When I got back to my desk from my meeting with Wilcox, I decided to follow up on Virgil's tip on Keltar Pertman, the relics dealer. I put in a call to one of my music industry contacts--Lanny Wolfe. Lanny was an independent record promoter and seemed to know just about everyone in the business. He would drop by my office occasionally, trying to get me to do a story on one of his new acts. I tried to help him when I could; we actually went back a long way.        I first met Lanny back when I was working in the Globe's sports department, and he was a struggling boxing manager. Even back then Lanny always believed he had the next big thing. I remember one day he burst into the office raving about this boxer he had just signed--Kid Opie. I warned Lanny not to get his hopes up over any boxer whose motto was "float like a butterfly, sting like Aunt Bea.''        Lanny didn't fare too well as a boxing promoter. After spending years putting together dismal cards in local high school gyms, he finally got his big break and landed one of his fights on tv. True to his luck, right before the first bell the two fighters agreed to disagree. It was at that point he decided to try his hand at promoting rock groups instead of fighters.        After trying several numbers I got him on the phone.        "Lanny, this is Jeff.''        "Jeff Parrish,'' he said. "Just the man I need to see.''        "Huh?''        "Yeah, what a coincidence. I was going to try to get by to see you. I've got this terrific new singer--I tell ya, he'd make a great story.''        "Look, Lanny, now is not a great time. I'm kinda busy. I really just had a quick question for you.''        "No problem,'' he said. "I'll be right over.''        He hung up the phone before I could get another word in. That was Lanny, always promoting something.        Ten minutes later Lanny was in my office.        "Look, that new singer I was telling you about, he's going to be big, I tell ya, a bona fide superstar.''        "Yeah, Lan--look, like I said on the phone, I'm kind of pressed for time. Can we talk about him later?''        "Oh, I see. Too big to talk to your old pal Lanny since you got that 'Eight Faces of Earl' story on the front page.''        "Low blow, Lanny. Besides, didn't just last month I get them to run a photo--a color photo--on the front of the entertainment section of that heavy metal group you were pushin'--what was their name . . .?''        "Spit Valve.''        "That's it.''        "Okay,'' Lanny said, "you're right. It's just that I'm really excited about this guy. I signed him just last week. His name is Jimmy Dub. He's from Jamaica. He's a Rastafarian--you know, sings reggae.''        "Great, Lanny. I like reggae. But didn't it kind of peak awhile back?''        "No, you see, this is reggae with a twist. This guy will knock 'em dead. He played with the Whalers.''        "He played with Bob Marley and the Wailers?''        "No--the Whalers--like the fish. They do reggae sea shanties. Hey, their song 'We Gonna Catch That Moby Dick, Mon' was number one in Kingston for three weeks.''        "I don't know. That sounds kind of weird.''        "Sssh. Not so loud--he's in the hall.''        I peeked in the hall and, sure enough, there was a full-blown Rastafarian, complete with red and green robes, dreadlocks, and smoking a huge ganja spliff.        "Look, Lanny, I promise I'll do my best to help you, but that guy has got to lose the joint.''        "Jeff, it's their custom.''        "Lanny, the man is smoking a marijuana cigarette rolled in the Sunday New York Times! He's going to set off the sprinkler system!''        "Let me go talk to him,'' Lanny said.        I breathed a sigh of relief and plopped down in my chair mumbling under my breath--"One question, I just wanted to ask one question.''        Lanny returned after assuring Jimmy Dub that the Globe was indeed interested in his career. I finally got to ask Lanny if he knew anything about Pertman. I hit paydirt. Lanny knew him personally and had actually been in his store. Not only was Lanny able to give me plenty of info himself, he also gave me a list of other people to call. After a few other calls I was able to put together a pretty good dossier on Pertman.        Keltar Pertman, it seemed, was indeed the foremost dealer of rock-and-roll relics. He ran his operation out of East Los Angeles and, rumor had it, he acquired many of his items on a "no questions asked'' basis. Although Pertman didn't deal exclusively in Elvis memorabilia, he did have an extensive inventory of Presley material. Among the other rare Elvis items Pertman boasted of having was the only known copy of the script of the movie Elvis never made, Viva Los Alamos, a musical about the making of an atomic bomb in which Elvis was to play J. Robert Oppenheimer. Legend had it that it was Elvis' dream project and he even commissioned the screenplay. MGM turned it down because they considered the subject matter too risky. The rejection so crushed Elvis, the story went, that he burned every copy of the script--every copy except one. Some said that the script even indicated where such musical numbers as "Gotta Glow'' and "Do the Atom'' would go.        One source went on to tell me about one of Pertman's most valuable finds--the so-called Sacred Beach Blanket of Frankie Avalon, a tattered beach towel found in a Laguna Beach bus locker in 1971, which features the mysterious image of a man believed to be Frankie Avalon. Although the blanket has been subjected to extensive scientific examination, there is no explanation as to how the image got there. One theory has it that the towel was used during the filming of Beach Blanket Bingo II: The Tanning, and that the image was caused by a fusion of Frankie's suntan lotion, his unique body chemistry, Annette Funicello's perspiration, and the intense heat of the sun, creating what, in effect, was the first Xerox copy. Whatever the cause, it's a phenomenon that has baffled both scientists and record reviewers for years.        Even more interesting was the suggestion that Pertman intended on "going to Memphis on a shopping expedition.'' Shopping? Or maybe selling?        So this Pertman fellow was heading for our fair city, eh. This was getting more interesting by the minute. On a hunch I phoned a friend of mine who worked at one of the airline ticket counters to see if she could find any record of a Keltar Pertman flying to Memphis. Bingo. The computer showed that one K. Pertman had purchased a ticket last week for Trans-America Flight 601 which was scheduled to come to Memphis tomorrow night at 6:30 p.m. I decided it just might be worth a trip to the airport to get a firsthand look at Pertman and see if he headed anywhere interesting. But what did he look like? I called Lanny back to get a quick rundown: "Yeah,'' Lanny said, "I'd say he's forty years old, or so. He's about 5' 11''. He has shoulder-length black hair. Oh yeah, he usually sports a five o'clock shadow.''        "Is that Central Time or Pacific Time?''        "Right,'' Lanny said. "Here that would be a three o'clock shadow.''        Great. What better way to spend time than hanging around the airport looking for a rock-and-roll relics dealer who's suffering from beard lag. Illustration by Barry Willis