Back at Jimmy's duplex, Robert sat cross legged on the floor, holding the late Banana DeLong's prized Les Paul. Jimmy filed lovingly through his tapes and then deposited them into an aluminum briefcase, which he locked with a brisk movement of his wrists. He brought the briefcase upstairs and returned to the living room empty handed.
"That scumball is going to pay," Jimmy said, grimly.
Robert regarded Jimmy proudly. "I've never seen you display such raw rancor before, mate. I think the mean streets of New York are agreeing with you."
"Oh, you wait," Jimmy said threateningly, "this guy is gonna spend a long, long time in the nick if I have a say about it." He turned his attention to the guitar on Robert's lap. Robert had jettisoned his Orkin Man suit, and was dressed comfortably in his favorite faded blue jeans and white button-down. Both had removed their body holsters.
Jimmy picked up the guitar and inspected his signature. "It held up well over the years," he remarked. He then squinted a little at the white pickguard. He sat on the floor next to Robert and scratched lightly at the edge of the enamel plate.
Robert leaned toward his partner to see what he was doing. "What did you find there?"
Jimmy mumbled, "I don't know. I thought it was a scratch from the glass, but it looks like there's a piece of paper or something stuck under the pickguard.
Jimmy stood up and disappeared into a back room returning with a few small tools. He sat on the couch, guitar across his lap, and loosened the triangular plate. A folded piece of paper wafted to the floor. Robert reached for the paper, unfolded it, and examined it quizzically while Jimmy carefully tightened the small screws on the pickguard.
"What is it?" Jimmy asked Robert.
"A recipe."
"A what?" Jimmy leaned over Robert's shoulder to look at the contents of the note.
"A recipe of some sort. Kinda hard to read, but whatever it is requires corn starch, water, and some kind of chemical puffing process."
Jimmy took the paper from Robert's hand, and attempted to interpret the sloppy handwriting. "Must be some kind of code." He concluded, folding the note and slipping it into the pocket of his black jeans.
"We should probably bring it to the station. Maybe one of those guys can figure it out." Robert suggested.
"Yeah. Maybe they have a secret code division, or some . . ." Jimmy stopped abruptly and craned his neck.
"What?" Robert asked.
"Shhhhh. I hear something," Jimmy whispered, then, "someone is trying to break in from the back. I think Biggs's people have found us."
Just then, the smash and tinkle of a breaking window sounded from somewhere else in the apartment.
Robert rose quickly to his feet, and Jimmy instinctively snatched up the guitar. "Out the front," Robert whispered, and they both hurried quietly to the front door.
Jimmy flung the door open, but their retreat was halted by a man in a suit awaiting their appearance on the top step. As soon as he saw them, the man started to reach manacingly inside his jacket.
"Jim, the guitar!" Robert yelled, remembering his partner's proficiency in battery with a musical instrument.
Jimmy groaned ruefully, but his survival instincts took precedence as he swung the prized Les Paul, pummeling the armed intruder squarely across the legs with the heavy, solid wood body. The thug had not expected such a quick reaction from the rock and rollers, and was completely unprepared for the blow. He cried out in pain and surprise, and toppled down the stairs, landing with a thunk on the pavement below.
Jimmy and Robert ran to the Duster, the former apologizing profusely to the guitar, which to his relief, had held together. For the second time that day, the rock and roll detectives jumped into their car in the fury of a quick getaway.
Jimmy deposited the guitar in the back seat, and was preparing himself for the velocity of Robert's vehicular takeoff, when he realized that he was seated in a most alien position: in front of the steering wheel. A look of horror crossed his face.
At about the same time, Robert hurriedly tried to shove the key in the ignition, only to hit the bare dashboard. The muffled sound of many feet running toward the car invaded their stunned silence. Robert, knowing that there was no time for them to switch their seating arrangement, threw the keys onto Jimmy's lap. "Drive, Jimmy!"
Jimmy fumbled incompetently with the keys until Robert grabbed them out of his hands and shakily placed the correct key in the ignition.
"Goddamit, Pagey! Get us the hell out of here! Do what you can!" Robert yelled, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"I . . . Oh, shit." Jimmy whimpered, just before the snapping of multiple guns cocking sounded outside the car windows. Jimmy and Robert looked around to see many suits and gun barrels surrounding the car. Jimmy's head hit the steering wheel and he groaned.
Robert let his head fall backwards against the seat and he sighed. "I guess we forgot in the heat of the moment how to get into an American-made car, huh, mate?"
"I guess so," Jimmy replied into the dashboard. "A most inopportune moment at that."
Both doors opened. "Out of the car, girls," one of the suits said, "we're gonna pay a little visit to Mr. Biggs."


Robert Plant and Jimmy Page sat in the back of a long, black limousine. Two rather young, suited thugs sat across from them keeping them in check with drawn forty-fives. One of the thugs appeared to be bored and angry, but the other kept staring in awe from one detective to the other.
"Say," Robert said to Jimmy in a jolly tone, "this feels familiar."
"Yes, in a way," Jimmy replied, morosely, "except we never had guns pointed at us."
"Well, sometimes, some of those groupies . . ." Robert quipped, but he stopped as the grouchy thug shook his gun at them.
"Clam up," he ordered.
They rode in silence for a while, Robert looking out the window, breaking out into a quiet hum from time to time. Jimmy stared darkly, alternating his gaze from the plush carpeted limo floor to the grouchy thug across from him. The younger, awe-stricken thug broke the chilly silence.
"I just gotta ask ya, Jimmy," he said, somewhat apologetically, smiling uncomfortably as the former guitar god slowly shifted his stare from the floor to look directly into his eyes, "what does your symbol mean?"
Jimmy's stare remained unchanged for a long and tense moment. The awe-stricken thug shifted uneasily, and averted his eyes. Then the dark detective shook his head slowly and rolled his eyes dramatically. "This is unbelievable," he croaked, "I changed my career, I'm being kidnapped and held at gunpoint by mobsters, and I STILL can't get away from these idiotic questions! Can't you just let it go?"
The thugs' sinister frowns indicated that they were displeased with Jimmy's outburst. Robert decided that it might be politic to answer properly on behalf of his partner.
"Pardon my seatmate, here," he said, motioning toward Jimmy with distended thumb. "He's a bit under the weather. I'm sorry laddy, but Mr. Page here no longer has a symbol."
Jimmy turned toward Robert, a look of rapt interest crossing his face.
"You see," Robert continued with seriousness, "Prince stole Jimmy's symbol, and twisted it up." He made a crumpling motion with his hands. "Now he's usin' it, and Jimmy doesn't have one anymore. That's the truth."
Jimmy turned from Robert back to the awe-stricken thug and nodded his head in sincere agreement.
"The awe-stricken thug's eyes widened. "Wow, cool!" He exclaimed. Then, realizing that he had slipped grievously out of character, quickly returned to his mafioso stone face, and tightened his grip on the pistol.


Ever Onward
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