Life's latest special delivery for me turned up in the form of 120 pounds of shakey, bloodshot rock and roll record executive (the Paul McCartney T-shirt he was wearing was a dead give-away). I found him lying on the couch in my office, desparately trying to hold a cigarette between his chapped lips, and failing utterly.
"I'm Tic Aspen", he said.
"I'm thrilled", I said.
"Y'know, you really shouldn't leave your office door unlocked that way. Never know who might be waiting for you inside."
"I like it that way. Makes coming into work more exciting, don'tcha think?"
He smiled. This resulted in about an inch of cigarette ash collapsing down the front of his shirt. I was obviously dealing with a real smooth operator. I slipped behind my desk, tossed my fedora across the room to the hat stand, and watched it fly out the open window beside it. I sighed. Oh, well, it had a bullet hole in it, anyway. (Come to think of it, that was probably its most endearing feature.)
"Well, Mr. Aspen, now that we've impressed each other with our respective styles, what can I do for you?"
He slid his meager frame into the chair beside the desk, leaned forward, rubbing his hands on his forehead. "Where to begin...I've just been promoted to regional press agent for Lollapalooza Records, based here in LA. Along with the promotion, I was put in charge of organizing the local concerts for a hot new punk rock group making a national tour. Maybe you've heard of them - Grated Chez?"
"Yes, I have - I prefer music, myself."
He smirked. "Mozart?"
"The Grateful Dead, actually."
The smirked disappeared. What was left of his cigarette slipped from his mouth, bounced off his knee, and landed in my coffee cup.
"Say, do you think you can tell me the rest of your story without using your mouth?"
"Well, uh, anyway, five minutes after the concert posters went up, we starting getting death threats against the band..."
"That's not unusual is it? People write letters, make pesky phone calls..."
"Wire their instruments to electrocute them?"
"...wire their instruments to electrocute them..."
"Mr. Guts, you've got to help me. It's not just the lives of the band on the line - my JOB is at stake!"
"Alright, alright, quit whinnin' already. I'll take the case. Just keep those cigarettes to yourself from now on, OK?"
"Thank God!" With that, he slumped back in his chair in relief, tipped it over, and crashed into the water cooler. I might be able to save the band, but this guy was on his own.
TO BE CONTINUED...