The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  She kissed him on the cheek. “And you still smell like an ashtray.”

  Jimmy O laughed. “Trust her to put me in my place. I almost had a heart attack when you guys called. We ain’t talked since that situation in Maine last year.”

  Houston smiled. “That’s bound to happen when people are on opposite ends of the same business.”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I hear you’re lookin’ for Mel Del Vecchio.”

  “We need to ask him some questions.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “I think I can handle him,” Houston said.

  “Never said you couldn’t, but Mel sees me, he’ll shit a soft stool. It may get you your answers a bit faster.”

  The server warmed Houston’s coffee and gave O’Leary an approving look.

  “What you having?” she asked.

  O’Leary studied her tight-fitting uniform and leered. “For now, coffee would be nice,” he grinned. “Later we can discuss other options.”

  Houston knew that she was an experienced waitress when she played along without a second’s hesitation. Her smile could have lit up the room when she said, “How you want your coffee—in you or on you?” Before he could reply, she spun around and walked toward the kitchen.

  “God, I love a feisty woman,” O’Leary said.

  “I’m going to take a pass on this one,” Bouchard said. “While you talk with the bottom-feeders, I’ll run over to police headquarters and see what I can dig up. Spending a morning with a pimp isn’t my idea of a fun time.”

  “Say hello to Bill Dysart for me,” Houston said.

  “When you want to go?” O’Leary asked Houston.

  “As soon as I finish eating.”

  The waitress returned and placed a mug of coffee in front of O’Leary. She scribbled something on the back of an unused order slip and placed it with the written side down in front of him. When she was gone, he turned the slip over and smiled at Houston. “Her phone number . . .”

  _________________

  Anne Bouchard walked to the new Boston Police Department headquarters in Roxbury Crossing; it was the first time she’d visited the BPD since her medical retirement. The officer at the desk immediately recognized her and greeted her with a smile. She placed her bag on the table beside the metal detector and said, “It’s been a long time, Harry.”

  “Not all that long, Anne.”

  “There’s no piece in the bag.”

  The officer nodded and motioned for her to enter the detection gate. As she passed through, Bouchard asked, “Is Captain Dysart in?”

  “He came in a couple of hours ago.”

  Bouchard retrieved her bag and said, “Would you call ahead and announce me?”

  “You betcha. It’s good seeing you.”

  “You too.” Bouchard waved as she walked to the elevator.

  When the elevator door opened, Captain Bill Dysart was waiting with a big smile on his face. “Anne, you look terrific!”

  She returned his smile and followed him to his office. “Nice place,” she commented. “It’s much nicer than the old building.”

  “Yeah, but the old building had its niceties. Like windows that opened.”

  Bouchard laughed as she recalled his habit of opening his office window, taking one or two drags off a cigarette, and throwing it out. She noted that the windows in his new office were hermetically sealed. “These windows must really cramp your style.”

  “Well, I’ve cut back on my smoking, and now that I’m not tossing three quarters of a cigarette away, it’s cheaper, too.”

  He guided her to a chair and then sat behind his desk. “How’s Mike? I haven’t seen nor heard from him in almost a year.”

  “Mike’s Mike. We’re doing some private work now.”

  “You and Mike gone private? I never would have thought you’d do that.”

  “Well, we’re selective about the cases we take on, which brings me to why we’re back in Boston.”

  “You mean this isn’t a social visit?” Dysart grinned. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for a missing girl—woman is more accurate. We know she was attending a local diploma mill and started partying and may have started hooking. What do you know about a pimp named Mel Del Vecchio?”

  “Let me bring in one of my detectives. She knows the vice scene more than I do.” He opened the door and called, “Tracy, you want to come in here for a minute?”

  A young woman entered the office, and Dysart introduced her to Bouchard as Detective Nancy Tracy. After a brief description of Bouchard’s background, he sat back and let the two women carry on the discussion.

  “My partner and I are looking for a missing young woman,” Bouchard said. “We believe that she’s been hooking for a pimp named Del Vecchio.”

  Tracy was all business when she spoke without referring to any notes. “Melvin Del Vecchio is what you’d expect to find on the bottom of your shoe after walking through a dog kennel in the dark, but he’s an open book. Like all pimps, he preys on young women.” For a brief second her face lost its professional stoicism and her distaste showed. “He lives in Roslindale. His girls work what’s left of the Combat Zone near Chinatown.”

  “I guess it could be worse,” Bouchard commented, “there are worse areas in the city.”

  “Doesn’t matter which neighborhood it is . . . he’s still a bottom-feeder who runs a stable of alley-creepers.”

  “You seem to know a lot about him considering he’s a small-timer,” Bouchard interjected.

  “I’ve interacted with Del Vecchio on several occasions. My sources tell me the only reason he’s still in business is that his girls are loyal to him. They love the pus-bag.”

  “You got anything on Cheryl Guerette, the girl we’re looking for?” Bouchard asked.

  “Give me a minute.” Tracy walked out of the office, leaving Bouchard and Dysart alone.

  “She seems to be good,” Anne said.

  “Not as good as you,” Dysart replied. “But she’s new, and she’s a quick learner—like you were.”

  Tracy returned with a handful of printed sheets. “We don’t know much more about her than what you already know. Del Vecchio turned in a missing persons report on July eighth.” She flipped through the stack, stopping when she found the sheet she wanted. “The investigating officer got a call from the Maine State Police about a week later and was told that an Archie Guerette filed a report, too.”

  “Archie is her grandfather,” Bouchard said.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I mean, hell, you been around the block a time or two more than me. By now, I’m sure you’ve found out that she was a streetwalker, probably a junkie, too. . . . She probably took a powder, maybe got a jump on the cold and headed south.”

  “I don’t know. Something about this smells sour. I’m afraid there’s more to it—something has happened to that girl,” Bouchard said.

  “I’ll see if anything new has popped up.” Tracy took a cell phone out of her pocket and hit a speed-dial number. “Sergeant Weaver, please. . . . thanks.” She waited for a second and then said, “Charley? Nancy, how you doing? Me too. Listen were you able to find out anything on that missing person I asked about?”

  She listened for a moment and thanked Weaver, then put the cell back in her pocket. “They have nothing.”

  “Do you know if she was ever busted?”

  “Who knows? You know as well as I do none of those girls use their real names.”

  “Her street name may be Cheri,” Bouchard said.

  “Her and fifty million others; these women change names as often as most people change socks. You got a picture? I’ll show it around, see if anyone knows her by another name.”

  Bouchard and Houston had had several prints made of the picture Betty had given them, and she handed one to Tracy, who studied it for a few seconds. Her reaction was the same as Bouchard’s initial one. “She’s pretty. What in heaven’s name is she doing with a hairbal
l like Mel Del Vecchio?”

  “That’s an answer we hope to have by the end of the day. My partner is probably talking to Del Vecchio about it now.”

  10

  It was past eleven in the morning when Houston and O’Leary arrived at Del Vecchio’s apartment building, a paint-deprived triple-decker on a narrow street. Houston studied the less-than-impressive neighborhood for several seconds and said, “Looks like the economy is affecting the prostitution business, too.”

  O’Leary snickered. “Del Vecchio ain’t exactly an astute businessman, that’s for certain.”

  They entered the building through a pair of warped doors. To the right stood a bank of mail boxes; Houston studied the names and quickly found Del Vecchio’s. He lived on the third floor. They climbed the dark stairs, staying off to one side to lessen the creaking of the aged wood. Del Vecchio’s apartment was on the left at the top landing. Houston knocked on the door.

  Nobody answered.

  He knocked harder—pimps work nights and usually went to sleep after the sun came up. O’Leary reached over Houston’s shoulder and banged on the door so hard it rattled.

  Houston heard a door behind them creak. He turned and saw an old woman peeping out through a partially opened door. She said, “Jesus, you trying to knock the door down or what?”

  A cigarette hung from her mouth, and at least an inch of ash dangled from the burning end. Through the narrow opening, Houston saw that she wore a tattered chenille robe and worn pink slippers, on which the fuzz had turned to snarls. “Do you know if Mr. Del Vecchio is at home?” he asked.

  “Mr. Del Vecchio!” She laughed. Air passing through her rheumy, phlegm-coated windpipe made a popping sound. “You mean Mel? He’s most likely sleeping. He works nights.”

  O’Leary banged on the door again, this time using the palm of his hand. Inside the apartment, someone started cursing.

  “You a bill collector?” the old crone asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Cop?”

  O’Leary turned away from Del Vecchio’s door, stepped across the narrow hall and pushed his face close to her ear. He whispered, “Mafia.”

  Her eyes widened, and she darted inside the apartment like a hermit crab fleeing a gull’s beak. When she slammed her door, the loud bang echoed through the building. They turned back to the pimp’s apartment, and O’Leary hammered on the door again.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Mel Del Vecchio?” Houston asked.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Mike Houston.”

  “That supposed to mean something to me?”

  “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Nope.”

  “Del Vecchio, it’s Jimmy O. If you don’t open this fucking door, I’m going to bust it down and then kick your ass so hard you’ll be strangled by your own asshole!”

  “Jesus, Jimmy, why didn’t you say it was you?”

  As soon as the door opened, O’Leary bulled his way in, shoved Del Vecchio aside, and pulled out a pistol.

  Houston followed and studied Del Vecchio. What he saw was radically different from the man in the picture Betty Guerette had given him. Either Del Vecchio had hit on hard times, or he was a lot older than he looked in that picture. His oily hair hung down over his ears exposing a growing bald spot, which he probably hid with a comb-over when in public. He was missing a couple of his front teeth: an upper and a lower. He wore a dirty sleeveless undershirt, the type Houston and his friends called “guinea tuxedos” when they were kids. The shirt barely covered his bulging gut, and gray hair protruded above its plunging neckline. He wore a pair of wrinkled boxer shorts—once white but now beige from too much wear and not enough washing.

  Houston turned his eye to the room. It looked like a bomb had gone off. The sink could have used sideboards to contain the dirty dishes piled in it. The tabletop was invisible through the empty beer cans that covered it. Ants and some type of larger insect scrambled across its surface seeking the sticky, sweet treasures that coated it. He concealed his contempt for Del Vecchio’s housekeeping skills and, without waiting for an invitation, entered the living room. When he was a cop, he had learned when someone lets you in, you go all the way in.

  The living room was no more sanitary than the kitchen. The whole place smelled sour—a nasty combination of stale alcohol, cigarette smoke, and unwashed bodies. Overall, Houston thought it smelled as if someone had fried roadkill. Across the room, he saw the door of the apartment’s single bedroom open, and a naked woman appeared in the threshold. She stood with one arm against the doorjamb and glared at the intruders. She was obviously one of Del Vecchio’s stable; her face was young, but her eyes were old, and her body already showed signs of wear. It was the way a woman aged when she had seen too much and done even more in too short a time.

  Del Vecchio walked into the room. He seemed to have recovered from the shock of having two men barge past him into his home. He saw the nude woman and said, “Ronnie, either put some fucking clothes on, or go into the bedroom and shut the door.” He faced Houston. “You got some kind of nerve, buddy.”

  Ronnie ignored Del Vecchio’s order to dress or close the door and walked further into the room. She flopped down in a chair and crossed her legs like a man, resting her left ankle on her right knee. Houston could not help but notice that she’d groomed her pubic hair, shaving it into the shape of a heart. A mocking smile spread across her face. Houston looked her in the eye, refusing to rise to her bait. She lit a cigarette and raised an eyebrow, daring him to look away. They remained like that for several seconds, engaged in a perverse version of a Mexican standoff.

  “Jesus Christ, woman!” Del Vecchio stomped into the bedroom and, in seconds, returned with a bedspread. He threw it at her and said, “Cover your ass, will you?”

  “It ain’t my ass that’s showing.” Ronnie gave him a scathing look and covered her gaunt frame with the worn bed cover.

  “Cheryl Guerette’s family asked me to find her,” Houston said.

  Ronnie’s actions seemed to irritate Del Vecchio, and he turned his wrath on Houston. “Mister, you got bigger balls than King Kong to come in here like this.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Ronnie challenged.

  O’Leary walked into the room, and as soon as she recognized the mobster, the attitude left her, replaced by visible fear. “Oh shit,” she said.

  “Someone who wants to talk to Mel,” O’Leary said.

  Ronnie rebounded quickly, and when she realized neither of the men were paying attention to her lack of attire, her attitude morphed yet again. She became aggressive. “What’s wrong?” she challenged. “Don’t like what you see?”

  Del Vecchio was as pallid as a newly laundered sheet. “Ronnie, watch your mouth.”

  O’Leary walked to the window and looked outside. “You should listen to Mel. Is it Ronnie? Ain’t that a man’s name?”

  “It’s short for Veronica.” Her indignation at his obvious insult turned to anger. “What are you, queer? A couple of gay boys?”

  “Just selective,” O’Leary said. “I got this thing about hitting women. I think it’s something only cowards do. But if you don’t shut your fucking mouth, I’ll make you an exception to the rule.”

  She started to retort but thought better of it and sat with her mouth open.

  Houston added, “You can go back into the bedroom—unless you know something about Cheryl Guerette. You probably know her as Cheri.”

  Ronnie’s eyes narrowed. “That snotty bitch, I thought she was gone.”

  “She is. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Sit down and shut up,” O’Leary said. “You two answer a few questions, and we’ll be out of your hair. Play games, and we’ll be here all afternoon—we got lots of time.”

  Houston looked for a clean chair to sit in. He decided to stand.

  Del Vecchio sat on the arm of Ronnie’s chair in an obvious attempt to keep her under con
trol.

  “All right,” Houston said. “Let’s start with Cheryl.” He directed his first question to Ronnie. “I get the impression you know her personally.”

  “Oh, I know her all right. She’s a snotty bitch from the right side of the tracks who thinks she’s better than the rest of us.”

  “Really? And just who are the rest of us?”

  “The rest of the girls.”

  “The girls?” Houston asked. “What do you girls do? Were you in the same sorority? You work together? What could you and Cheryl Guerette have in common?”

  Ronnie laughed, “The only fucking sorority she was in was I Amma Whore or Getta Lotta Bangin’, the same one I’m in. In spite of her uppity ways, she was just another hooker.”

  Houston turned to Del Vecchio. “What you got to add?”

  “Get to the point, Mel,” O’Leary said. “I’m more than a little tired of playing sixty-four questions with a whore.”

  “When I met her, she was out of money and screwing pimple-faced college boys for nose-candy money. Before long, she was on H. She had just started working the streets full time. I tried to pull her in, give her some protection. The street can be a bad place for a freelancer. Ain’t that right, babe?”

  Ronnie nodded.

  “Did she let you protect her?”

  “What?” Del Vecchio asked.

  O’Leary walked over and clenched his fist with the middle knuckle slightly extended. With a quick snapping action, he popped Del Vecchio on the top of his head.

  “Holy Jay-sus,” Del Vecchio said as he rubbed the painful knot on his skull.

  “Just answer the goddamned questions,” O’Leary said.

  “Did she let you take her under your so-called wing?” Houston repeated.

  “Oh. Yeah, but she was something else.” Del Vecchio looked at O’Leary while he rubbed his head in a circular motion. “That fucking hurt.”

  O’Leary smiled. “Just answer our questions, or you’ll see just how much I can hurt you.”

  “How so?” Houston asked.

  Del Vecchio stared at him as if he did not understand the question.

  “What, you got ADD or some shit?” O’Leary asked. “How was she something else?”