The night Tupac got killed in Las Vegas, I was at the Tyson fight with Bruce Willis, talking about how Demi Moore’d been a pain in the ass since she’d become a huge star with “Ghost.” Bruce and I were drinking Budweisers at The Mirage, in a suite with Steve Wynn, when we heard about the fight downstairs in the casino. This brown-haired woman, Carla I think her name was, told us we should get outta town before something bad goes down, like the natives
, she called them, turned on the celebrities.
I told her not to worry, that the only people that wanted to whack Pac were Suge Knight and his squad. Bruce said he didn’t care what we did, and he seemed genuinely bothered by this thing with D. Moore.
I’m not gonna tell you how to do it, man, I said, but look at the bright side: You’re the one whose name is dropped in a Beastie Boys tune, so who do you think’s really got the rep?
Later that night I got a call from a friend of mine who’s the cops reporter at the Las Vegas Journal-Review
, and she predicted that the murder would never be solved.
No one here cares, she said.