in Hal Conrad’s West Side apartment. . . That swine! That
treacherous lying bastard!
We were almost to the ten-ring limit, that point where I knew I’d start
pounding on things unless I hung up quickly before we got to eleven. . . when
suddenly a voice sounding almost as angry as I felt came booming over the line.
“Yeah, yeah, what is it?” Conrad snapped. “I’m in a hell of a hurry. Jesus! I
was just about into the elevator when I had to come back and answer this goddamn
–”
“YOU CRAZY BASTARD!” I screamed, cutting into his gravelly mumbling as I
slammed my hand down on the tin counter and saw a woman using the phone next to
me jump like a rat had just run up her leg.
“It’s me, Harold!” I shouted. “I’m out here at La Guardia and my whole
story’s fucked and just as soon as I find all my baggage I’m going to get a cab
and track you down and slit your goddamn throat!”
“Wait a minute!” he said. “What the hell is wrong? Where’s Ali? Not with
you?”
“Are you kidding?” I snarled. “That crazy bastard didn’t even know who I
was when I met him Chicago. I made a GODDAMN FOOL OF MYSELF, Harold! He looked
at me like I was some kind of autograph hound!”
“No!” said Conrad. “I told him all about you — that you were a good
friend of mine and you’d be on the flight with him from Chicago. He was
expecting you.”
“Bullshit!” I yelled. “You told me he’d be traveling alone, too. . . So I
stayed up all night and busted my ass to get a first-class seat on that
Continental flight that I knew he’d be catching at O’Hare; then I got everything
arranged with the flight crew between Denver and Chicago, making sure they
blocked off the first two seats so we could sit together. . . Jesus, Harold,” I
muttered, suddenly feeling very tired, “what kind of sick instinct would cause
you to do a thing like this to me?”
“Where the hell is Ali?” Conrad shouted, ignoring my question. “I sent a
car out to pick you up, both of you!”
“You mean all of us,” I said. “His wife was with him, along with Pat
Patterson and maybe a few others — I couldn’t tell, but it wouldn’t have made
any difference; they all looked at me like I was weird; some kind of psycho
trying to muscle into the act, babbling about sitting in Veronica’s seat. . .”
“That’s impossible,” Conrad snapped. “He knew –”
“Well, I guess he forgot!” I shouted, feeling my temper roving out on the
edge again. “Are we talking about brain damage, Harold? Are you saying he has no
memory?”
He hesitated just long enough to let me smile for the first time all day.
“This could be an ugly story, Harold,” I said. “Ali is so punch-drunk that his
memory’s all scrambled? Maybe they should lift his license, eh? ‘Yeah, let’s
croak all this talk about comebacks, Dumbo. Your memory’s fucked, you’re on
queer street — and by the way, Champ, what are your job prospects?’”
“You son of a bitch,” Conrad muttered. “Okay. To hell with all this
bullshit. Just get a cab and meet us at the Plaza. I should have been there a
half-hour ago.”
“I thought you had us all booked into the Park Lane,” I said.
“Get moving and don’t worry about it,” he croaked. “I’ll meet you at the
Plaza. Don’t waste any time.”
“WHAT?” I screamed. “What am I doing right now? I have a Friday deadline,
Harold, and this is Sunday! You call me in the middle of the goddamn night in
Colorado and tell me to get on the first plane to Chicago because Muhammad Ali
has all of a sudden decided he wants to talk to me — after all that lame
bullshit in Vegas — so I take the insane risk of dumping my whole story in a
parachute bag and flying off on a 2000-mile freakout right in the middle of a
deadline crunch to meet a man in Chicago who treats me like a wino when I
finally get there. . . And now you’re talking to me, you pigfucker, about
WASTING TIME?”
I was raving at the top of my lungs now, drawing stares from every
direction — so I tried to calm down; no need to get busted for public madness
in the airport, I thought; but I was also in New York with no story and no place
to work and only five days away from a clearly impossible deadline, and now
Conrad was telling me that my long-overdue talk with Ali had once again “gone
wrong.”
“Just get in a cab and meet me at the Plaza,” he was saying. “I’ll pull
this mess together, don’t worry. . .”
I waited until I was sure the Muhammad Ali party was well off the plane
and up the ramp before I finally stood and moved up the aisle, fixing the
stewardess at the door with a blind stare from behind two mirror lenses so dark
that I could barely see to walk — but not so dark that I failed to notice a
touch of mockery in her smile as I nodded and stepped past her. “Goodbye, sir,”
she chirped. “I hope you got an interesting story.”
You nasty little bitch! I hope your next flight crashes in a cannibal
country. . . But I kept this thought to myself as I laughed bitterly and stomped
up the empty tunnel to a bank of pay phones, in the concourse. It was New York’s
La Guardia airport, around eight-thirty on a warm Sunday night in the first week
of March, and I had just flown in from Chicago — supposedly “with the Muhammad
Ali party.” But things had not worked out that way and my temper was hovering
dangerously on the far edge of control as I listened to the sound of nobody
answering the phone in Hal Conrad’s West Side apartment. . . That swine! That
treacherous lying bastard!
We were almost to the ten-ring limit, that point where I knew I’d start
pounding on things unless I hung up quickly before we got to eleven. . . when
suddenly a voice sounding almost as angry as I felt came booming over the line.
“Yeah, yeah, what is it?” Conrad snapped. “I’m in a hell of a hurry. Jesus! I
was just about into the elevator when I had to come back and answer this goddamn
–”
“YOU CRAZY BASTARD!” I screamed, cutting into his gravelly mumbling as I
slammed my hand down on the tin counter and saw a woman using the phone next to
me jump like a rat had just run up her leg.
“It’s me, Harold!” I shouted. “I’m out here at La Guardia and my whole
story’s fucked and just as soon as I find all my baggage I’m going to get a cab
and track you down and slit your goddamn throat!”
“Wait a minute!” he said. “What the hell is wrong? Where’s Ali? Not with
you?”
“Are you kidding?” I snarled. “That crazy bastard didn’t even know who I
was when I met him Chicago. I made a GODDAMN FOOL OF MYSELF, Harold! He looked
at me like I was some kind of autograph hound!”
“No!” said Conrad. “I told him all about you — that you were a good
friend of mine and you’d be on the flight with him from Chicago. He was
expecting you.”
“Bullshit!” I yelled. “You told me he’d be traveling alone, too. . . So I
stayed up all night and busted my ass to get a first-class seat on that
Continental flight that I knew he’d be catching at O’Hare; then I got everything
arranged with the flight crew between Denver and Chicago, making sure they
blocked off the first two seats so we could sit together. . . Jesus, Harold,” I
muttered, suddenly feeling very tired, “what kind of sick instinct would cause
you to do a thing like this to me?”
“Where the hell is Ali?” Conrad shouted, ignoring my question. “I sent a
car out to pick you up, both of you!”
“You mean all of us,” I said. “His wife was with him, along with Pat
Patterson and maybe a few others — I couldn’t tell, but it wouldn’t have made
any difference; they all looked at me like I was weird; some kind of psycho
trying to muscle into the act, babbling about sitting in Veronica’s seat. . .”
“That’s impossible,” Conrad snapped. “He knew –”
“Well, I guess he forgot!” I shouted, feeling my temper roving out on the
edge again. “Are we talking about brain damage, Harold? Are you saying he has no
memory?”
He hesitated just long enough to let me smile for the first time all day.
“This could be an ugly story, Harold,” I said. “Ali is so punch-drunk that his
memory’s all scrambled? Maybe they should lift his license, eh? ‘Yeah, let’s
croak all this talk about comebacks, Dumbo. Your memory’s fucked, you’re on
queer street — and by the way, Champ, what are your job prospects?’”
“You son of a bitch,” Conrad muttered. “Okay. To hell with all this
bullshit. Just get a cab and meet us at the Plaza. I should have been there a
half-hour ago.”
“I thought you had us all booked into the Park Lane,” I said.
“Get moving and don’t worry about it,” he croaked. “I’ll meet you at the
Plaza. Don’t waste any time.”
“WHAT?” I screamed. “What am I doing right now? I have a Friday deadline,
Harold, and this is Sunday! You call me in the middle of the goddamn night in
Colorado and tell me to get on the first plane to Chicago because Muhammad Ali
has all of a sudden decided he wants to talk to me — after all that lame
bullshit in Vegas — so I take the insane risk of dumping my whole story in a
parachute bag and flying off on a 2000-mile freakout right in the middle of a
deadline crunch to meet a man in Chicago who treats me like a wino when I
finally get there. . . And now you’re talking to me, you pigfucker, about
WASTING TIME?”
I was raving at the top of my lungs now, drawing stares from every
direction — so I tried to calm down; no need to get busted for public madness
in the airport, I thought; but I was also in New York with no story and no place
to work and only five days away from a clearly impossible deadline, and now
Conrad was telling me that my long-overdue talk with Ali had once again “gone
wrong.”
“Just get in a cab and meet me at the Plaza,” he was saying. “I’ll pull
this mess together, don’t worry. . .”
