I arrived at The Peabody at the specified time. Slipping through the ornate doors of the grand old hotel, I moved cautiously towards the lobby. Peering from behind a pink marble column, I caught sight of a rather stocky man standing by a fountain. He was fiftyish, had a blond crewcut, a beet-red face, and was wearing a suit that looked like it was made out of No Bugs M'lady.        That hair, that face, that suit could belong to only one man: Bruno Kartofel.        I felt a sudden chill. Bruno Kartofel. He went by many names: Kartofel . . . Bruno . . . Mr. Kartofel . . . Daddy . . . Uncle Bruno . . . Bru . . . Mr. B. . . . But to me there was only one name for him: Bruno Kartofel.        Kartofel was a criminal with a rap sheet a mile long: unnecessary roughness, offsides, clipping, intentional grounding, illegal motion. . . This was particularly bad considering he never played football. Bruno's current activities were a bit of a mystery, although it was rumored that he was involved in money laundering, international arms sales, and Elvis souvenirs--wait a minute! Elvis souvenirs! Of course! This little rendezvous was starting to make sense.        As it dawned on me just what kind of people were involved in this diary business, I began to have second thoughts--even third thoughts. But then I remembered that as a reporter I was duty-bound to follow the unwritten code of journalism: The public has a right to know everything but the First Lady's bra size. I decided to approach him.        "Well, Bruno,'' I said, "What brings this pleasure?''        "Good afternoon, Mr. Parrish,'' he countered. I think you know what I'm interested in.''        "I have a pretty good idea,'' I countered.        "I'm sure you do,'' he responded.        "I should have guessed as much,'' I quipped.        "Doesn't surprise me a bit,'' he intoned.        "First thing that crossed my mind,'' I exclaimed.        "Plain as the nose on your face,'' he uttered.        "Look,'' I said, "I'm running out of ways to describe verbal responses, so why don't we quit beating around the bush. What's your game?''        "My sources tell me you've been in touch with a party claiming to have the Elvis Diaries. I want those diaries. It's as simple as that.''        "Look, Bruno,'' I said, "I admit I've been approached my someone, but I'm not even sure who it is. Why don't you tell me what you know about the diaries, and I'll tell you whether or not we can deal.''        We moved to the bar, and Bruno told what he knew about the diaries. It seems that to a certain group of fanatical Elvis fans the books are considered the Holy Grail of Elvis souvenirs, and, evidently, these collectors are willing to shell out big bucks to own the personal journal of their rock-and-roll god.        Bruno, of course, was not one of those fans. His plan, he said, was to get his hands on the diaries and sell them one page at a time, asking the highest prices for those pages that included the word "Mama.'' Leave it to Bruno to find a new low for the Elvis business to sink to.        Kartofel's information on the diaries was not much better than mine. He too had heard the stories of Schmidt and Kitner (although, in his version Kitner was looking for a screwdriver, not a wrench). Bruno did tell me that in 1980 he was approached by a man named Rondo Blaine who offered to sell him what he claimed were the Elvis Diaries. Bruno hired experts to examine the books and backed out of the deal after they discovered major discrepancies in the texts such as repeated references to Elvis' father as "Al'' and other references to Elvis' biggest hits as "Blue Suede Skis," "Heartburn Hotel," and "(You Are Nothing If Not A) Hound Dog."        At one point in our conversation, Kartofel put his briefcase on the bar and began to look for something in it. As he shuffled through the contents, a slip of paper fell out and drifted to the floor. I picked it up and noticed that it was an order for 2,000 hand-held rocket launchers and 14,000 pairs of fuzzy pink Elvis slippers--he was for real all right.        Bruno finally found what he was looking for: a faded brown envelope from which he carefully removed a tattered, yellowing piece of paper folded to business card size. He handled the brittle document as though were he to drop it, we'd be blown to smithereens. As he unfolded it his eyes glowed with a mixture of awe and greed--like someone who had discovered the original Ten Commandments tablets and couldn't decide whether to sell them as a set or break up the pair.        "I purchased this in Cairo,'' he said as he handed the paper to me. Although it wasn't signed, it appeared to be a handwritten account by Elvis of his performance on a local television show in Huntsville, Alabama. Apparently, the station management, fearful of offending their viewers, would only show him from the eyebrows up. I started to smile at the thought of Elvis' forehead bobbing around on the screen while the song "Teddy Bear'' played in the background, but I could tell from the look on Bruno's face that it was no laughing matter to him.        Kartofel said he was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that the document was written by Elvis. The only question was whether it was from a journal or just a page from a letter to a friend.        Bruno folded the paper and returned it to his briefcase, and then made his proposition: If I were to get the diaries, he would buy them for twice what we paid for them, and give the newspaper an exclusive on excerpts. After that, though, they would be his to do with as he pleased.        I told Kartofel I'd have to talk it over with my boss. I decided not to mention the letter, the phone booth, or the German. As I got up to leave he handed me his business card--it read "B. Kartofel (sheesh! another name) Money Laundering, International Arms Sales, Elvis Souvenirs.'' Well, you have to give him points for honesty.        I wanted to tell Bruno just what he could do with his card, but I couldn't. Not just yet.        When I arrived back at work, I headed straight for Wilcox's office to tell him about my little chat with Bruno.        "Kartofel, eh?'' he said. "Better be careful, he's a rough character. That guy's been in trouble all his life. I heard that when he was born, the doctor slapped him with a subpoena."        "But what about his offer?'' I asked.        "I don't think so,'' Wilcox said, "but let me think it over. By the way, someone sent us a pass to the Elvis impersonators contest at the Armada Inn tonight. I want you to cover it. Go soak up some atmosphere. You'll need it for the story.''