It is four in the morning at the Sahara Hotel, a Las Vegas nitery so . . . clearly Hy-Tone. Sonny Bono, wearing jeans and a knit shirt, steps from a dark lounge with a few friends, turns into the gambling corridor, smack into a bevy of buxom yahoos. He pauses to sign a few autographs and the ladies giggle and press. Others gather into the fold. Sonny gets uneasy. A handful of pudgy fingers entwine around his gold neckchain. "Isn't this the most darling thing," she breathes.
Bono, desperate, rushes a last few John Hancocks and reaches through the bulging spray of organdy sleeves and puckapoo lips for a recognizable arm, anyone, even you, you hostile scribe. . . .
One hauls Sonny Bono clear, out and around a crap table, free at last, but his eyes are glazed with fear. The crap shooters glance up, do not give a damn, and grimly resurvey their board like it was an unauthorized autopsy of God.
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