On Thursday morning, Detective Page arrived bright and early to the precinct house, shaven, and neatly dressed in a black suit and tie with a white and black pin-striped shirt. Plant, today dressed in jeans and a black oxford shirt, dutifully placed a cup of tea in front of Page along with the growing DeLong case file. Page in an unnaturally cheerful mood, donned an attractive pair of silver-rimmed eyeglasses, and opened the file to see what new information his partner had gathered during his day off. But the mood was promptly broken by Detective Blett, who had been waiting for twenty-four hours to give Page a ribbing about the Bicycle Bob affair.
"Say, Cayce! I hear you couldn't make 'im sing, so you had to let 'im fly!" Blett called from his desk.
Page gave him a dark glance over his spectacles, but said nothing. The annoyance continued.
"Yep, here he is, the greatest interrogator in the history of the precinct. Has Bicycle Bob right there in the station, and he lets 'im go. Makes a lot of sense."
"He got his confession, Blett, so fuck off, okay?" Robert retorted in Jimmy's defense.
Blett ignored Robert, and continued to torment Page. "What did youse guys do in there, anyway? What'd you do, his hair?" Blett snorted obscenely at his own joke. A few chuckles sounded from around the squad room.
"I'll bet," Blett went on, "that the only person you can make sing is your little blonde girlfriend there." He pointed at Plant, who was glaring at him. More chuckles from the gathering of homocide detectives. Blett was encouraged. "But, only if you shove that guitar of yours right up his asshole!" The department exploded in laughter.
"Okay! That's it," Robert said, and, in yet another psychic moment, both he and Jimmy stood up and drew their guns on Blett.
Blett, not knowing the state of stability of the two English detectives, panicked. He jumped up from his seat so fast that he lost his balance and fell backwards against the wall. The other officers either quickly exited the room, or ducked for cover from the expected rain of bullets from the two drawn magnums.
Instead of the sound of gunfire, however, came laughter, this time from Page and Plant, who stood there holding their guns, watching Blett scramble under his desk.
"Pow. Pow." Jimmy said just before he reholstered the gun under his jacket, snickering.
Plant blew at the barrel of his, and spun it around his fingers in true cowboy fashion before putting it away.
"Hey! What the fuck is going on in here?" Captain Hughie had just stormed into the squad room after a tense meeting with the commissioner. "Cayce, Plant! Don't draw your goddam weapons in the building, you hear? In my office, now! And get your ass off the floor, Blett!"
"He's trying to cover the puddle," Robert remarked loudly as he and Page marched, chuckling, behind Hughie into the captain's office.
"Alright," Hughie fumed as he slammed his office door shut, "we need a progress report here. The commish isn't too happy that we let our number one suspect walk. Any other suggestions, you two?" He eyed them severely.
"Well, cap'n," Robert began, "as soon as Detective Page here read the folder, I was going to head into this very office and give you a detailed plan of the next phase of our investigation."
"Which is?"
Robert shuffled his feet for a moment, and Jimmy cleared his throat.
"We're going to investigate the band's record company," Jimmy declared before Robert had a chance to say anything. Robert looked at him with surprise.
"You have reason to suspect them in this murder?" Hughie asked skeptically.
"Well, yes." Jimmy continued. "They have a bit of a dodgy past. They owe a lot of money, and some bands are worth more when they, ahem, are no longer."
The two detectives shot each other a mutual, uncomfortable glance.
Jimmy went on. "The Arachnid catalog is selling like wildfire right now, and guess who's around to reap the profits?"
"The other band members, perhaps?" Robert offered.
Jimmy shook his head. "With all the personnel changes that happened throughout the band's history, Banana DeLong was the longest existing member. He did all the writing, and raked in the lion's share of the profits."
"Banana and Friends?" Robert quipped.
"Exactly," Jimmy replied. "The other members are on salary, a negligible amount from the record company's point of view. They are now talking about a tribute album, rereleasing the band's back catalog, putting out some Banana solo material he was blocking, and putting some dance mixes together. Megabucks. I think we should explore the possibility of a connection there."
Hughie was convinced. "Go for it, guys."
"Well, you've certainly done your homework. I thought I was giving you a sick day," Robert whispered to Jimmy as they reentered the now deathly silent squad room.
Jimmy smiled. "I've heard snippets here and there about Corporate Corpulence Records. Pretty bad scene. It's headed by some guy called Fred Biggs. Never met him, but I'm told he has a shadowy past, and has been in trouble with the law before. It's also in the wind that he's ripping off the record company to line his own pockets."
"Cookin' the books, is he?" Robert offered.
"Um. No. Not hungry at the moment. At any rate, I wouldn't put it past him to do something desperate to reverse his financial situation."
Robert thought about this for a moment, nodding his head and twirling his hair a little. Then, "So where do we begin, partner? Where do we start our investigation?"
"CBGB's." Jimmy answered without explanation. He sat down at his desk and propped his feet in their usual position. He then took a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket.
Robert sat down across from his partner at his desk, pushed a half -eaten jelly donut out of his way, and folded his hands in front of him prayerfully. He leaned forward. "I'm missing a piece here, Jim. How did we get from Corporate Corpulence to CBGB's?"
Jimmy lit his cigarette with laconic movements, and did not answer Robert's question until he had successfully taken two deep, satisfying drags. Robert, who had become used to these zen moments over the years, remained frozen in his expectant posture. When he had sufficiently raised the level of nicotine in his lung tissue, Detective Page dove into his story of what he had done the day before.
"You see," He began, "I needed a Corporate Corpulence insider who would talk. So, I went to the department of unemployment to see if anyone in the past couple of years or so, after the theatre fire, had joined the dole after leaving the company, you know, disgruntled employee." Another long drag.
"Did you find anyone?" Robert asked to fill in the pause. Jimmy nodded and made an affirmative sound as he let the exhaled smoke drift out of his nostrils. "I found out that six months ago, Mr. Biggs's assistant, a guy named Steve Reeves, left the record company for undetermined reasons. He was on the dole until about two months ago, when he died."
"He died?" Robert's eyes widened.
"Car crash."
"So he very well can't talk, can he?" Robert said flatly, his rapt attention waning as he detected another dead end.
"No. But his widow gave me some interesting leads."
"You didn't pay a visit to his widow?" Robert breathed, shocked. "A mere two months after the bloke dies, and you're knocking at her door asking her questions?"
"Now, Robert," Jimmy said in a rather bruised tone, "you know that I'm a sensitive guy. I didn't say anything to set her off. Besides, she was glad to see someone investigating her husband's death. She's convinced that foul play was involved, but the D.A. wouldn't go along." He smiled a little and added, "I also autographed her Complete Studio Recordings box."
Robert arched his eyebrows. "That was very nice of you, Jim. Now, I'm still sitting here wondering how we got to CBGB."
"Wait a minute," Jimmy said, picking up on Robert's mounting impatience. "I'm getting to that." He paused yet again to crush out his cigarette. "Mrs. Reeves said that her husband started becoming agitated about the way things were going on the job. His attitude worsened until he finally quit. He never told her what was going on or why, but she had a suspicion that something horrible had gone down. Her suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Reeves was killed in a freak car accident involving the sudden loss of brake fluid. Even stranger was the fact that, on the day before he was killed, Steve met secretly with a friend of his, a former member of Arachnid named Roddy Wall. She thinks he might know something important. I rang him, and he agreed to speak to us, and only us, tonight at the club. He manages the band that's playing there tonight."
"Why will he only talk to us?" Robert asked, curious.
Jimmy smiled smugly. "Because we're Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, of course. People will do anything for us. They trust us!"


Jimmy and Robert descended into the filth of the Bowery at about midnight that evening. Were it not for the cheerful, if a little tattered, canope that stated "CBGB OMFUG," the nightclub might appear to be a walk-in trash heap. The general atmosphere outside the club was not helped at all by the scattering of bodies--mostly passed-out drunks, the sleeping homeless, and the hopelessly strung out--that lined the sidewalks like the aftermath of a spray-shooting. Inside, however, the club was jumping to the sounds of Angry Johnny and the Killbillies. A huge, sweaty crowd of leather-clad New York City night people bashed into each other in front of the stage, completely out of synch with the punkabilly rhythm being laid out by the band. Occasional feet appeared above the bouncing heads. Occasional items of clothing flew into the air.
When Robert and Jimmy entered the club, the bouncer respectfully showed them to a reserved table situated relatively safely at the back of the club, where the music was not so loud, and where only an occasional dazed and sweat-drenched dancer retreated to escape the madness of the floor.
"I'll get you two a few cold ones," the bouncer said reverently. "If you need anything else, just holler."
"Right, thanks," Robert said politely, and he and Jimmy sat back to scope out the band and await Roddy's appearance.
"I'm the nuclear man, I'm the Son of Sam, I'm Peter Pan, I'm Sirhan Sirhan!" The short-haired, monkey-faced singer spewed into the mic while mercilessly hammering his hand-painted guitar.
"The man is certainly angry," Robert observed to Jimmy over the mayhem of the song.
For the most part, people in the club did not recognize the former superstars hunched over their beers at the back. A few did doubletakes, but went on their way into the seething crowd. One man, however, who did make a positive identification, turned away from the pair, and walking into the fringes of the mass called out, "Yo! Hide your booooots!"
Shortly thereafter, a thin, tired looking young man with a long, blonde perm joined them. He introduced himself as Roddy Wall. The three shook hands. Above the din of Angry Johnny's screaming voice and guitar, he began to tell the rock and roll detectives Steve Reeves's story.
"Steve came to me the day before he died," Roddy began, taking a sizable swill of his Budweiser for strength. "He told me that he had found out some horrible things about Fred Biggs. Steve was a fan and a really good friend of the band's, and especially of Banana." The young man took another large gulp of beer. The detectives leaned in closely. "He told me that Biggs had set the fire that destroyed all our equipment; that Biggs had removed all the stuff, guitars, drums, amps, everything, and had the theatre torched. You see, he had an insurance policy on the band. We didn't know about it. Steve saw paperwork that showed that the record company got a huge insurance settlement after the fire. And . . ." The kid paused to throw a glance at his band, which had begun another disturbing number.
"Sister was home, but I did it anyway!" Angry Johnny shouted. He was using a beer bottle as a slide on his guitar.
"Yes?" Jimmy asked. It was his turn to be impatient. He was not at all interested in the angry singer and his Killbillies.
"And," Roddy turned back to the detectives, "Biggs loaned the equipment to another band, the Weebles, who desperately needed it. I'm sure he added the cost of the equipment onto their advance. Biggs was really big into the Weebles. Thought they'd make him a mint. He thought Arachnid were losing their edge, although he was wrong, 'cause we hit big with our last album."
"The Weebles," Robert mused. "Weren't they that two-video-hit wonder?"
"Yeah!" Roddy said, nodding wildly. "'The Argyle Sock Song,' and that other one, the one called 'Big Bopper.' After that they just fizzled." He continued his story. "Well, we lost all our equipment, but managed to get a, um, loan to replace it. Banana was devastated, though, because he thought his guitar, autographed by you," he pointed to Jimmy, who gave a small smile, "had been destroyed in the fire. He was so upset about it that he refused to write another song. He was in an incredibly deep funk."
Detective Page shook his head sadly, again remembering his encounter with Banana DeLong at Donnington.
"But!" Roddy went on, "you see, Steve had access to Mr. Biggs's vault at the record company building. One day, he went in there for kicks, and guess what he found? Banana's guitar! Signed by you!" Another gesture toward Jimmy, another small smile. "He was really torn between his loyalty and friendship to the band, and his duty to Mr. Biggs. In the end, Banana won, uh, er, I guess he eventually lost, but anyway, Steve let himself into the vault one night, lifted the guitar, and gave it back to Banana. Banana was so thrilled he almost fainted on the spot. But Steve never told him how he had gotten it back. Just said that someone 'borrowed' it before the fire, and it had resurfaced." Roddy had to stop for a moment to brush away a tear. He sighed and completed his tale.
"Banana was just about to start writing new tunes. He had a whole new perspective on life. And then, POW! He was killed. Steve quit the company before Biggs found the guitar missing. And then, POW! He was dead. And from what I hear, the guitar is missing again. Mr. Biggs has got to be behind all this."
Another sigh, and Roddy drained the bottle of Bud. Angry Johnny's caterwaul filled the empty moment: "Sister was home, but I killed the pup-py!"
Detective Plant made a sour face toward the stage, and turned back to Roddy. "Roddy," he asked, "why didn't you go to the police with this information?"
"What?" Roddy's jaw dropped. "Tell the police? Steve handed me a fuckin' death sentence with all that information! He's dead, Banana's dead, and you expect me to go spouting off to the pigs, uh, sorry, police? No fuckin' way, man! I'm telling you this because you are who you are. You're the Zep, man!"
"Were. Minus two," Robert corrected.
"Whatever!" Roddy said. "You do what you can with this information. I hope you nail Biggs. He ruined our band and my career; and I believe he killed my friends. But I ain't gettin' killed; and I ain't spending the rest of my life in a witness protection program!" Roddy abruptly got up and stalked away into the crowd.
Robert took a small sip from his bottle of beer while he watched Roddy Wall disappear into the slamming mass. Angry Johnny screamed: "I chopped it into pieces!"
"What say we go?" Jimmy suggested.
"What do you think about Mr. Johnny's playing?" Robert asked, a knowing smile played along his lips as he took one last slug from the bottle.
"He needs . . ." Jimmy made fretting motions with his left hand, and then dropped it onto his lap. ". . . work," he concluded, and drained his beer.
The detectives rose and exited the hellish club. Angry Johnny's voice trailed after them: "I don't wanna be forgiven! I just wanna be left a-LONE!"


As they emerged from the dank netherworld of the Bowery and toward a safe place to catch a cab back to civilization, they discussed their strange meeting with Roddy Wall.
"Biggs is after that guitar for some reason," Jimmy said conclusively. "We've gotta find it. That will be our key to busting him."
"And I suppose you have an idea of where the guitar can be found?" Robert asked skeptically.
"Why, back in its rightful place in Biggs's vault, I would presume, wouldn't you?"
Robert groaned. "Yes. I was afraid you would presume it too."
"Well, then, off to Corporate Corpulence Records, tomorrow," Jimmy said uneasily.


Ever Onward
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