The B.A. Times had a reputation for off-the-wall reporting, but nothing prepared me for what awaited me in the news room. As I approached the office door, I couldn't help but notice that someone had painted the words "Abandon Hope, All Ye That Enter" across the frame. But having survived Vietnam, and later Disneyland, I thought I could handle just about anything. I opened the door.
Try to imagine standing at ground zero during a thermo-nuclear explosion.
The office was stuffed with about 35 desks in a room which could accommadate 15. Each and every desk was piled high with papers, clippings, files, coffee mugs, rolling papers, half eaten sandwiches, and for some reason, a few scattered gorrilla suits. People of various race, background, fashion sense, and state of decay were spread liberally throughout the room, engaged in a multitude of undecipherable activities, although almost everyone was talking into a telephone in addition to whatever else they were doing. An incredible amount of noise was being produced from several different sources around the office, mostly a combination of ghetto blasters, loud phone arguments, piles of paper falling off someone's desk, people moaning about having to pick up piles of paper, and at least one man complaining loudly to someone else that his gorrilla suit was the wrong size.
In the midst of all this chaos, I was able to discern one young woman seated behind the only neat looking desk in the office. She appeared to be smiling directly at me, and I thought I could just barely make out a small sign in front of her desk labelled 'Receptionist'. Thinking this to be my guide through this savage territory, I pulled out my machete, and started hacking my way through the office debris toward her. After ten minutes of fighting the underbrush, I managed to make it to the chair just in front of her desk, and collapsed into it. As I gradually caught my breath, I managed to gasp out my reason for coming - "Excuse me, honey, can you fetch me some bearers for an expedition to the office of Guy Giddings?" She continued to smile at me, unmoving. Then it occurred to me that she had been sitting in exactly the same position since I walked into the room.
I tried waving my hand in front of her eyes. "Hello? Anyone at home?" At this point, I finally noticed that I was, in fact, addressing a cardboard cutout. My last tie with civilization was gone.
"Sorry man, our last receptionist cut out. Y'see, she, like, had this allergy to gorrilla fur, y'know?" I was being addressed by a tall, lanky young man in his late twenties, with dark hair, long beard, wearing blue jeans, a public TV tee shirt, and sandels. "We saw this model in a magazine with a really nice smile, so we blew up the picture and pasted her to a backing sheet. Looks great, don'tcha think?"
"Yeah, she's just fine, but can she make coffee?"
He smiled. Three teeth were missing. "Well, no. But neither could our last receptionist." He then made a peculiar hissing noise which I took to be laughter.
"Well, I could just sit here and jaw all day, but I've got to talk to Guy Giddings. Could you show me the way?"
"Gee, I guess so. He should be just about finished with his afternoon tantrum by now. He's been in a bad mood all week since he found out that he didn't win the Irish Sweepstakes."
"That seems to be going around. Lead on."
My faithful guide gracefully stepped over a sleeping cat, and lead me through the rest of the Posiden Adventure to a small office in the back. Along the door were several small pictures of guitars, with X's drawn across them. "He's red hot this year. If he knocks off two more bands, he'll get 'Critic of the Year' fer sure. Just sit right there, he'll be right back as soon as he finishes yelling at the editor."
As I scrapped off the remains of three jelly rolls from the chair (?), a clean-cut dude that looked like something outta Miami Vice burst into the office, grabbed the phone, punched some digits, and screamed into the mouthpiece. "LOOK, I'M TELLING YOU FOR THE LAST TIME! NO MORE GORRILLAS!" He slammed down the phone, snuffed out a cigarette, and looked up at me. "WHAT?"
"Guts. Roger Guts. Someone's being sending death threats to Grated Chez..."
He shot up straight. "What? Wait a minute, I know it's here somewhere..." He started fumbling through a hugh stack of papers covering his desk. Then he stopped. "Oh, screw it." He knocked the whole pile off the desk, revealing a typewriter which looked about 50 years old. Then he grabbed one of the less crumbled looking papers from the floor, slipped it into the typewriter, and began furiously banging away on the keys. "Sit down, Mr. Guts. Now tell me, how many are dead, was it painful, how much cocaine did the police find, etc., etc., ya know, all the usual stuff."
I smiled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Giddings, but the reports of their deaths are being greatly exaggarated. I only said someone was THREATENING to kill them, not that they had been killed."
Giddings grabbed the paper from the typewriter, crumbled it up completely, and threw it at me. "Are you out of your fucking mind? THREATS AREN'T NEWS! Sometimes even after they're carried out. Come back when somebody's dead. THAT I can write about."
"You don't seem to understand. I'm not here to give you a story. I'm here to investigate the threats."
"Oh." He leaned back, looking confused. "So what's that got to do with me?"
I pulled out the newspaper clipping Rommel had given me, and handed it to Giddings. "That is your handiwork, ain't it?"
He frowned at the clipping for a moment, then looked at me. "What are you? A fan?"
"Not exactly. I'm a private investigator, hired by their press agent, to track down the source of the threats."
"Oh, I get it. So the boys don't like the press they're getting, so they hired you to ruff me up a little, is that it?"
"Now wait a minute..."
"Boy, that's just typical. I dare to deflate they're massive egos with some honest criticism, WHICH IS A DAMN SIGHT MORE THAN THEIR MANAGER WOULD EVER DO, and the next thing I know they send out some two-bit, dime a dozen Neanderthal to warn me off!"
"Who are you calling..."
"WELL, LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, BULLET BRAIN, NOBODY PUSHES GUY GIDDINGS AROUND ON HIS OWN TURF, ESPECIALLY SOME HOLLYWOOD SLEAZOID LIKE YOU WITH DELUSIONS OF BOGART...!"
"Well, here's looking at you, kid!" I let fly with a left hook to the jaw, followed up by a right jab to the gut. As he doubled over, I caught him, and hefted him up onto a coat hook on the back of his office door. "Now, I'm going to ask you this one time - do you have anything to do with the death threats to Grated Chez?"
His eyes wide with shock, he slowly shook his head no.
"Good. Now, I would advise you to forget this conversation ever took place, or you just might wake up some morning to find a few gorrilla heads in bed with you, understand?"
He shook his head yes. As I slipped out of his office, I slammed his door shut, which was immediately followed by the thud his body made as it banged against the door. I then proceeded to hack my way back out of the news room.
Rommel's lead had been yet another dead end, leaving only one remaining course of investigation. But this last one was not going to be a picnic. I was now forced to investigate the backround of someone with no identity beyond the name of Og. It was four hours to concert time, and I was no closer to finding the would-be killer.
God, I love this business!
TO BE CONTINUED...