Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

67

What had just happened in the preserve didn’t make any sense to Jesse. He was about to call an old friend to discuss it when the sound of a ringing phone came over the speakers in his car and Roscoe Niles’s name flashed onto the dashboard screen.

“I’ve been trying to call.”

“Yeah, Jesse, what?” Roscoe’s voice was almost comically thick with drink.

“Rough evening?”

“At my age, with my vices, they’re all rough. Some are just rougher than others.”

“Why didn’t you pick up before?”

Niles was surprised. “You called? I was out of it, man. Johnnie Red and I spent a lot of time together last night. What can I do you for?”

“Two things. Are you on the air today?”

“I’m always on the air. Well... until I get the official word about my last day. Why?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends. What do you need?”

“I might call you later and ask you to read the sonnet on the air. And if I do, read it as many times as you want. Play wall-to-wall Terry Jester if you feel like it and imply that the missing tape may soon resurface.”

“You sure about this, Jesse. Yesterday you told me—”

“Yesterday was yesterday. Things have changed.”

“Like what?”

“My mood.”

Niles’s laugh was phlegmy, and laughing set him off on a coughing jag. “What the hell, they can only fire me once, right? I’ll be glad to do it, man.”

“Where are you, Roscoe? It sounds like you’re outside.”

“Oh... I had to... step out to smoke, man. What’s the other thing, Jesse?”

“Do you know who engineered The Hangman’s Sonnet sessions?”

There was a long pause and then he said, “Sorry, pal, but like everything else about those sessions, the names of the people who worked in the studio are shrouded in secrecy.”

“But there are rumors, like the rumors about the musicians.”

“Not really, Jesse. The musicians matter to the public. No one gives a shit about who worked the board. Why do you ask?”

“Someone mentioned him to me but didn’t recall his name,” Jesse said, unwilling to go into the details of his conversation with Spenser.

“Sorry, man. I wish I could be more helpful. Listen, are you sure about the poem?”

“No, but do it anyway.”

Jesse clicked off and called Healy.

“Jesse! How the hell are you?”

“Someone just tried to kill me.”

“That’s not funny, Jesse. Don’t even joke like that.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“What do you need?”

Jesse asked, “Can you meet me at the Rusty Scupper in the Swap in a half-hour?”

“Only if you say ‘please.’”

“Please.”