Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“First I’m gonna put my basket down and then you’re gonna drop a can off the shelf. When you bend over to pick it up, drop the money in my basket. Then we’ll talk.”

The employer sighed in disgust. “Who are you, James fucking Bond?”

“Just do it.”

A minute later, there was a thick brown envelope in King’s basket. They strolled some more.

“Here.” King handed a piece of folded white paper over to his employer.

As the man unfolded the paper, he said, “And, Jesus, did you have to kill the old broad?”

“She croaked. We didn’t kill her. Just look at the paper.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s a photocopy of a safety-deposit box key and the account number... Well, most of the account number. I took the trouble of blotting a few of the numbers out. Now, are you gonna bitch about the old lady giving up the ghost?”

The employer’s eyes widened. “So what? For all I know, the old lady was keeping her pressed flowers in the box.”

“This has to hold what you’re looking for. Truth is, we almost missed it. Tore the whole damned house apart and I got lucky and looked a second time.”

“Okay, you’ve got your money. Hand it over.”

King snickered and shook his head. “No. What I got in the basket there is a small down payment. Maybe if I didn’t know what was in the box, I would take the envelope and walk away, but the problem is I know and I got a pretty good idea of how much it’s worth to you and how much it’s worth to me.”

“Oh, yeah? And how much is it worth to you?”

“A mill.”

The employer laughed. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“Nice try, boss. The thing is, if it’s worth a lot to you, it’ll be worth just as much to other buyers. Right now, you’ve got exclusive bidding rights. You walk outta this store without making a deal with me and you’re outta the bidding.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re in a box yourself. You’re wanted for murder and assault. You don’t know anyone in the business. You may have the goods, but you’ve got no juice, no contacts.”

“Don’t worry. I got all the contacts I need, and I got the key. The clock’s ticking, boss. Tick tock, tick tock.”

“Fuck you!”

King picked up his basket and walked away. His employer waited a beat to see if King would stop, but he didn’t. He caught up to him in the parking lot.

“I can’t do a million. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear.”

“Okay, then, eight hundred forty-five thousand bucks. Not a penny less.”

“What the hell kinda number is that?”

“It’s your magic number and mine. Deal?”

“It’s going to take me a day or two to get it together.”

“Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up the swap.”

King smiled, shoving the envelope with the ten grand into his pants. “Okay. Tomorrow. You try any slick stuff or try to squeeze me and I go find another buyer,” he said, feeling now like he was the boss. “Understood?”

“I know when I’m beat. Call me.”

King got in the Mini and split. He was in too much of a hurry to see his employer clap his hands together and look up to the skies.

21

Hump was going stir-crazy in that motel room. Made sense. Being inside for half his life had trained him to hate confined spaces. But inside you didn’t have a choice about it, so you lived with it. You couldn’t just slide the bars back or swing the cage door open and step out. There were a million rules governing everything you did inside — written and unwritten, official and unofficial, guard rules and prisoner rules. When to talk. When to wake up. When to sleep. When to do everything. Who to look at in the eye. Who your friends could be and who they could never be. Rules enough to choke an elephant.

The fact that he could open the motel door and leave if he wanted to made it all worse somehow. There was something about freedom that gnawed at his gut, always had. He didn’t understand why. Hump had never been good with understanding the why of things. That was the reason he kept finding friends like King, inside and out of prison. Men who understood things and could explain them when he asked. What Hump never needed anybody to explain to him was how he felt, and he felt itchy in there.