Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

Niles shrugged. “Who knows? History swallowed the details, but I guess some monies exchanged hands eventually, though the suits dragged on for years. In the end, no one came out happier or better for the experience. I do know that Vagabond’s rep was shot and they went belly-up. Every ten years or so, some music journalist or investigative reporter latches on to the story and rides it for what it’s worth. There was a story in the Boston paper yesterday. So, is there anything else I can help you with, Jesse? Not that I don’t love shooting the breeze with you, but I do have to do something here besides bending my elbow.”

Jesse stood and shook Roscoe’s hand. “Thanks for the time. One more thing, Roscoe. How much would that master tape be worth if it ever resurfaced?”

“Several million, at least. You know, there are probably Terry Jester fans out there who run tech companies, people who could drop a few mil without thinking about it.” The DJ let go of Jesse’s hand and hugged him. “Don’t be such a stranger, man. Come down one weekend and we’ll tear it up.”

“Sure, Roscoe,” he lied.

As Jesse moved to the studio door, Roscoe called after him. “Do you miss her?”

“Every day.”

There was nothing else either man needed to say.

20

Eight hundred forty-five thousand dollars! That was the number running through King’s head as he made his way to the meet with the man who had hired him to do the job in Paradise. Eight hundred forty-five thousand dollars, the price of a new Porsche 918 Spyder. He swore he could feel himself harden when he scrolled through photos on the net of the sleek, gunmetal-gray beauty. Still, as much as he loved the car, there was no way he would blow all of his potential windfall on it. Besides, he didn’t much care for paddle shifters. Paddle shifters were for wimps, the kind of guys who spent ninety grand on a ’Vette with an automatic transmission. King was a stick man all the way down to his DNA. You were one with the machine when driving a stick. When he drove on jobs, he always insisted on a stick. But even if the 918 came with a stick, King had other plans for his money. The blondes. He hadn’t forgotten about the blondes. Blondes were way more available than stick shifts or Spyders, blondes of every size and shape and hourly rate.

He downshifted the stolen red-and-white Mini as he got off Route 1 and onto U.S. 93. He’d boosted the Mini from the Walmart parking lot three blocks from the motel. In a few minutes, he’d be at the Whole Foods where the meet was to take place. King had made sure to set up the meet in a public place where he would be protected from ambush, but not one where the exchange of money would be noticed. It was also a store situated at the confluence of U.S. 90 and 93. If he had to split in a hurry, he had lots of options. He could head into Southie on the streets or backpedal to Route 9 if need be. It would make following him or setting a trap nearly impossible. He was proud of himself for that.

On the other hand, he wasn’t particularly proud of keeping Hump out of the loop. True, Hump was as dumb as a bag of hammers, but he was about the only friend King had anymore, and his time inside would have been much worse if Hump didn’t have his back. Dumb as Hump was, he knew the rules of the game. Honor among thieves was a load of crap, and just like in the boxing ring, you had to protect yourself at all times. If Hump had forgotten how it worked, well, that was on him.

King pulled into the lot. He was sure to be ten minutes early so he could check to see if he could spot anything that didn’t fit or seem to belong, but what the hell did he know about fitting or belonging? He’d been inside for so long he always seemed to be out of place. The thought made him self-conscious about his clothes — a pair of ill-fitting secondhand-store jeans, Payless running shoes, a Wham! T-shirt, and an Old Navy hoodie. He took a deep breath, counted to ten, and got out of the car.

Once inside he circled the store, stopping to pull jars and cans off the shelf, pretending to read the labels, dropping some in his handbasket. By the time he got to the produce department, he saw his employer was right where he was told to be, standing by the mangoes and pineapples. King liked mangoes. He loved the way they smelled so sweet and how slippery they were when the pieces slid down his throat. He watched his employer pick up three of the green-and-red fruits, prod them, hold them up to his nose, and put them back.

“They’re best when they’re slightly soft to the touch and when they smell sweet,” King said, walking up behind him. “But they shouldn’t smell too sweet or give too much when you poke them.”

“They teach you that in the prison kitchen?”

“We never got them inside. You got the money?”

“Right here.” His employer patted his jacket pocket.

“Come on, let’s shop a little.”

As they moved out of the produce section, King’s employer said, “Did you find anything?”