The alarm clock went off at seven. It had been a rough night and I was hardly rarin' to go. I dragged into the bathroom to shave. I stared intently at the face in the mirror. I looked at the firm chin, the strong, sharp features, the blue velvet hat with the plume in it--wait a minute--this wasn't the mirror--it was Gainsborough's Blue Boy. I was in the den--not the bathroom. I didn't think I owned a blue velvet hat.        It had been a harder night than I thought.        All of a sudden, a loud crash came from the living room. I ran in and there, in the middle of the floor, was a brick with a note tied to it. I ran to the broken window and caught sight of a figure walking away. I threw open the front door and saw that it was Mr. Feeny, my next door neighbor, walking across my yard. I asked him if he had seen who threw the brick. He explained that the brick was meant for me but had accidentally been thrown through his window.        "Gee, thanks, Mr. Feeny," I yelled as he hobbled home. Poor Mr. Feeny hadn't been quite right since he was injured five years ago. He had been an assembly line worker at the Vegematic factory--there was an explosion and 40 men were sliced and diced--it was terrible, but the cleanup was easy.        I went back inside and picked up the brick.        I untied the string and unfolded the piece of typing paper. On it was scribbled the message: "Stay away from the Elvis Diaries, if you know what's good for you." Underneath it was a handprint made by a glove dipped in black paint. A Candygram it wasn't.        The phone rang and it was Virgil. I told him about the brick and he rushed right over. When he arrived, I handed him the note. He took one look at it, and a strange look came over his face.        "This is bad news, boy."        "What?"        "This is the sign of the black hand."        "What does it mean?"        "It's the mark used by Eddie 'The Big Fish' Ravenelli. He's involved in organized crime."        "It couldn't be too organized. They threw the brick through the wrong window."        "Look Jeff, we're talking rough people here--the Mafia. Eddie 'The Big Fish' Ravenelli is his real name."        "C'mon," I said. "On his birth certificate?"        "Complete with quotation marks."        "Jesus."        "Right."        I slumped down in my chair, burying my face in my hands.        "Elvis impersonators, arms dealers, the CIA, and now the Mafia. My God, my life is turning into the ultimate Jerry Springer show."        "The thing I can't figure out," Virgil said pacing the floor, "is what the Mafia has to do with the diaries. It doesn't make any sense. Hey, I have this friend who knows someone at the FBI."        "The FBI . . . Great. Bring 'em on. How about the Daughters of the American Revolution, Ducks Unlimited, the Ireland-Paraguay Friendship Society? Call 'em all. They probably want the diaries, too. Everybody wants the diaries, and I haven't even gotten 'em yet. Who knows what'll happen if I ever actually take possession."        "Look, I'm only trying to help."        "I'm sorry, Virgil. It's just that I've had about four hours sleep in the last two days."        Virgil left and I pulled myself together enough to head down to the office. I had some more checking to do on Kelter Pertman, the rock-and-roll relics dealer. If my sources were right, he was scheduled to arrive tonight from L.A.        It was nearly six o'clock, so I had just enough time to get out to the airport and wait for Pertman to show up. It always hurt me to go to the airport. It was here that I first suspected that Ginger and I might be drifting apart. She had flown to Cleveland to visit her mother and it was her very first plane trip. When I met her at the gate, I asked her how she liked flying. She said, "You know, being up that high--looking down on all the little cars and the little houses. . . it makes me realize how insignificant you are."        "You mean all people," I said.        "No, just you."        I suppose I should have picked up on that signal right away, but I was just too much in love. A week later she ran away with Johnny.        I didn't handle her leaving well at all. After she left, I recklessly threw myself into a series of cheap affairs with tawdry tarts--and believe me, they got pretty tawdry. The weirdest was probably Stella Magrew. Whenever we made love, she would play a tape of the music to Final Jeopardy and any passionate sounds I made had to be in question form. I felt pretty silly saying "What is 'Oh, God?'"        I pulled into the airport's parking lot and made my way to Gate 36, where Pertman's flight was to arrive. As the passengers disembarked, I stood back, pretending to read the paper. I waited patiently as passenger after passenger emerged from the door to be greeted by friends and relatives, but oddly enough, no one fitting Pertman's description surfaced. Surely there wasn't another Keltar Pertman coming to Memphis from L.A.        I went to the airline counter to ask if there was a Pertman on the flight. I told the ticket agent that I was supposed to meet him. He called the passenger list onto his computer screen and squinted at the fuzzy green list of names.        "No Pertman on this flight," he said. "Although you're right, one bought a ticket. Didn't cancel either. That's odd."        Suddenly I felt a hand grip my shoulder.        "Virgil!" I said with a start. "You scared the hell out of me!"        "Sorry, boss," he said. He seemed out of breath. "I checked with your office, and they said you were headed for the airport, so I rushed over to show you this." He handed me a newspaper clipping. "It's from today's L.A. Times. Read it."        "Okay," I said and began to read aloud. "'ESPN, 9 p.m. Bowling for Spuds--Celebrity bowlers compete for cash prizes and tubers. Tonight: Andy Rooney and Christie Brinkley vie for $10,000 cash and a 60-pound yam.' So what?"        "Not that," Virgil said. "Look on the other side."        I flipped the clipping over and the headline jumped right off the page: "Relic Dealer Kills Self." It was Pertman. He'd apparently committed suicide. According to the story, he didn't leave a note, but friends said he had been despondent over the thought of there being yet another sequel to Free Willy.        So much for my trip to the airport. It looked like Keltar Pertman was going to be out of the picture before he was even in the picture.