The big night had finally arrived. The rendezvous with the German was only hours away, and I had just enough time to go home and change clothes. I was walking to my car in the Globe parking lot when I noticed a rather large man standing near my car. I didn't give it much thought, until I got close enough to see that it was an incredibly large man--a silo with arms.        "Excuse me," I said, "but I need to get to my car."        "You'd better come with me," the silo said. "Someone wants to see you."        "Thanks for the invite, but I'm afraid I really have to be somewhere."        He started to approach me in a hostile manner.        "Now wait a minute, Bud," I said, trying my best to look threatening. "I have to warn you, I've seen Enter the Dragon three times."        This didn't seem to scare him off, so I decided to try another tactic.        "Did I say three times? Actually, I meant four times."        This didn't seem to slow him down. I was about to try for five times, when he grabbed me about the waist and hoisted me as if I were a sack of peppercorns and began carrying me towards a black car. I was torn between hoping that someone would come along and rescue me, and not really wanting anyone to see me like this. There's just no way to put a good face on being toted.        He hauled me around the side of the car.        "Not the trunk. Tell me you're not going to put me in the trunk."        "Actually I'm not. The Lincoln's in the shop; I'm going to have to put you in the hatchback."        I could tell that dignity was not going to be the word of the day.        He then put a blindfold on me, shoved me into the hatchback, and then covered me with some sort of sheet.        We drove around for about 20 minutes, until we pulled up to what must have been a gate, because I heard my kidnapper yell out of the car window, "This is Gort, I've got the cargo."        He drove about another mile or so and then came to a stop. I felt frigid air rush into the car as he opened the hatchback.        "Gort, eh?" I said. "Nice name, and it does keep it well within the one-syllable range, which must make it easier for you."        Gort did not take kindly to my joshing and exhibited his displeasure by picking me up and body-slamming me against the car.        He then carried me through a door. Once we were inside, he removed my blindfold.        I rubbed my eyes as they adjusted to the light. I was in a large, ornately decorated room. At one end of it, sitting in front of a roaring fireplace, was a fat man ensconced in a big leather chair. He spun around, and I knew instantly that I was in the presence of Eddie "The Big Fish" Ravenelli.        "Mr. Parrish, welcome to my humble abode."        I decided the best strategy was to show no fear.        "Yes, Mr. Ravenelli. I got your brick. I meant to reply but I haven't been able to get by the hardware store. Perhaps you can tell me why I was brought here against my will by your friend, Gort."        "Well, you see, Mr. Parrish, I changed my mind about you. At first I was going to get the Elvis diaries myself. But after having no luck going through my usual channels, I decided that if you had some sort of entree to them, that I would get you to get them for me. I see the diaries as my way of getting my foot into the legit end of the souvenir market."        "That's all well and good. But what makes you think that if I did get them, that I'd hand them over to you willy-nilly?"        "Oh, I think I could persuade you to cooperate. That is, unless you'd like to sleep with the fishes."        Sleep with the fishes? I didn't like the sound of that.        "Actually, that really wouldn't be fair to the fishes. I snore, and I'm terrible about hogging the covers. Look, how about a compromise. Instead of actually sleeping with the fishes, what if I, say, slept with a carp under my pillow?"        Ravenelli began to look irritated.        "Okay," I said. "How about I share a sleeping bag with a sturgeon?"        His face began to redden.        "A bunk bed with a tuna? I'll even take the top bunk."        He motioned to Gort.        "A nap with a mackerel?"        "You are trying my patience, Mr. Parrish."        "Well, at least give me points for trying, then."        "Gort!" he shouted. "Put him in the Cool Room. We'll let him think it over."        The Cool Room. I didn't like the sound of that, either. Suddenly I was going from sleeping with the fishes to sleeping with Mrs. Paul's fishsticks.        Gort picked me up yet again. I thought about trying to reason with him, but Gort looked like the kind of guy who thinks a Renaissance Man is someone who can both read and write. He carried me down a flight of stairs and deposited me in the Cool Room, which was some sort of walk-in ice box used for storing meat.        Well, this was great. In only a matter of hours I was supposed to rendezvous with the German to pick up the diaries, and here I was in danger of getting a terminal case of freezer burn. I checked for windows; there weren't any, and the door was locked tight.        After about an hour, just as I was about to start hallucinating, I heard a lock snap on the door. I grabbed a frozen pork chop for protection and waited to see who the visitor was. It was a stunningly beautiful woman. For a second, I thought she might be a hallucination, but she came in and motioned for me to be quiet.        "Who are you?" I whispered.        "I'm Mrs. Ravenelli," she answered, "and I'm here to make you an offer. . ."        "That I can't refuse?"        "I'll let you out of here on one condition."        "I'm all ears."        "That if you get the Elvis diaries, you will hide any that mention me."        "Mention you? Why would . . ."        "You see Mr. Parrish, my husband is insanely jealous. When I was young and foolish, I used to . . . how can I put this delicately, well, I used to 'visit' Elvis for his 'parties'. We would have 'refreshments' and play 'parlor games', and then we would 'fuck like ferrets.'"        "Fuck like ferrets? What's that a euphemism for? On second thought, maybe I don't want to know."        "So if Elvis wrote about any of that in his diaries, then you can see why it can't be made public. My husband would . . . I'm scared to think of what he would do. He's a dangerous man. He's the kind who if he gets the hiccups, he holds someone else's breath."        "Okay," I said. "That sounds fair enough. If I get the diaries and can keep them away from your husband, then I'll make sure your name doesn't surface. Let's shake on it."        "You're already shaking," she said as she leaned over and planted a kiss right on my frozen face. I was scared for a second that she might stick to me like a tongue on a frozen water pump, but luckily she was able to disengage okay.        "Go out this door, go down the hall, and there's a rear door you can take out."        I made my way to a phone booth and called a cab. I headed for the Globe building to pick up my car and get the money from Wilcox for the transfer. Illustration by Barry Willis