This time I was completely on my own. Both Wilcox and the German insisted that I go to the swap by myself. Wilcox for reasons of secrecy; the German just wanted to keep it simple. I was standing outside of the Globe offices where Wilcox had loaded the cash into the suitcase--fifty thousand dollars.        Wilcox suggested that, after I made the exchange, I take the diaries to my house and wait for his call. Frankly, I would have felt more comfortable heading straight for a bank vault with the diaries, but Wilcox was the boss, so he called the shots. I tossed the cash-laden case into the trunk of my Chevette and set off for my "appointment." Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the House of Chives on Elvis Presley Boulevard, just a few blocks away from the corner where the transaction was to take place.        As I approached the intersection, I noticed a tall figure standing in the shadows. He looked a bit like my Uncle Otto who was killed in a Swiss Army knife fight (corkscrew to the knee; it wasn't pretty). He was holding a cardboard box that was clearly labeled "Lost Elvis Diaries."        I casually edged near him, whistling the theme from The Jetsons and pretending to watch the shrubbery. After glancing suspiciously left and right, the man said, "Did you bring the money?"        "Maybe," I responded. "You got the diaries?"        "Yeah, right," he stammered, "I got the diaries."        I sensed he was lying. I don't know what it was. Maybe it was the glint in his eye, maybe it was the stammer, or maybe it was the "I'm Lying" t-shirt he was wearing, but I felt he wasn't telling the truth.        As much as I had hoped to avoid it, I was going to have to try the code phrase on him.        "Well-a-bless-a my soul what's-a-wrong with me?" I said with as much dignity as I could muster.        "Huh?" he said, a look of confusion crossing his face.        He was lying all right. Something fishy was going on. I decided to take action. I swung the suitcase around, hitting him in the stomach. He dropped the box and lapsed into sort of an involuntary rhumba.        I let the suitcase do the talking one more time, konking him on the head. He fell to the ground with a thud. He'd be okay after a long nap.        I dragged him into the bushes, where--lo and behold--the real courier lay bound and gagged. Whoever the other guy was, he wanted the diaries and the money. As soon as I removed the gag the man gasped for air and quickly yelled, "I'm-a itchin' like a man . . ."        "Okay, already," I interrupted. I didn't need a code to know that this was the man.        He had been whacked on the head and was bleeding.        "You okay?" I asked.        "Ya, ya," he said nervously.        "Well here's your dough," I said, tossing him the suitcase. "A deal's a deal."        I grabbed the box, spun around, and headed back to the car, leaving Fritz and Sleeping Beauty there to figure it all out. When I got to my car, I threw the cardboard carton into the trunk, jumped in the front seat, and sped off down Elvis Presley Boulevard. After a few blocks, Graceland floated by to my right, and if it hadn't been for the cold air freezing my nose hairs, I would have sworn it was all a dream.        It was about the time I pulled into the driveway of my Midtown home that a wave of paranoia hit me. What I had in my car was very valuable; already once tonight someone had made a play for it, and there were plenty of crazies out there who were achin' to get their mitts on the diaries. All I could do right now was get inside, lock the door, and wait for Wilcox's call.        I made a dash for the front door. Once in, I flipped the deadbolt and checked the windows. Fort Knox it wasn't, but for now it would have to do. It was just a little too quiet, so I turned on the tv. There was Jimmy Swaggart, asking for money. "Sorry, Jim," I thought, "I'm flat busted."        There was no call from Wilcox yet, so I decided to take a quick look at the diaries. I moved the box onto my kitchen table. My hands trembled as I pulled the masking tape from the seam on the top. I opened the flaps. Inside were ten loose-leaf notebooks, crammed with sheets of paper that looked to be many years old.        I picked up one at random and carefully opened the cover. Inside was page after page filled with handwritten entries which indeed appeared to have been written at different times. If this was a forgery, it was a damn good forgery.        I leafed through several of the books and decided to jot down some of the more interesting passages so I could begin working on an introduction for the diary story while they were being examined. I got a yellow legal pad and a pencil and began to scribble:        Tupelo--January 8, 1946        Today Mom gave me a guitar for my birthday. Diary, I know I should be happy, but I was hoping for a glockenspiel.        Memphis--February 15, 1955        Last night I met this man named Col. Parker. He said he could make me a big star. I'm not sure, Diary. He seems like a nice guy, but you just don't see many people around here wearing wooden shoes.        Germany--September 26, 1958        You know, Diary, Priscilla is a pretty girl, but I'd bet she'd look really great with a 16-inch beehive and about four pounds of makeup.        Memphis--March 16, 1971        Diary, I'm so excited. Tonight I'm going to be honored as one of the Jaycees' Outstanding Young Men of the Year. But what should I wear? The 25-pound chrome and zinc belt buckle with the bas-relief of the history of aviation? Or maybe I should wear the black velvet cape with the hand-painted day-glo triptych of Mickey Rooney's weddings? Decisions, decisions, decisions.        Las Vegas--June 16, 1972        The guys are upset with me because I shot the television out. But, hey, Mel Torme was on, and, as far as I'm concerned, it was self-defense.        Las Vegas--December 5, 1973        I've been feeling pretty crummy the last few days. I called this new doctor a friend recommended, but he just told me to take two dozen aspirin and call him in the morning.        Memphis--June 5, 1974        Today I played racquetball with the guys. Diary, it's funny: even though I'm overweight and out of shape, I never lose. I just can't figure it out.        Buffalo--February 12, 1976        Diary, how embarrassing. At tonight's concert my back gave out right in the middle of "Teddy Bear." I had to do the rest of the show in a squatting position which made it really hard for me to hit the high notes in "My Way."        I was halfway through the entry for September 14, 1976, when I heard a strange noise coming from outside the window. I placed the diaries back in the box and stashed it in the closet, grabbing my trusty safety patrol trophy in the process. I then turned out all the lights and went from window to window, peeking through the blinds, but I couldn't see anything in the pitch black of the night.        "Probably a stray dog," I muttered to myself. "Where the hell is Wilcox?"        Just then, I heard another rustling noise outside. This time I decided to check it out. Carefully sliding out the back door--trophy in hand--I tiptoed around the side of the house. All of a sudden I felt an object jabbed in my back. It was the unmistakable feel of a gun--I guessed it to be a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic .45, vintage 1961, pearl handles, made at the company's Westfield, Ohio, plant before they moved to Massachusetts. "Turn around," a voice growled.        I pivoted slowly around only to find that it was Virgil, holding a nozzle attached to a garden hose.        "Very funny, Virgil. You almost gave me a heart attack! "        "Hey man, it was a joke. I just came by to check on your house while you were gettin' the diaries."        "Thanks, Virg, but Wilcox stressed that he didn't want anyone around. You'd better head out. I'll let you know how things went tomorrow."        "Okay, Boss. Whatever you want," Virgil said, disappearing through the hedges.        I turned and started for the back door when all of a sudden I felt an object shoved in my back--it was the unmistakable feel of a garden hose nozzle--probably a Hydrospray Model 6-A, vintage 1973, attached to a 25-foot green garden hose purchased at a True Value hardware store.        "Okay, Virgil," I said. "It was funny the first time, but enough is enough." I spun around to find myself staring down the barrel of a Smith and Wesson, and it was in the hand of none other than Bruno Kartofel. His other hand was cradling the carton of Elvis Diaries.        "Kartofel," I said. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me to learn that you can't play by the rules."        "Have you read the rules?" he said. "They're too complicated."        He had a point.        "Besides, Mr. Parrish, I gave you every chance to play along. But no, you had to have it your way. That may work in Burger King commercials, but this is real life."        He had another point. It was two points to none. I figured I'd better speak up, or this was going to be a rout.        Before I could, however, he raised the gun as if to shoot.        "I'm sorry it has to end this way, Mr. Parrish. Try not to think of it as the end of your life, but merely as the end of a chapter."        "Yeah, but it's the chapter that includes breathing, and I think it's generally agreed that that's one of the better chapters."        I had to do something quickly. Now normally, I'm the kind of guy who likes to fight fair, but in this case, I didn't have much choice. It didn't take a genius to figure that my safety patrol trophy was no match for his revolver. So in one lightning quick motion, I jerked my right foot forward, planting my leather wingtip firmly into his groin.        Bruno crumbled to the ground assuming a position that made him look like the Pope kissing a tarmac.        "Thanks for the shine," I quipped. I picked up the box of diaries and nonchalantly walked away. Once around the corner, I ran like hell.        I dashed in the house to get my car keys. Just as I was heading out the door, the phone rang. It was Wilcox. He told me that he was at the Globe building and to meet him there. He said that he might not be in his office so to have the security guard page him when I got there.        "Great," I thought. "Why didn't we just do this in the first place?"        As I was crossing the yard to get to my car, I heard a muffled whimpering sound. It was Bruno--he was by the side of the house where I left him--still in the Papal position. Jeez, I had kicked him pretty hard. He looked like he was going to be that way for a while. God. What if he never left that position? I suddenly had visions of having to mow around Bruno.        Well, he brought it on himself. You hold a gun on someone, and all bets are off.        I threw the diaries in my car and sped down Poplar Avenue, heading for the giant rotating globe that glowed at the top of the Memphis skyline. Illustration by Barry Willis