The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “That’s one headstrong kid. She wanted to choose who she’d go with, shit like that. Once she gave up the cocaine and began mainlining scag, she became a handful. You can’t trust them once they start shooting heroin.”

  “So you had to show her the error of her ways?”

  Del Vecchio looked at Houston, his head rolled a bit to the side. After a few seconds, he figured out what Houston meant. “Hey! It wasn’t like that. No way! I don’t beat on my girls. Do I, baby?”

  “Naw,” Ronnie said. “Mel’s the salt of the fucking earth. Hell, he loves his fellow man so much he registered Democrat.”

  Houston glared at the two of them. “Yeah, I’ll just bet he takes real good care of you girls, and all he asks is for you to turn over eighty percent of your take.” Ronnie’s smile told him he was close to the truth if not right on the money.

  “So where is she?”

  “Beats the fuck out of me,” Del Vecchio said. “She might have gone to New York.”

  Ronnie nodded her head.

  “Did she talk about New York a lot?” Houston asked her.

  “All the goddamned time. It was her favorite subject,” Ronnie said. “She was going to be a big-time actress or model—some stupid shit like that. She said from now on the only people she was going to spread for would have endorsement contracts on their desks.”

  “You have no idea where she went?” Houston turned his attention back to Melvin.

  “Not a goddamned clue. After all I done for her. She never said a fucking word to me about leaving or anything—just took off owing me a bundle. Her habit got to the point where her earnings couldn’t cover her daily overhead, you know what I mean?”

  The comment amazed Houston. What did he expect her to do, give him two weeks’ notice?

  Del Vecchio looked uncomfortable. “Hey, I got to take a leak, okay?”

  “Go for it.”

  When he bolted from the room at a half-run, Houston thought, Old age is tough on the bladder.

  “He ain’t bullshitting you,” Ronnie said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, Mel has his faults, but he don’t make a girl work if she wants out—which is probably why he ain’t so successful. He acts tough, but,” she patted her chest, “in here, where it counts, he’s soft as shit.”

  A toilet flushed, and Del Vecchio walked back into the room too soon to have washed his hands. Houston thought that although Del Vecchio might be a feeling, twenty-first century pimp, he had the hygiene of a pig. Houston retracted the thought. He knew a hog farmer in Maine; comparing his animals to Del Vecchio did a grave disservice to the pigs.

  Del Vecchio returned to his seat on the arm of the chair. “What else you want to know? We ain’t had much sleep.”

  “We heard she worked the Combat Zone. There isn’t much left of the Zone.”

  “There are still parts of it around. My girls work the Public Garden. Occasionally in cold weather, they’ll work some of the strip joints in Chelsea and Revere or up north on the New Hampshire border but mostly we operate right here in the city.”

  “Did she mention any names—maybe someone in New York, a friend or a business acquaintance?”

  “Nope, she never mentioned anything to me. She ever say anything to you, Ronnie?”

  “Nah, she and I didn’t talk much. We didn’t hit it off—must have been one of them personality conflicts.”

  Houston believed her. He had only known Ronnie for fifteen minutes, and he disliked her.

  “Who was Cheryl close to?” Houston asked.

  “Shit, that bitch wasn’t close to anyone,” Ronnie answered. “But she would talk to Candy.”

  “Candy?”

  “She ain’t one of mine,” Melvin said.

  “She ain’t nobody’s. A real crazy bitch,” Ronnie said. “She’s a walking epidemic. She’s loaded, got HIV, probably gonorrhea and syphilis, too. She says some john gave the shit to her, and she’s going to pass it on to as many horny bastards as she can before she dies. She calls herself the Toxic Avenger like she’s some kind of a fucking superhero, can you believe it?”

  “And Cheryl was close to her?”

  “No, Cheryl was too damned high and mighty to get close to anyone. I said she talked with Candy.”

  “Did she talk with anyone else?”

  “Yeah,” Del Vecchio said, “Patty, but she doesn’t do tricks. She thinks that she can be a manager—you know, like a madam. I tried to talk her into getting out of this business while she could. The kid didn’t listen. She has some crazy fucking idea that sex can be a real business. She’s going to get herself and some others killed.”

  “What makes you say that?” Houston asked.

  “She keeps talking about them starting their own service—no more pimps to pay. They’ll share the expenses and the profits. She ain’t had any luck though. Everyone she’s talked to knows their pimps would fucking kill them if they got wind of it.”

  Houston wrote Candy’s and Patty’s names in his notebook. “These names real or are they street names?”

  “You got me.”

  “Do they work Arlington Street, too?”

  “Usually,” Del Vecchio answered. “Sometimes they hang out on Traveler Street by the Herald building.”

  Ronnie spoke up, as if she had just remembered something. “There’s one other person you should talk to.”

  Del Vecchio turned to her and gave her a dirty look, as if she were telling tales out of school.

  Houston did not want him to cut her off, so he asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Lisa Enright.”

  “Who’s Lisa Enright?”

  “A reporter for one of them newspapers that the yuppies in the city read—I think it’s called the Progressive. She was doing a series of articles on the trade.”

  Del Vecchio scowled at the mention of the reporter’s name. “Nosy bitch,” he said. “She thinks that the business should be legalized and run by the government. Can you imagine that? Fucking people can’t run Medicare and Social Security, but they think they can run a private industry? As if the streets aren’t bad enough, she expects a bunch of crooked politicians to clean it up.”

  Houston was familiar with the Progressive. It was very popular with young left-leaning intellectuals. As liberal as the Globe was, the Progressive made it look right wing. However, if Lisa Enright had been talking with the women who worked the streets, she was definitely someone to whom Houston wanted to talk. He added her name to his notes.

  “You going to be around if I need any more help?” Houston asked Del Vecchio.

  “Sure. I want to know that she’s okay, too.”

  Houston thought Cheryl Guerette had been anything but okay since the minute Del Vecchio had latched onto her.

  “You have a current address for her?”

  “Hell, she’s missing. As far as I know, she ain’t got no address.”

  “Mel,” O’Leary said, “if you don’t give me the fucking address of the last place you know of her living, I’m going to pound the shit out of you.”

  Del Vecchio opened a drawer of a small table that stood beside Ronnie’s chair. He removed a pad and pencil and wrote something. He tore off the page and handed it to Houston. “This is where she was staying. I hope . . .” He looked worried.

  “You hope what?” Houston asked.

  “I hope you don’t find her dead of an overdose.”

  Del Vecchio peered at Houston and then O’Leary, looking for reassurance. His voice was subdued when he said, “Really guys, I care for my girls. Cheryl was a pain in the ass, but she wouldn’t have taken off without a word. I think something’s happened to her.”

  “Mel, you may a pimp with a heart of gold,” O’Leary said, “but if I find out you’re stringing us along, I’m going to come back here and break both your arms and both your legs—then I’m going to hurt you.”

  11

  When Houston and Bouchard opened the door and stepped into the vestibule, they were immediately co
nfronted by a stern, elderly woman. “I don’t rent to couples or men . . . single women only.”

  “I’m sorry?” Houston asked.

  “If you’re not looking to rent, what are you doing here?” the woman asked.

  “This is official,” Bouchard said, flashing her identification.

  The woman’s posture was such that Houston knew she would not accept anything he told her; still he tried to explain their presence. “We’ve been asked by Cheryl’s grandparents to find her.”

  “Who is Cheryl?”

  Houston was taken aback. “Isn’t this where Cheryl Guerette lives?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He presented her with the picture of Cheryl and Del Vecchio. “Is she the woman you rented to?”

  “Yes. Only she told me that her name was Alana Turner.”

  “Well, that is Cheryl Guerette from Kittery, Maine. When did you see her last?”

  The woman’s attitude changed. “It’s been a couple of weeks now. I thought she was avoiding me . . . she’s going on two months without paying her rent.”

  “She didn’t tell you anything?”

  “Well, we weren’t exactly friendly. But she was always on time with her rent until the last couple of months.”

  Houston put the picture back in his pocket. “Could you show us her room, please?”

  “I’m not sure I should do that.”

  “We’re trying to find Cheryl,” Bouchard interjected. “She has disappeared, and we’re trying to find out what has happened to her. Whether you like it or not, we’re going in.” She handed the landlady a white business envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a search warrant. Now step aside, please.”

  The woman vacillated for a few moments, handed the unopened envelope back to Bouchard, and then said, “All right. Her room is upstairs.” She reached into her pocket and removed a ring of keys. As she started climbing, she said, “This way.”

  At the top of the stairs, the landlady led them down a short hall and stopped at the third door on the left. She opened it and stood back. Houston stood in the threshold of the door. He studied the small one-room efficiency apartment. To call this twelve-by-ten room an apartment was a stretch. It was a major step down from the apartment Cheryl had shared with Sarah Wilson. There was barely enough room in this place for a bed, single wooden chair, and small dresser. He thanked the landlady for her help, ushered her from the room, and closed the door.

  The only illumination was from a single bare bulb in the center of the ceiling, and it struggled to provide enough light to navigate the room. He turned to Bouchard and said, “What ID did you show her?”

  Bouchard smiled. “A badge I ordered online. It says concealed carry permit.”

  “And the search warrant?”

  “Archie’s letter authorizing us to see her school files.”

  Houston grinned. “I knew that getting you involved with Jimmy might lead to this . . . he’s taught you a lot in a short time.” He opened the dresser’s top drawer and searched for anything that might give him a lead to her whereabouts. “If she left for New York, she couldn’t have taken much more than the clothes she was wearing.” He turned back to his search; the warped drawer revealed an assortment of cheap makeup and hair products—nothing to give any indication of where their owner had disappeared to. The remaining drawers were half-filled with neatly folded underwear—none of which you’d expect to see on a prostitute—a few shirts, and several pairs of jeans. None of the clothing looked new but neither did it look excessively worn or frayed.

  The bed was unmade, and Houston lifted the mattress, finding several letters from Betty Guerette—all unopened and addressed to the apartment that she shared with Wilson. He handed the letters to Bouchard. “Obviously, the Guerettes had no idea where their granddaughter was living.”

  He dropped the mattress and opened the door to the miniscule closet. The only clothes he found there were typical of what you would expect a streetwalker to wear. He did not know exactly how petite Cheryl was, but the dresses would be tight on a skinny thirteen-year-old. He checked the rest of the closet, finding a small carry-on type suitcase but nothing of interest. There was not a single indication that she had been a student anywhere in the room . . . no books, notes, or class schedules. He also was unable to find anything to indicate that she had left town of her own will.

  He opened the door, and the landlady jumped backward, hitting the wall.

  Bouchard walked out of the room, looked at the obviously flustered woman, and said, “Did you get an earful?”

  The older woman regained her composure and ignored Bouchard’s slight. “I’m glad she hasn’t been avoiding me. But all things considered, I’m not surprised that she’s missing.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think she was into drugs.” She suddenly became defensive. “Not that I ever saw her do anything . . . she just seemed out of it a lot.”

  “Well, we’ll keep looking,” he said.

  “I hope nothing has happened to her,” the woman said. “But if you find her, remind her about the rent . . .”

  Once they were back on the street, Bouchard said, “Well, that told us exactly nothing, other than that Cheryl wasn’t communicating with her grandparents.”

  “I think it told us something very important. No one willingly leaves a place and doesn’t take any of their belongings. Her suitcase was still in the closet.”

  “So,” Bouchard stated the obvious, “she didn’t leave of her own accord.”

  “I think it’s time for me to interview some of Cheryl’s coworkers.”

  “That’s something you’ll have to do without me,” Bouchard said.

  12

  There was a time when the section of Boston that lay between the Boston Common, the Theater District, and Chinatown was called the Combat Zone. Then-mayor Kevin White declared it the city’s unofficial red-light zone. It was allowed to exist in the hope that the “adult entertainment” business would stay within geographical confines rather than spread throughout the city. It was a magnet that attracted off-duty soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines from the five military bases that were around the city. It thrived until 1978, when a Harvard University football player was murdered in an altercation over a missing wallet, and the Police Chief realized that the Zone as a social experiment was not viable and started a crackdown. In the years since then, a number of factors led to the demise of the red-light district. The demand for high-priced condominiums made the real estate desirable, and developers bought up many of the old strip clubs; as a result, the prostitution trade was forced to move. It relocated to Arlington Street, near the Common and Public Garden.

  Houston took his time and strolled through the Public Garden. He stopped on the footbridge and watched the swans drift on the calm water. The light from streetlamps reflecting off their white feathers made them seem whiter than they actually were. It was not long before he saw a woman studying him.

  She stood some ten feet away, and it did not take a degree in sociology to know her occupation. Her tank top barely covered her ample breasts, and her leather mini was so short that if she bent over, all her “wares” would be on display. A small purse with a long strap hung from her shoulder, and she blew smoke from a cigarette as she appraised Houston.

  Houston looked around, trying to act surprised like a tourist who could not believe his luck. “Hello.”

  She took a tentative step toward him and then stopped, uncertain. She reminded him of the feral cat he’d found living under their cabin in Maine. He’d tried to befriend it by offering food. The cat wanted the morsel he offered, but did not know whether to trust him or not. Finally, Houston just dropped the food and stepped back. He fed that cat for two months before it let him get within five feet of it. Houston decided to play this woman just as he had the cat—no sudden moves. He did not want her to run off.

  “Are you from around here?” Houston stepped toward her.

&nbs
p; Suddenly suspicious, she stopped in her tracks, “Are you the cops?”

  “No, I’m not looking for a good time either. I’m looking for Cheri.”

  The woman looked past him. Houston glanced back expecting someone to be behind him. Except for a large unmarked truck parked on the corner, the street was empty. He turned his attention back to the streetwalker. She was backing up, fumbling her purse open. He heard her mumble, “Fisherman . . .”

  Houston slowed his approach. “I’m not going to hurt you or do anything. Cheri’s family asked me to find her.”

  The prostitute spun away from him, walking rapidly in the direction of Boylston Street. He started after her. “Hey, wait! I just want to talk—”

  She pulled a cell phone from her purse and hit a speed dial as she walked. Her pace quickened until she was almost running. Houston heard her speaking into the phone and then saw her shove it in her purse.

  He gained on her, reached out, and grasped her shoulder. “Miss—”

  She spun around to face him. When her hand reappeared from the bag, it held a black can.

  “Listen, I only want to talk to you . . .”

  A stream shot out of the can, hitting him in the face. Pepper spray. His eyes burned, and he gasped for air but could not get enough. Houston stumbled back, fell to the sidewalk, and threw up.

  Once he stopped vomiting, Houston crawled along the pavement on his hands and knees, hurting too bad to curse. His left hand slipped when it landed in his vomit. Blinded and helpless, he sat on the cement and listened to the clicking of her high heels as she hurried away.

  _________________

  Houston was unsure of how long he had been on the ground. The effects of pepper spray could last anywhere from ten minutes to an hour—a long time to be lying helpless on a city street in the middle of the night. His eyes had cleared enough to be able to discern light from dark, but individual items were still indiscernible.

  He heard a car pull up. The doors slammed and suddenly there were people standing beside him. A rough voice said, “Is this the asshole?”

  Houston tried to talk, to explain what he wanted but was unable to speak. Rough hands yanked him to his feet and spun him around, then slammed him against a wall. “Who the fuck you think you are scaring my woman like that?” Callous hands pawed him, and he was not so far gone that he did not know the man was searching him for weapons. He felt his wallet being removed from his pocket. “He’s clean.” It was a different voice.