As I stood in the phone booth at the corner of Fourth and Vance--the rain ominously tapping on the roof above my head--I began to wonder just what I was getting myself into.        It had all started that morning as I sat in my office in the Metro Room of The Memphis Globe. The nameplate on the desk read "Jefferson Parrish, reporter.''        Trixie, the office secretary, popped her gum as she tossed the thick stack of morning mail in my direction. At first glance, the pile appeared to contain nothing out of the ordinary; just the usual assortment of press releases and city council schedules. I was about ready to dump the whole batch in the trash when one letter caught my eye.        It was a pink envelope, so bright it almost glowed, and the face on the stamp was a familiar one--Elvis Presley. As I tore the envelope open, I noticed that there was no return address.        "Hmmm," I wondered.        I ripped the envelope open and found inside what looked like an old-fashioned ransom note--words cut out and pasted to a piece of paper to form a message. Only, the words were handwritten--and obviously by the same person.        It looked like whoever put this little love note together wasn't playing with a full deck. I proceeded to read: "I have the lost Elvis diaries. If you are interested, they can be yours--for a price. Go to the phone booth at the corner of Fourth and Vance at 10 p.m., Jan. 8th. You will receive a call. Have a nice day.''        So . . . the Elvis Diaries. I had heard the rumors of their existence. The story had it that Elvis had kept a journal since he was in elementary school. As far as I knew, though, they were just that--rumors. Maybe this was a hoax like those Hitler diaries some crackpot tried to palm off on that German magazine some years back.        But hoax or not, I have to admit I was intrigued. The truth is, I needed a good story and needed it real bad. Recently, I'd been suffering from what might be called a receding by-line. My last three story ideas hadn't panned out and the last one that actually got published--"The Eight Faces of Earl"--was a major disappointment. It was the story of Earl Buskin, a man who had eight distinct personalities, all of them, unfortunately, incredibly boring.        So if the Elvis diaries really did exist and I could get my hands on 'em, I might just have the story of the century.        I decided to do some checking on my own to see what I could find out about the so-called "Elvis Diaries.'' I jumped in my car and headed for the library, not mentioning to anyone at work what I was onto.        What I found in the available Elvis literature was sketchy at best, but there actually were references to the diaries. As the story goes, Elvis started keeping a journal as a fifth-grade school project, and he kept writing even after the school year was over. The earliest reference in print to the diaries I could find was in a book written by Elvis' insurance agent called Elvis--I Gave Him Security. Agent Harvey Schmidt tells how he once gave Elvis some papers to sign. When Elvis returned the forms, he had accidentally included a yellowish piece of notebook paper that contained what appeared to be a diary entry. Schmidt clearly remembers the handwritten notation: "September 5, 1961--Diary, I'm so excited! Col. Parker just called to tell me that I beat out Olivier for the lead in Girls! Girls! Girls! ''        Another reference to the diaries crops up in His Foot In My Hand, a book by Al Kitner, Elvis' podiatrist. Kitner tells about the time he went to Graceland to treat Elvis for a jammed toe. While looking through some drawers for a wrench, he found what looked like a set of diaries.        Although I could find no mention of the diaries in the famous Elvis, What Happened?--written by Elvis' embittered former bodyguards--there were references to them in other books by Elvis' disgruntled employees, such as Look At You Elvis, Just Look at You by his former chauffeur; What In The Name of Tarnation Happened to You, Elvis? by his former paper boy; Get It Together, Will Ya, Elvis? by his former pedicurist; and Christ, Elvis, You're A Mess by his former dietician.        Aside from these occasional references, the Elvis Diaries remained shrouded in mystery. If they did exist, Elvis was so secretive about them that he didn't even tell Priscilla or any of his "Memphis Mafia.'' for example, in one interview, Joe Dean, who was in charge of combing the furniture in the Jungle Room at Graceland, was once asked if he thought the diaries existed. His terse reply: "Nope."        But now somebody claimed to have them. Just imagine. A day-to-day account of the private thoughts of the most famous man in the world. Yes, that would bring a pretty penny. But just how pretty? Finding the answer to that question brought me to a phone booth at the corner of Fourth and Vance on the cold, rainy night of January 8th. It was Elvis' birthday; just a coincidence, I'm sure.        The rap-tap-tapping of the rain on the roof of the phone booth brought me around. I'd almost dozed off during my flashback. Suddenly, a loud "braang'' echoed through the booth. I grabbed for the phone but--false alarm--it turned out to be a kid standing outside the booth going "braang.''        "Beat it kid,'' I said, flipping him a fifty-cent piece.        "Gee, thanks mister,'' he chirped, making a beeline for the El Ranchito tamale vendor across the street.        It was ten minutes past ten o'clock and I was tired, soggy, and quickly running out of patience. I was about ready to bolt when a loud "braang'' echoed through the phone booth. The kid was nowhere to be seen, so I picked up the receiver.        "Hello?'' I quipped.        "Hello,'' came the reply in a voice that bore distinctive traces of a German accent. "Vell, you are interested in what I haf to sell?''        "Now wait a minute, pal. I'm going to need a little more info. Just what exactly are you selling?''        "I haf the diaries,'' he answered.        "What years?''        "1945-on,'' he replied.        I grew dizzy for a moment. If this creep was telling the truth, he had the whole shebang.        "How much do you want?'' I asked.        "Fifty thousand,'' he said with a dead coolness that sent shivers down my spine and halfway down my left leg.        I wasn't quite ready for this. I had purposely not told Jasper Wilcox, The Globe's publisher and editor, about the letter and was not ready to strike a deal. Questions raced through my mind: Were the diaries real? Why did he call me? Would I have to get a purchase order? I needed more time. I decided to try an age-old ploy.        "I need more time,'' I said.        "Sure, no problem,'' the German said. (He fell for it.) "I vill call you back.''        "When?'' I asked.        "Vhen is convenient for you?''        Now I was in a real bind. He had given me more time but now I needed more time to think about how much more time I needed!        "Uh . . . ,'' I said.        "Okay, okay. Look, I vill call you back tomorrow night. Same time, same place,'' the voice said.        I breathed a sigh of relief.        "All right,'' I said.        My hand was shaking when I hung up the phone. Suddenly I heard the rap-tap-tapping of the rain on the roof again and the cry of the El Ranchito tamale man sounded against the cold dark night.