The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Copyright © 2015 by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-63220-479-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-852-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my wife, Connie, whose idea this was.

  1

  Cheryl Guerette stood on the pedestrian bridge, staring at the swan boats as they passed. Her face twisted, and she wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach as another wave of pain raced through her. She gripped the railing to keep from falling and stared at the strange face that looked back at her. Her blond hair was disheveled, and her blue eyes were ringed with dark circles; she was as pale as a sheet of paper. She was coming down and edgy, her body super-sensitive. Anything touching her skin—even the gentle touch of the summer breeze—felt like a million daggers slicing flesh. She knew she was within an hour or two of coming down hard. She breathed deeply, too strung out to enjoy the warm evening. Exiting the Public Garden, Cheri—as she was known on the streets—walked to Charles Street. Turning toward Chinatown, she staggered down the sidewalk oblivious to passersby and the steady flow of late rush hour traffic.

  Cheryl wandered aimlessly, waiting for the sun to go down. She glanced at her watch. It would be at least an hour before normal people went home, leaving the streets to the denizens of the night: drug dealers, pimps, hookers, and johns. It was going to be a slow night, but then Mondays always were. She should do the smart thing and return to her shabby room and take the night off. Mel always said that hookers were like preachers and should take Mondays off. That was, Cheryl knew, not an option open to her. She scratched at her arms, clenching her teeth as jagged, rough fingernails threatened to slice her open. It wouldn’t be long before she was out of her mind with need—on the ground thrashing and screaming.

  Cheryl reversed direction and returned to Boston Common and the Public Garden. She walked the nearly empty sidewalks until her withdrawal symptoms lessened and she could think straight. At the Public Garden, she roamed the paths, searching for Chigger. He would fix her up; he knew she was good for the money.

  She had blown all of her weekend earnings on heroin. No matter how many times she vowed to keep a reserve to get her through the slow nights, she gave in and used it to buy more. She passed by a homeless man frantically searching for food in a trash bin. If he hadn’t kicked her leg while digging to the bottom of the receptacle, she would’ve walked by as if he didn’t exist. She rubbed the spot on her calf that his filthy, torn sneaker had hit and hurried past him. Under normal conditions, she would have stopped and ripped into the bum, but this was not a routine situation.

  As if withdrawal wasn’t enough, Mel would come around later wanting his money, and he wasn’t going to be happy when she told him she had none. It wouldn’t matter what line of bullshit she made up, Mel would know where the money had gone. Failing to locate Chigger, Cheryl left the Common and headed toward the theater district.

  _________________

  Cheryl glanced at her watch: 11 p.m. In spite of her condition, she knew it was time to get to work. She walked slowly, swinging her hips at every vehicle that passed. A couple of cars stopped, and she smiled and bent toward them, allowing each car’s occupant to look her over. Each time the vehicle’s driver pulled away. Anyone else would have known it was the wild junkie look in her eyes that turned them away.

  Cheryl turned the corner and walked along Mass Ave and Tremont Street, through the theater district. Most times she would have paused to read the marquees for each show while longing for her name to be on one of them, but not on this night. Even in her current state, she knew her dream of an acting career was gone—lost forever in the kiss of a needle followed by the bliss of hot smack racing through her veins.

  A strange-looking truck stopped beside her. Cheryl had never seen anything quite like it. It was the tractor of an eighteen-wheeler; only instead of pulling a trailer, someone had built a refrigerated box on the frame over the rear wheels. She thought it was strange that the blue commercial truck was devoid of signage; however, like everything else, her defenses were down. The driver rolled down his window, and hoping to score a trick, Cheryl went into her act. She stood beside the truck and purred, “Hey.”

  The driver stared at her but said nothing.

  “You looking for some action?” Cheryl asked, hoping her tremors were not too obvious.

  He motioned for her to get in the truck.

  Suddenly, in spite of being close to crashing, Cheryl had misgivings; something about this john was not right. Still, she needed dope, so she got over her reservations and got in the truck, pulling the door closed behind her.

  A strong fish smell filled the cabin, and involuntarily Cheryl slapped a hand over her mouth and nose. “Hi, I’m Cheri.”

  The driver stared at her. His head was misshapen—flat on one side, as if someone had smashed it with a beam. As he looked at her, his slightly crossed, pale-blue eyes flickered from side to side for a few seconds and then seemed to focus on her and cease moving.

  “What are you, the strong silent type?”

  No response.

  Even her need for dope could not quell the alarm bells that sounded in her head—this john was whacked out.

  “Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” Cheryl reached for the door handle. It was missing.

  2

  Mike Houston saw the cloud of dust from the corner of his eye and buried the bit of his ax in the middle of the stump he used as a chopping block. He watched the plume of brown as it raced up the dirt road that led to the log cabin he and Anne Bouchard called home.

  In a few moments, he saw the unmistakable fire engine red of Anne’s Ginetta G33 two-seater flash through an opening in the trees. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead, then turned to the enticing shade of the porch that spanned the width of the structure. He sat in an Adirondack chair and reached into the plastic insulated cooler to extract a can of beer. He popped the top and took a long drink, savoring the cool liquid as it chilled his parched throat.

  The car pulled into the yard and stopped within ten feet of the house. Houston walked off the porch, met her at her car, and opened her door. Anne smiled at him. “Is sitting there drinking beer all you’ve done today?”

  “Hey, it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.”

  She hopped out of the sports car and landed in front of him, then raised up on her tip-toes, kissed him on the forehead, and smacked her lips. “Salty. Houston, you’re the only guy I know who can sweat drinking beer in the shade.”

  “Not much cooler inside. How was your day?”

  “Great, I went to Kittery and hit the outlet stores.” She returned his embrace.

  He shifted and held her at arm’s length. “So what did you get me?”

  She grinned. “I was going to get
something sheer, slinky, and tantalizing for you.”

  Houston grinned. “Show it to me. Better yet, model it for me.”

  She laughed. “I said I was going to get it for you. Then I realized that it was a waste of money, because within minutes you’d rip it off me. So why waste the money when I already have all we need?”

  He pretended to look crestfallen. “You mean you didn’t buy it?”

  “I mean I didn’t buy it.”

  He gave a lecherous grin. “You’d rather run naked through the woods with me.”

  “Too many bugs. We can run naked through the house, though.”

  She stepped out of his arms and onto the porch. She sat in the chair he had vacated and opened the cooler. She stared inside for a second, pulled a beer from the cooler, and popped the top. She sat back, enjoying the respite from the late summer sun’s heat and said, “I got to hand it to you, though. At first I wasn’t sure I’d like living here, but it isn’t half bad . . . .”

  Houston sat beside her and drank his beer. “It does grow on you, doesn’t it?”

  They sat in silence for several minutes, enjoying each other’s company. One of the secrets to their success as partners was their ability to accept each other’s privacy and go long periods without talking.

  “Something’s on your mind, woman. What is it?”

  “I want you to help me do something.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I met an elderly couple. A fisherman and his wife. They live in Kittery. Their granddaughter has gone missing.”

  “How’d you meet this elderly couple, hon?” Houston doubted that it was a chance meeting.

  She smiled, and he knew that he was right; there was more to this than she’d let on.

  “Well, I’ve been seeing posters about a missing woman. They said she was from Kittery but last seen in Boston. Naturally, I thought, ‘Who would be better than Mike and me to look into this?’ We got good connections in the city—on both sides of the fence.”

  “The police would be better. We’re not cops anymore.”

  “The authorities have been notified. Besides, you have one thing that the cops don’t.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Jimmy O and his organization. And that’s not to mention contacts within the BPD.”

  “You have as many department contacts as I do. And ever since the Rosa incident, you can connect with Jimmy.”

  “I just thought that this could be something we can do together. It’d be like we’re partners again.”

  “We are partners—in a much more meaningful way.”

  “I know that,” Bouchard hesitated and then added, “I never thought I’d say this, but it’ll be like the old days.”

  “Those old days were barely over a year ago.”

  “There’s more to it—a lot more to it. I’d like you to talk to the Guerettes.”

  “You sound as if you’ve already met with them.” Houston studied her and saw that she was deeply concerned. He also knew that until injury in the line of duty forced her to take a medical retirement, Anne was one of the most perceptive and intuitive cops he’d ever known. “Okay, we’ll drive to Kittery in the morning.”

  She stood up from her chair and sat in his lap. She kissed him. “You always were a hard sell, Houston.”

  He laughed. “Why pretend I can resist you? Once you got me in bed, you knew you’d get whatever you wanted anyway.”

  “Aw, but when you give in so easy, it takes all the fun out of the sale.”

  3

  A predawn fog rolled off the polluted water, obscuring the view of Chelsea and holding the composite stench of diesel fuel, rotting fish, and garbage close to the surface. Jimmy O’Leary walked along the pier while feeling his way along the wet planking. He hated boats almost as much as he did airplanes. If God wanted men to fly and sail, he thought, he would have given us wings and webbed feet. “You sure about this?”

  “Yeah, boss, I’m sure,” Gordon Winter answered. “This guy got in and out without coughing up on his last trip. He unloaded and was out to sea before we knew it.” Winter saw the question on O’Leary’s face. “Yeah, we dealt with the foreman of the longshoreman crew. He won’t make that mistake again.”

  “We cover the hospital bills?”

  “They were mostly dental.” In many ways, O’Leary baffled Winter. He would have a man beaten and then cover his related medical bills. He knew better than to waste a lot of energy arguing over it; it was Jimmy O’Leary’s way—given the opportunity, he could be a benevolent dictator.

  “I want to put an end to this, Gordon. I can’t have these idiots making stupid mistakes. It ain’t respectful.”

  “Neither are we.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, boss, I thought you said respectable.”

  “There’s an old Chinese proverb, Gordon. Everybody likes a little ass, but nobody likes a smartass.”

  They reached the end of the pier, and Winter stopped beside a small gangplank leading to a rusty-hulled tramp steamer. He heard O’Leary curse. “I hate the fucking docks—so goddamned damp you can’t even light a smoke.”

  A shadow appeared at the top of the gangway. “What you want?” the voice was heavily accented—Slavic, O’Leary thought.

  “We’re here to see your captain.”

  “He know you’re coming?”

  O’Leary’s stomach had had about all he could handle of the kelp and brine-laden foul air. He was sure he could smell every bit of offal, chemical waste, and dead body that had ever floated in the murky water of the Mystic River. “Listen, shit-for-brains. Get your ass inside that ship and tell your useless fucking captain that Jimmy O’Leary is here—and you better goddamned hurry up.”

  The seaman darted away, and Winter smiled. “Boss, you got to learn to be patient.”

  “I am patient—at least I’m as patient as I’m gonna be with this asshole.”

  The shadowy figure reappeared at the head of the ladder and motioned them up.

  “About fucking time,” O’Leary muttered. As he climbed the gangplank, he gripped the rope handrails so tight that he resembled an acrophobic walking on an icy tightrope. At the top, the vessel was no more impressive than it had been from below. Everything was in need of paint, and rust was evident in every corner. “Now I know where the expression tramp steamer comes from,” O’Leary said to Winter.

  They followed a long narrow passageway and ascended several metal stairways until they were deep inside the bowels of the ship. The air was rank and smelled of diesel fuel and stale cigarette smoke. The passageways were so narrow that Winter’s broad shoulders barely cleared the walls as he walked.

  “Ever been on a ship before?” O’Leary asked.

  “A couple of times. Those ships were nothing like this though.”

  “Bigger?”

  “A bit, but mostly they were cleaner and better kept.”

  The passageway ended in the galley, where the sole occupant sat at a table with a steaming mug in front of him. He wore a grimy captain’s hat and a white T-shirt with black grease and oil stains on it.

  “Not exactly a slave to fashion, is he?” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah, but you got to admit, the grungy hat goes well with the grubby T-shirt.”

  The man glared at them and inhaled, illuminating the tip of the cigarette that dangled from his lips.

  “Must be European registry,” Winter remarked. “If it were American, there’d be a smoking ban.”

  “Well, that’s one thing in its favor.”

  The seaman stepped aside and pointed to the man at the table. “Captain Gorky.”

  “Must have named him after the park,” Winter commented.

  “What park is that?” O’Leary asked.

  “Gorky Park. Like the book.”

  “What book?”

  “Forget it, boss. I doubt you read it.”

  “Remember what I said about wise asses, Gordon?”

  “How could I ever forg
et such words of wisdom?”

  O’Leary chuckled. “I saw the movie.”

  “Gorky Park?”

  “No, Central fucking Park—of course it was Gorky Park. I’m not ignorant. It starred that guy that screwed Kathleen Turner in the movie where they killed her husband and then she framed the idiot for it.” O’Leary shook his head. “Guy was one dumb shit to let a broad set him up that way.”

  Winter had no clue who or what his boss was alluding to but knew better than to pursue the subject. He followed O’Leary and crossed the room to the captain’s table.

  O’Leary pulled out a chair across from the captain, sat down, and lit a cigarette. “Captain Yuri Gorky, how was the voyage?”

  “Was . . . how you Americans say . . . a piece of cake?”

  “Well, we got a bit of a problem. Seems last time in you didn’t follow the rules.”

  The captain glared at O’Leary through a cloud of heavy cigarette smoke. “Maybe I don’t like rules.”

  “Maybe I need to have ol’ Gordon here teach you the consequences of fucking with me.”

  Gorky’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious to O’Leary that he did not like anyone threatening him, especially on board his own ship. However, Gorky was not foolish enough to voice his outrage. Gorky had most likely dealt with people like him in most of the ports around the world.

  On the other hand, O’Leary knew that if he allowed one ship to unload without paying the fees, they would all stop paying. Control of the wharves was a significant moneymaking proposition, and O’Leary would do whatever he deemed necessary to ensure he didn’t lose it.

  As soon as he sensed the sea captain’s hostility and arrogance, O’Leary nodded at Winter, who circled the table and stood behind Captain Gorky.

  “Say the word, boss.”

  O’Leary held up a hand, signaling him to stop. “I don’t think our friend Yuri will be a problem in the future. Am I right, Yuri?”

  The sailor did not miss Winter’s threat and smiled. “Jimmy, mistakes happen, no?”

  “Not anymore they won’t.”

  The captain nodded toward the galley’s door, and in walked a seaman holding a revolver in his right hand and carrying a briefcase in his left. Gorky smiled at O’Leary. “Maybe you don’t leave my ship alive?”