Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

Roscoe, like Jesse, was a transplant. An ex-Marine, he’d once been big other than just around the waistline. For almost five decades beginning in the sixties, he’d had one of the highest-rated overnight FM rock shows in New York City. But his station was bought by a giant media conglomerate and the format was changed to songs that were one step harder-edged than elevator music.

“The fucking program director considered The Carpenters subversives,” Roscoe had confided to Jesse a few years back after too many Red Labels. “He fired me when I played a set of Rancid, the New York Dolls, and the Dead Kennedys. Asshole had no sense of humor. After that, I got this gig up here, and I’ve been here ever since. The pay is crap. The ratings suck, but they let me play what I want.”

Jenn, Jesse’s ex, had introduced them at a party when she was doing the weather for a local TV station, and they immediately took to each other in spite of their divergent tastes in the Johnnie Walker universe of label colors. When Diana came into Jesse’s life, the three of them would sometimes hang together on the weekends Jesse came down to visit her. It had been months since they’d seen each other or spoken.

“Sorry about Di, man. She was something else,” Roscoe said, taking a big swallow of his scotch. “How you holding up?”

Jesse ignored the question, sort of. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay. I hear Jenn got hitched to some rich SOB.”

“Hale Hunsicker, yeah. He’s not as much of an SOB as you’d think, with all that money. Now, don’t you have to spin some records or something?”

Roscoe laughed. “It’s all digital, my friend. Most of the staff here thinks turntables are for turning pottery. I’m like a pilot in a modern cockpit. All I do is like monitor the equipment and say something every now and then to let the listeners know I’m alive. I’ve got a new car spot coming up in about two minutes.” He shook his head in disdain. “Time was I’d let you read the copy on air and the station would’ve loved it. Not anymore, man, not anymore. I should let you do it anyway and get my ass fired. It wouldn’t matter.”

“Why’s that?”

“History’s repeating itself. The station’s been sold to one of those big conglomerates. Doesn’t pay to be an indie station anymore. They think I don’t know about it, but I’ve been around too long to fool. Too many people being let go and getting replaced by unpaid interns. Only reason I’m still here is that I’m relatively cheap. It’s like a ball club dumping salary and trimming the roster for the new owners.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“I’ll land on my feet. I always do. So why’d you really come here, Jesse? Not that I’m not happy to see you and all.”

“What can you tell me about Terry Jester?”

Niles smiled a beaming smile. “They don’t call me the Teacher for nothing. Jester was born Terence Jacobivitz to a schoolteacher mother and doctor father in Boston in the forties. Left college, moved to the village in the sixties, and was part of the folk duo Terry and Stan.”

“Stan White?”

Roscoe was impressed. “You know that schmuck?”

“Met him a few days ago. He’s throwing a big birthday bash for Jester in Paradise next month.”

“Real piece of work, Stan is. We used to be buddies, Stan and me. He was a smart guy. He understood that he had to get out of Terry’s way, that Jester had the looks, the voice, and the talent. It was Stan’s idea to change Terry’s name. Sharp, because as names go, Jacobivitz is even less appealing to the Christian masses than Zimmerman. But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? You know Jester’s music. Everybody does.”

“I know his greatest hits, sure. But White referenced something that I didn’t understand. He said something about the album. Do you know what he was talking about?”

Roscoe Niles sucked down the rest of his drink and nodded. “It’s the stuff of legend, my friend.”

“What is?”

“The Hangman’s Sonnet.”

19

Niles excused himself, once again pulling the mic close to his mouth. He read the car spot as smoothly as if he had it memorized, then hit a button on the console, pushed the mic away, and poured himself another scotch. He fiddled around with a laptop keyboard, tapped the screen, grabbed the mic, and hit the talk switch.

“Okay, folks, the Teacher’s changing the lesson plan. My apologies to Difford and Tilbrook for the interruption. We’ll let Squeeze get back to pulling mussels a little later on. In the meantime, here’s side one, when there was such a thing, of Terry Jester’s classic album Minor Angels and Two-Eyed Jacks.”

The DJ turned his attention back to Jesse, Terry Jester providing the background music. “Where were we, man?”

Jesse said, “The stuff of legend.”