Detectives Page and Plant stood, hands bound behind their backs, on a patch of Long Island sand. Rolling dunes surrounded them, and sparse tufts of sea grass waved in the salty breeze. The sun was low in the sky, which was tinted a most cheerful pink.
It would have been a perfect day on the beach if they were not facing a small group of suited thugs donning brass knuckles. The reason their battering had not already commenced was that one of the thugs was having trouble getting the video camera ready. Peter Grant had ordered the beatings videotaped for his viewing pleasure later on.
"Goddam this thing!" The camera thug fumed as he struggled with the tripod. "How the hell?" One leg of the tripod had collapsed, and as he secured it, another leg abruptly shortened several inches.
Meanwhile, impending torture and death had for some reason given the detectives a case of the sillies.
"Shooting a video, are we?" Page addressed the gathering of mobsters. "I'm getting really good at this. I'll have you know that this," he turned the right side of his face toward the camera, "is me bad side. I look much better when I'm doing this." He lowered his head and raised his eyes toward them, pouting his lips.
Robert giggled. "A little more hair in the face, ring in the nose, and you can be Slash!"
"Oh, I forgot me stovepipe hat!"
They stamped and guffawed. The mobsters looked on, stony faced. The camera thug continued to struggle, this time with the lighting.
"Let's do a commercial for Corporate Corpulence Records," Robert suggested, convulsing with laughter. "Corporate Corpulence," he announced to the camera, voice lowered an octave, face serious, "we kill our artists if they're not profitable alive!"
"Won't Coverdale shit when he finds out the terms of his contract!" Jimmy said, and they both doubled over, wheezing.
Their laughter began to subside when they realized that the camera thug had finally stopped struggling with the equipment, and the brass -knuckled mobsters were in a huddle, preparing for the job ahead. They were holding a coin toss to see who would throw the first punches. No one wanted to be the one to do the job on Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.
"Ah, you know, Jimmy," Robert said, catching his breath, "this really isn't very funny at all. I believe we're going to die this afternoon."
"Yeah," Jimmy replied, his voice transforming from levity to sadness. "Well, Robert, we've taken a lot of chances in our lives, and I'm surprised we've made it this far. At least, I'm surprised that I have."
"Jim, old friend," Robert wanted to hug his partner, but because their hands were tied, he could not, so he simply touched Jimmy's shoulder with his own, "I'm glad that we're going to go together. It's appropriate, you know? There's no one in the world I'd rather be with at a time like this than you."
"You mean that, Robert?" Jimmy asked emotionally, looking into Robert's eyes. Both of their eyes were beginning to fill with tears.
"I certainly do, mate," Robert replied quietly.
One of the mobsters broke the intimate moment. It was the grouchy thug from the limousine. "Okay enough of this slush. We lost the coin toss, so we're gonna hafta start the job." He was assigned to Jimmy; another suit positioned himself in front of Robert.
"Lemme just say, on behalf of all of us," Robert's thug said, "we all apologize for what we're gonna do here. We think you guys are the greatest, and have the highest respect for you and your music. We're doing this on orders from Mr. Biggs. It's strictly business."
The mobsters raised their fists. Their knuckle wear glinted in the waning sunlight. Just as Robert and Jimmy were flinching in expectation of the painful blows, a car appeared speeding over the dunes toward the gathering. The car, a sporty red Torino with a white stripe, cut sideways in the sand and skidded to a stop mere inches from the camera tripod, sending a wave of brown grit cascading into the air. The camera thug jumped out of the car's way, and was buried by a shower of sand.
Two men jumped out of the car, one blonde and one brunette, guns drawn. "Halt!" They cried in unison. "Hands in the air or you're history!" The curly-haired brunette added. The startled mobsters had no time to go for their guns. They obediently raised their hands over their heads, and awaited their fate. Robert and Jimmy slipped unsteadily through the sand, putting as much distance as they possibly could between themselves and their erstwhile captors. Two cruisers, sirens blaring, arrived. Uniformed New York troopers piled out of the cruisers to help frisk, bind, and collect Grant's thugs.
"We can thank our lucky stars," Robert said to Jimmy as they approached the red Torino.
"Or be thankful that we ARE lucky stars," Jimmy offered.
The blonde undercover was now leaning at the driver's side of the Torino, talking into the police radio mic. "Zebra three. Suspects in custody. Targets unharmed," he said cooly, watching the two rock and roll detectives as they came closer.
"Hey!" The brunette swaggered to meet Page and Plant halfway, holstering his pistol as he kicked
"Yeah, thank god!" Robert said with a smile. The brunette unbound his hands. Robert rubbed his wrists and reached out to shake the cop's hand. "You came just in time. They almost relieved us of our looks, and then our lives!"
"So," The dark-haired cop said as he clasped Robert's hand, and then Jimmy's, "you're the famous Detectives Page and Plant. Nice to meet you."
"And who might you be?" Robert asked politely.
"Dave Starsky. And that's my partner, Hutch." He motioned to the blonde, who had completed his call to the station and was making his way down a dune to join them. More handshakes all around.
"I don't recall seeing you around the precinct. You new?" Robert asked.
"We were specially imported for this job. From out of town." Starsky replied.
"So, how did you find us?" Robert asked. The four were now walking back up the dune to the Torino.
"We've had you under surveillance since you were apprehended at seventy-second." Starsky replied.
"What?" Jimmy stopped in his tracks, hands on his hips, face enraged. "You were trailing us all this time? You let it go this far? We came within inches of losing our faces back there!"
"Whoa, now!" Hutch said, reaching for the passenger side door of the Torino. "Everything was under control. We gotcha didn't we?"
"Barely!" Jimmy persisted. "Why didn't you just grab those guys when they broke into my house?"
Hutch held open the front seat while motioning for Jimmy and Robert to get in the back. Starsky slid behind the steering wheel. "Those guys're just little fishies. We had to nab the whale, and we couldn't do that until we had sufficient evidence to arrest him."
"So, what kind of evidence have you got now?" Robert asked, sliding across the back seat to make room for Jimmy.
"Bugged his office," Hutch replied. "We have his admissions and threats on tape. We're now holding Peter Grant, a.k.a. Fred Biggs on three counts of conspiracy to murder, and racketeering charges."
"We also have that Oscar winning performance of yours that was being filmed for Grant," Starsky added with a crooked smile. "What can we call it? Page and Plant's Beach Blanket Bingo?" Starsky and Hutch both laughed, and Starsky gunned the accelerator. The car fishtailed wildly in the sand before righting itself. They sped off back toward the Biggs house.
Jimmy leaned forward, his head between Starsky's and Hutch's. "Look. You gotta make sure that videotape does NOT go public." He said loudly over the din of the racing automobile.



As the Torino sped past the Biggs's residence, Robert and Jimmy both saw Peter Grant, handcuffed, being guided into the back of a cruiser. They both experienced a sad, sinking feeling at the sight of the cruiser pulling away, shuttling their former manager and friend to jail.
"Stop the car. Let us out." Jimmy ordered Starsky.
"You sure?" Starsky asked, looking quizzically into the rearview mirror.
"Yes." Jimmy said. Starsky stopped the car. Hutch hopped out and let Jimmy and Robert out of the back. The detectives slid out and began walking together toward the beach.
"Want us to wait?" Hutch called after them.
"No." Jimmy waved them on without turning. "We wanna walk a little."
"Suit yourselves," Starsky said under his breath, and he and his partner raced off with the obligatory cop-car squeal and tire rubber residue.
Jimmy and Robert walked along the shoreline, just out of reach of the foamy waves that heaved persistently over the sand. The sun was a fading golden glow over the horizon. Stars had begun to twinkle in the darkening eastern sky. Robert put his arm around his partner's shoulders as they walked and silently contemplated all that had transpired in the past few days.
"Looks like it's all over for Grant, doesn't it?" Robert said finally.
Jimmy nodded his head sadly.
"Is it all over for us?" Robert ventured.
Jimmy pursed his lips and this time shook his head. "No, Robert. Ever onward, remember?"
Robert smiled and pulled Jimmy closer. "Ever onward." He said quietly, and they both sauntered down the beach as the golden glow of the sunset faded into nighttime.


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