Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“He was having marital troubles at the time and maybe I had some unflattering photos of him with a woman about Bella’s age.”

“Blackmail. No wonder he had you thrown out. You sent his wife the photos?”

White waved his hands in disgust. “I’m not proud of what I did, but he owed Terry and he owed me and he pissed on us when we needed a little help.”

“That’s not the issue now,” Jesse said. “If I can get him to do it, will the record company accept his word?”

“Mr. Honesty? With his rep? Sure.”

Jesse grabbed his cell phone.

81

Roscoe Niles didn’t make it easy on Jesse but caved in the end.

“For you, Jesse, and for Jenn and Diana. But make it clear to that prick I’m not doing it for him.”

“I’m pretty sure he gets that, Roscoe.”

The ad appeared in the paper the next day. But this time, when the Hangman called, he rang Stan White’s cell phone, not the landline at the Wickham estate. Stan put it on speakerphone so they could all listen to the conversation.

“I have the money,” White said, “but there’s a problem.”

“Bullshit!” The distorted voice crackled over the cell’s speaker. “You’re stalling. The tape’s going to burn.”

“No! No! Listen, it’s not a stall. Don’t burn it!” White pleaded his case, explaining about the record label’s condition for payment.

There was a tense moment of hesitation. “Only Niles hears it. I sense the tape is being recorded or if the call is being traced, the tape burns. Give me his cell number.”

Jesse gave White the number and White repeated it into the phone.

“Two hours from now, Niles gets into his car and drives straight to the Wrentham Village Outlets and parks in a spot as far away from the stores and other cars as possible. I’ll know if he’s being followed or watched. Remember, any tricks and the tape burns. I want the money, but money won’t do me any good in prison. I’ll call tonight.”

At seven P.M., Roscoe Niles showed up at the Wickham estate. Jesse introduced Roscoe to Bella Lawton. Bella seemed unimpressed by her new acquaintance. Jesse had no trouble understanding because his friend was dressed in ragged jeans, red Chuck Taylors, and a Moody Blues T-shirt that featured the cover of In Search of the Lost Chord. The shirt was as stretched and faded as everything else in Roscoe’s wardrobe.

“Nice outfit,” Stan White said at the sight of his old nemesis.

“Screw you, Stan. Should I have worn a tux?”

White asked, “What happened? Did he call? Did—”

Niles ignored the question, turning to Jesse. “I need a drink, man. Authentication is thirsty work.”

Bella Lawton volunteered. “I’ll get it.”

“What the hell happened?” White asked, his face turning bright red.

“Relax, you old prick. As soon as I get my drink, I’ll tell you.”

Bella Lawton came back into the room, a rocks glass half full of scotch in her right hand. Conversation stopped the moment she reentered. She was dressed in a tight white dress and cream-colored heels. She really seemed to be turning it on, much like she had the morning she showed up at Jesse’s door. But it was difficult to discern whether Roscoe Niles’s eyes were bulging out at the sight of the scotch or at the woman delivering it. Both, Jesse decided. Niles gulped down the scotch.

“Well, what happened?” White asked again.

Niles smiled and shook the empty glass at Bella. She took the glass and said, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Niles.”

“What happened? You want to know what happened, man? I’ll tell you what happened. Thirty years ago you ruined my marriage, you son of a bitch.”

White wasn’t having it. “I wasn’t the one screwing some twenty-two-year-old chippie. That was you, you fat drunk. I did your wife a favor, freeing her from the likes of you.”

Niles charged White, landing a glancing punch to White’s jaw before Jesse could tackle him. Jesse was surprised at how powerful the old DJ was, but emotion and adrenaline counted for a lot.

“Calm down, Roscoe,” Jesse said, putting his friend in an arm lock. “Are you all right, Stan?”

“Fine,” White said, rubbing his jaw. “Fine. But the faster this schmuck tells me what happened, the sooner he can get out of here and we can get on with things.”

“You going to behave if I let you up, Roscoe?”

“Yeah, yeah, man. I’m sorry. I’ve just been waiting thirty years to do that.”

“Well, you did it. Now tell the man what he needs to know.” Jesse released Niles.

The DJ got up in pieces, shaking the pain out of his arm as he stood.

Bella tried to deliver his second drink, but Jesse grabbed the glass. “Talk first, drink later.”

“It’s the real thing,” Niles said. “And I’ll be damned, it’s fucking brilliant. He played me the whole tape, first song to last. Man, no wonder Terry Jester never rerecorded it. He would never have been able to recapture what’s on that tape.”

Jesse handed the scotch to Niles, who polished the drink off in a single gulp, some of the amber fluid dribbling down his chin.

“Will you tell that to the record execs?” White asked.

“I promised Jesse I would, so, yeah, I will. Have them call me.”