Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“Vinnie. What are you playing with?”

“Some flavored bourbon crap my liquor guy dropped off a sample of. Horrible stuff, but he tells me the kids like it. You want to try some?” Jesse shook his head at Morris. “I didn’t think so. Tony,” he said to the barman, “two Black Labels, rocks.”

Jesse thought about turning it down, but he didn’t think about it too long. It had been a hard day that wasn’t yet over. If this turned out to be the last stop of the night, which he hoped it wouldn’t be, he still had the drive back to Paradise to deal with. Vinnie had hinted to him over the phone that he might have some information for him, but like with everything else, Vinnie had been careful not to say too much over the phone.

“Cheers,” Vinnie said, raising his glass.

Jesse just nodded and drank. Sometimes scotch went down better than it did at other times. This was one of those times. It was magic, the way the chilled liquid burned at the back of his throat, how it warmed his whole body on the way down, and how it seemed to warm his face only when it reached his belly. It would have been so easy for him to have another and another and to lose himself, but no, that was his plight. That’s what no one else saw, not Molly or Tamara, not Suit, not anyone. Maybe only Dix knew. And what he knew was that because of the way Jesse was built, because of his self-containment, he couldn’t lose himself. That on the occasions he’d tried diving deep down into the bottle, like he had the other night, it never worked, and that the relief was only temporary and came at too high a price.

“So,” Jesse said, after the initial warmth had receded. “You mentioned you had something for me.”

“I said I might.”

“That’s what you said. You win.”

“This Bolton strunz you’re looking for.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I may have a line on him. Remember where you and me had our talk after Gino killed — after Gino died?”

“Dennis’s?”

“That place, right.”

“What about it?”

“Bolton walked in there the other day and left an address for one of my guys, a guy he did time with. My guy was out of town for the day and by the time he checked the address, Bolton had already split. He ain’t the brightest mutt in the world, but he’s smart enough to change his bed every night.”

“You think he’s still in town?” Jesse asked, finishing his drink.

“Sure. He reached out once. He’ll reach out again. When he does, you’ll hear about it.”

“Thanks for the info and for the drink.”

Vinnie laughed like a hyena laughed stalking prey. “Always glad to help the cops.”

“I got some bad news for you. WBMB-FM was sold and the Teacher will be no more.”

“Too bad. I love that drunk bastard. He brings me back to when I was a kid.”

“I have trouble picturing you as a kid.”

“Me too, Stone. That’s why I’ll miss Roscoe Niles.”

“Remember when we talked about the missing Terry Jester tape?”

“Sure. What about it?”

“You mentioned a PI who worked the case. You got a name?”

Vinnie laughed again. “Spenser. Know him?”

“We met once. Wouldn’t say I know him.”

“His office is on the corner of Berkeley and Boylston. Third floor. Need directions?”

“Thanks. I’ll manage.”

“Any particular reason you want to talk to him, Stone? Might help you pay back the favor.”

“You’re a smart man, Vinnie. Why do you think I want to talk to Spenser?”

Morris showed his white teeth to Jesse in a Cheshire Cat grin. Jesse wasn’t sure how Morris could possibly profit from knowledge of the tape’s reemergence, but Vinnie was clearly pleased. Mob guys, as Jesse was aware, were good at figuring angles that people on the straight couldn’t conceive of. That’s what Jesse was thinking about as he shook Morris’s hand good-bye.

61

Jesse wasn’t sure the PI would be in but thought stopping by his office was worth a shot. He might be able to get the same information from the man over the phone. The thing was, he always thought it was better to see a person’s face and body language. The phone robbed you of that. After he rapped on Spenser’s office door, Jesse heard a vaguely familiar voice telling him to come in.

Spenser was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, his head turned to look out through the bowed window at nighttime Boston below. The office smelled of fresh-brewed coffee and of something else: dog. The source of the coffee aroma was obvious enough. A Mr. Coffee machine atop some metal filing cabinets burbled away, but there was no dog.

“How you doing, Stone?” Spenser asked without turning to face him.

“Vinnie Morris give you a heads-up?”

“Either that or I’m going to take my mind-reading act on the road. Look at it down there. You think you know this city, but it’s never the same place two days in a row. How’s Paradise?”

“Got two open murder cases. Other than that, it’s heaven.”

“Sunny always said you had a strange sense of humor.”

“Most people don’t credit me with having one at all.”

Spenser turned his attention away from the street. He stood up and came around the desk, right hand extended.

“You hear from Sunny lately?” Jesse asked, shaking Spenser’s hand.