Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

Jesse refused. His next questions were the kinds cops were supposed to ask, not questions about myths or music. He asked about who had delivered the envelope. Somebody said a messenger dropped it at the reception desk. What did the messenger look like? The girl wasn’t at the desk and the guy who saw him barely noticed. The girl found it there when she got back from lunch. How many people had handled the envelope? The messenger, the girl, and me.

Niles leaned across the desk and looked Jesse in the eye. “Jesse, we’ve been friends a few years now. What the hell’s going on?”

“I’ll answer that, but we need to talk about something else first.”

“Shoot.”

“What if I were to tell you that I think the missing master tape is about to reappear?”

“Holy shit, man!” Roscoe stood up out of his chair, banging his knee against his desk. “Ow!” He bent over and rubbed his knee. “Are you making conversation, Jesse, or are you telling me that’s what this is about?”

Jesse didn’t answer him directly. “Last time I was here I asked you how much it would be worth and you said millions. That was then, two friends shooting the breeze. Now I’m asking for real. How much?”

Niles stopped rubbing his knee, rubbing his fleshy, gray-stubbled cheek instead.

“Five million. Six, maybe. Ten. Twenty. More. Depends.”

“That much?”

“Every time some putz finds an acetate or reel-to-reel of a Beatles song or performance, it goes for big money.”

“Jester isn’t the Beatles.”

“No, but the shroud of mystery surrounding Jester, the secretive recording of this album, the disappearance of the tape almost makes it better. Plus it’s Baby Boomer music. Baby Boomers hate new stuff, but they will flock to buy anything from the old days. They spend millions on Dylan box sets, Elvis box sets, even Monkees box sets, for chrissakes! Material from the old days sells like mad. It would be like some yahoo discovering an unknown van Gogh in his basement. There’d be a bidding war for it, no doubt. iTunes might snap it up for the exclusive rights or the legacy record labels might flex their tired old muscles. A private collector with billions might want it for his or her own. And you know what happens when there’s only one of a thing and more than one person wants it.”

“You know a reporter named Ed Selko?”

“Asshole at The Globe? Yeah, man, I know him. Started back in the day at Rolling Stone as an investigative reporter. Guy makes me look sober and you like a nun.”

“That explains it,” Jesse said to himself, but loud enough for Niles to hear.

“Explains what?”

“Never mind. And to answer your question, yes, I think the master tape is about to resurface.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Niles said, pouring himself a glass.

“You’ll drink to anything.”

“But this isn’t just anything, man. This is history. The music world has something to celebrate.”

“Not yet, Roscoe.”

Niles put his glass back down on his desk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means we have to keep this under wraps for now. There’s been two murders committed in connection with this, and that’s what I’ve got to focus on.”

Niles held his right thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Man, I came this close to reading that damned sonnet on the air. Instead, I played a set of Jester tunes every hour. You can’t keep this thing quiet forever and, truth be told, if the new owners were keeping me on, I probably would’ve read it on-air. As it is, I didn’t want to give those fuckheads the satisfaction.”

“Don’t worry, Roscoe, it won’t be too much longer before the world knows,” Jesse said, removing the gloves from his hands. “It’s already taking on a life of its own.”

After confirming with the girl at the front desk and the people in the office that no one had gotten a good look at the messenger, Jesse headed to his next stop in Boston.

60

For the second time in a week, Jesse found himself in the parking lot of the bowling alley out of which Vinnie Morris ran his operation. Of course Vinnie’s name didn’t appear on the deed to the building or the corporation papers. His name didn’t appear on any of the buildings or businesses that he owned. It had been the same with Gino Fish. Any smart man knee-deep in organized crime made sure never to leave a paper trail. Vinnie’s favorite four-letter word was cash. It’s why he’d lasted as long as he had. There were other reasons, too, like doing the occasional favor for the cops. That was the reason for Jesse’s visit. This time, he’d called ahead. So when Jesse asked for Vinnie at the front desk, he didn’t get the usual I’m-too-stupid-to-breathe routine from the counterman.

“He’s waiting for you at the bar,” the dull-eyed guy said, nodding toward the bar.

He hadn’t lied. Vinnie Morris was sitting at the bar, swirling a glass of ice cubes around with a splash of some amber alcohol or other.

“Stone.”