Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

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?”

“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.