After what seemed like forever, the limo pulled into the driveway of Mr. Biggs's house. It was a huge, Tudor-style mansion in a secluded part of the Long Island shore. The limo came to a smooth stop, and two suits emerged from the front of the vehicle to cover the doors with their automatic weapons as the captives stepped out, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. The pair was escorted at gunpoint into the house.
They were led through a spacious kitchen and down a hall into a stucco and beam, lodge-like living room, outfitted with leather couches and mahogany tables. An impressive fire crackled in the massive fireplace, and the walls were covered with bric-a-bracs that one would find in most lodge-like rooms of the well-to-do. They were ordered by the grouchy thug to wait there until Mr. Biggs was ready to see them, and he and his fellow thugs trained their guns on Plant and Page to wait as well.
"Well, we're finally going to meet Mr. Biggs," Robert said softly to Jimmy out of the side of his mouth. Gun barrels drew closer.
"I have a feeling we might just end up taxidermied in one of those display cases." Jimmy replied rather shakily. "I don't like this at all."
"Hey! Quit flapping the gums!" one of the suits ordered.
Jimmy and Robert stood in silence until, after several more tense minutes, a thug emerged from behind the large oaken double doors at one end of the living room.
"Mr. Biggs will see you now," he declared formally.
Followed by the whole brigade of gun-toting suits, Robert and Jimmy entered the room behind the doors. It was a plush den with a huge mahogany desk sitting squarely in the middle. More leather chairs dotted the den, and two were set in front of the desk. Heavy drapes were drawn over the large picture window, but several tasteful Tiffany floor lamps, positioned strategically around the room, provided a soothing, golden glow. At the moment, the huge leather chair behind the desk was facing the wall, and it was unclear whether or not someone was sitting in it. The pair was made to stand in front of the desk.
All of the thugs left the room except for one, who took up a position in the corner behind Page and Plant, gun drawn. After the oaken doors had closed and silence settled over the room, a voice emanated from the chair behind the desk.
"Welcome, Mr. Page and Mr. Plant." The voice was English and very familiar to the men it addressed.
The chair slowly turned around, and when the identity of its occupant was revealed, the detectives both cried out with surprise and disbelief, "Grant!"
Peter Grant smiled, and, with much difficulty, hoisted his immense frame from the chair. He walked around to the front of the desk and leaned against it, crossing one huge leg over the other. He regarded his former employers with a strange mix of amusement and menace.
"You're Biggs!" Robert exclaimed in amazement. Jimmy just silently swayed as if he were going to faint.
"How nice to see you boys again!" Grant said jovially. He clapped his beefy hands together, and rubbed them a little. It made a dry sound.
Jimmy and Robert noticed that Grant had not changed that much since they had last seen him. He was still quite huge, perhaps bigger than when they last saw him. A large gold earring dangled from one ear, and he wore a scraggly beard and moustache. He was almost completely bald, and what hair was left to ring his scalp was tied back in a thin pony tail. His thick, sausage-like fingers glittered with rings. He was dressed in a specially tailored silk suit and an open shirt which revealed his hairy barrel chest. His eyes still shone with a combination of cunning and mischief.
"You're the one!" Robert repeated. His demeanor calmed a little as he got used to the identity of his nemesis. "I can't believe how low you've sunk, Grant, killin' your own performers for money. Stealin' their equipment. How can you sleep at night?"
"Now, now," Grant said condescendingly, looking a little hurt, "I didn't kill anyone. I just say 'take care of this one,' or 'handle that one,' and it's done. That's what's so fun about being a mobster. You know, I always dreamed about being a mobster. Now I am one, and I find I'm quite suited to it."
Jimmy finally spoke up. "You broke into my house and stole my demo tapes," he said quietly.
"Hey, now, I didn't do that, either," Grant insisted, turning to Jimmy. "I bought those off of some scumbag in London a few years ago. Dropped a sizable wad for 'em, too."
"Why didn't you give them back to me, then?" Jimmy asked, his voice almost childlike.
"Why?" Grant looked at Jimmy in mock amazement. "Why didn't I give them back to you? Why SHOULD I have given them back to you? You fired me! You dismissed me like some housekeeper that didn't fold your sheets right! That's why I didn't give them back to you!"
"It was business, Grant. I had to move on," Jimmy protested.
"Oh, that wasn't the whole of it," Grant said, beginning to pace the den, his voice booming off of the walls. He faced Jimmy again, eyes blazing. "You called me a fat cunt! In a very public place! That was the topper, Pagey. Fat cunt. Thanks a lot, old friend. Nearly broke me heart. An' now it's in all the books. I was completely humiliated. I may be tough, but I have feelings, you know."
"You've called me worse!" Jimmy shot back with his typical whine. "You and Cole used to call me old girl in front of everybody!"
"Yeah, but I NEVER called you a cunt."
Jimmy threw up his hands in exasperation. "Just tell me who stole my tapes, will you?"
"The only thing I'll say, Pagey, is that you really should have kept better company in those days. But, then, I see you're trying to change the error of your ways now, hangin' out with the New York City police force." He gave a little chuckle. "Carrying badges, now, I see. But, you haven't fared much better because of it. That's what brings you here today. Snoopin' into my affairs. You're in big trouble now."
"All we did was take back some items you nicked, Grant," Robert broke in. "That guitar was Banana's pride and joy. I can't believe you had him killed for it."
"That guitar contained what is very shortly going to be my fortune. I THOUGHT I had picked the perfect hiding spot. I was wrong. Twice! And, it appears that that particular item is missing again. Which brings me to the reason I brought you two here in the first place; I could've done without the reunion, truth be told. I'd like me recipe back."
Page and Plant shot each other puzzled looks.
"Recipe?" Robert asked.
"Yeah!" Grant said, all of a sudden cheerful. He returned to the desk and picked up a crystal candy dish from its surface. The dish was filled with cylindrical puffs that looked somewhat like tan-colored Cheetos.
"Here!" He said, thrusting the candy dish in front of the detectives. "Try some!"
Robert and Jimmy each cautiously picked one of the strange snacks out of the dish. Grant scooped up a large handful and deposited the entire load into his mouth. He crunched happily, and the puffs squeaked a little against his teeth. He swallowed loudly.
"Go on!" He gestured to Robert and Jimmy to try theirs.
They looked at each other. Robert popped the puff in his mouth and started chewing, a look of mild disgust slowly crept over his face. But as he continued chewing, his expression lightened; and, after he swallowed, he said, "Not bad."
Jimmy put on end of his puff to his tongue, made a small noise that sounded like "ick," and flicked it like a cigarette butt past Grant onto the desk.
"Just what DO you eat, Jimmy?" Robert asked. Jimmy made a face. Robert turned back to Grant. "What the hell are they?" He gestured to the now half-empty candy dish.
"Edible packing material," Grant replied.
"Packing material?" Robert's eyes widened.
"Yeah!" Incredible? Huh? You know when you get packages in the mail and they're all filled with those styrofoam beans? Well, I have, er, inherited the patent to an edible, thus environmentally friendly, formula for packing beans. It's perfect. You can unpack your goodies, and eat the packing beans right out of the box while you inspect your merchandise! They're low calorie, no fat, and they don't go bad! I'm even toying with the idea of different flavors, like strawberry, blueberry, cinnamon . . ."
"Chocolate," Robert offered. Jimmy shot him an angered sidelong glance.
"Yeah!" Grant exclaimed. "Chocolate! Great idea. Smits!" The thug in the corner snapped to attention. "Remember chocolate, okay?"
"Right boss," Smits said.
"Anyway, I'm lining up some lobbyists right now to push a bill in Washington that would make non-edible packing materials illegal. They're bad for the environment, you know? It's eminently reasonable. I'll make a bloody fortune marketing these things!"
He looked fondly at the candy dish, and then back at Page and Plant with a new fierceness in his gaze.
"Which brings us to our meeting here," he continued, "I know you have my formula. It wasn't in the guitar when we checked just now. I would like it back, please."
Jimmy looked at Robert with a rather panicked expression. "I forgot what I did with it," he said sincerely, "uh. . . who had it last?"
Robert shrugged. "Don't look at me."
"Shit, I . . ." Jimmy squinted into the middle distance as he tried to remember what he had done with the folded note.
"Oh, for god's sake, Pagey!" Grant fumed, "did you check your pockets?"
Jimmy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and extracted the paper from the left one.
"See that?" Grant said, snapping the paper out of Jimmy's hand. "You'd forget your bloody head if it wasn't screwed on. That's why you needed me, you bloody sod!"
Jimmy opened his mouth in protest, but Grant didn't let him speak.
"Admit it, Pagey. I was the best manager you ever had. You've been firing them left and right, 'avent you? I was irreplaceable, right? And that Curbishley, god! What a disaster. Look at you two! Policemen now!"
"Detectives," Robert corrected meekly.
"Ah, rubbish! Same thing!" Grant stormed. "I was the best manager. Admit it!"
Jimmy remained silent, staring daggers at Grant. Robert eyed him nervously and cleared his throat a little.
Jimmy finally responded. "All right, Grant. If you need to hear it that much. You WERE the best manager I ever had. But I'm saying it because it's true, not because there's a gun pointed at my back."
Robert breathed a sigh of relief. The huge mobster grinned.
"Smits!" Grant snapped. The thug in the corner was animated once again. "Make a note of that. Jimmy says I was the best manager."
"Yeah, boss. Done."
"Good. Now please get the rest of our friends gathered and escort Mr. Page and Mr. Plant outside."
Robert and Jimmy shuffled in place nervously.
"You mean, we can go?" Robert asked uncertainly.
Grant's grin widened into a cap-toothed smile that sent shivers down the detectives' spines.
"Do you think I am stupid enough to spill my guts to a couple of cops and then let them go?"
Robert and Jimmy stood frozen at the words.
"Well, we never really thought that . . ." Robert began.
Grant broke in. "I told you your groovy little badges had gotten you both into trouble, and I meant it. No. You're going to go about as far as the sand dunes down the beach. There my friend Rocco and his staff will proceed to pummel your pretty little faces into pulp, and then fit you both with nice cement sneakers for your evening constitutional at the bottom of Long Island Sound."
At that moment, the four thugs from the limo ride came through the double doors into the den and stood at the ready. Robert and Jimmy both swallowed loudly. Whatever color had been in their faces quickly traveled south. Jimmy began to sway again.
"You see," Grant explained, his voice diabolical, "if you weren't cops, I might just, say, have Percy's face messed up, and have all of Pagey's fingers broken . . ."
A sickened groan sounded in Jimmy's throat.
". . . and then let you both back out to the public. That would be most satisfying, and much more enjoyable than what I'm having to do today. But, well, you made your bed, you'll have to lie in it, as they say. On second thought," Grant adopted a pensive tone. "This works out doubly well for me, because, after you two are dispatched, my little collection of Zeppelin items will absolutely SKYROCKET in value! Why, the signed Les Paul alone should rake in thousands!"
Overcome with rage at Grant's monologue, Jimmy cried, "You fucking bastard!" and lunged at Grant, fists flying. Robert was close behind.
Before Grant's thugs wrestled the flailing Jimmy and Robert away, Jimmy had managed only to bloody his former manager's nose. Jimmy and Robert stood gasping in the grip of thugs, and Grant had a handkerchief to his nose. The red stain on the white fabric was spreading quickly.
"You're both very lucky thad I gave sbecific oders not to kill you ib by house, else you'd be swiss cheese right dow," Grant said from behind the blood-soaked linen.
"What on earth did we ever do to you to deserve this, Grant?" Robert asked desperately, struggling against the grip of the thug.
Still holding the cloth to his nose, Grant replied. "I just TODE you what Pagey did. You, Robert, you were a middle class sdot, and a primba dodda, too. Dow you're both just a big paid id by arse, interfering wid by upward mobidity, for which I ab greatly overdue."
"It's not OUR fault that you squandered your earnings," Jimmy spat contemptuously.
"Thabks for that bit of wisdob, Led Waddet," Grant replied in a similar tone. Jimmy scowled, his eyes narrowed to mere slits.
The thugs began to maneuver the struggling Plant and Page out of the den, but Grant made a small hand gesture to halt them so that he could offer one more parting shot. Removing the handkerchief from his nose, he said, imperiously:
"And, I'm sure you'll both be happy to know that I have just signed Whitesnake to Corporate Corpulence. I suspect they will be one of the bands taking part in your tribute concert." He snickered devilishly.
Plant and Page snickered right along with him. They had a simultaneous mental vision of David Coverdale lying face-down in his flat, a neat bullet hole at the base of his skull.
"That's the most comforting news we've heard all day," Robert said, still grinning as he and his partner were taken from Peter Grant's presence.


Ever Onward
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