She heard Chester ask, “What is that shit?”
“This and that,” Fischer answered. “Leftover from when I grind up meat and fish.”
“Nasty-looking stuff.”
“Yeah, it’s all of that . . . but the fish love it.”
_________________
The afternoon crept slowly by, and Cheryl was running out of ways to avoid the fishermen. It was not easy on the cramped charter boat; the one named Matt had been undressing her with his eyes since they had cleared the harbor. To this point, Chester and Fischer had seemed unaware of his attention. She tried, as much as was possible on the charter boat, to keep a buffer zone between Matt and herself. Who knew how Fischer would react if the customer were to touch or make a pass at her?
She was coiling a line when the inevitable happened, and Matt grabbed her by the arm. “You know,” he said, “for what we’re paying, you could be friendlier.”
“Let me go,” she said in a low voice that she hoped Fischer could not hear. “I am not included in the cost.”
“For what this charter cost me, I should get to mingle with the crew if I want.”
“You have no idea how much trouble you’re going to cause.”
Before Matt could respond, Fischer loomed behind him. He grabbed the client by the shoulder and spun him around. “He will now.”
Cheryl’s heart leaped. In Fischer’s left hand, he held a long shaft that had a pointed head with a hook several inches below the point—one of the gaffs they used to land big fish. His eyes were narrow, and his mouth was a taut straight line, and Cheryl knew things were about to escalate.
Matt stepped backward. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean no harm.”
Fischer turned as if he had already forgotten the incident, and she heard the client exhale in relief. Like a striking cobra, Fischer spun around and grabbed Matt’s shirt with his free hand and drove him back against the rail. He pressed the metal point of the gaff to the bottom the fat man’s chin and said, “You keep your fucking hands off my wife.” The startled client made a futile attempt to ward off the menacing gaff.
Cheryl looked at Fischer; it was evident that he was volatile, and it would take little if anything to set him off. She scurried to Fischer’s side and said, “It’s all right, baby. He didn’t hurt me.” She saw sweat soaking Matt’s face. His massive midsection seemed to sway in time with the swells, and he held his hands up in surrender.
Fischer lowered the gaff and turned to her. “Get in the cabin.”
Certain that things might yet get violent, she darted across the deck. Fischer turned back to his client. “I allow everyone one mistake. You just had yours.” He turned to Chester. “An’ you been fuckin’ warned. I told you guys before we left port that she ain’t part of the deal.”
Fischer walked to the cabin door. He looked to the east, stepped through the portal, and said, “Gonna be dark soon. Let’s head in, honey.”
She tensed when she heard the term of endearment and hesitated. “Step to,” Fischer said. “There’s work to be done.”
_________________
As they left Portland Harbor and turned toward his home, Fischer ordered Cheryl inside the boat’s cabin. He followed her in and motioned for her to stand against the starboard bulkhead. “You did good,” he said. “You seem to know your way around a boat.”
“My grandfather taught me.”
“Really, maybe I know him. What’s his name?”
Cheryl hesitated; the last thing she wanted was for Fischer to know anything about her family. “You wouldn’t know him. He lives in—” a brief pause as she tried to think of a place far enough away, “North Carolina.”
He studied her for several moments and then turned back to the boat. “Go clean the deck. We have to get home. Mum’s been alone all day.”
Cheryl began coiling and securing the bowline, wondering if this would be a good time to make a break for it. She saw Fischer staring through the window at her. Even though she could not see his hands, Cheryl knew he always kept a weapon close by. Finished with the lines, she picked up a mop and cleaned the deck. She put all of her tools away and returned to the cabin. When she walked inside, he met her at the door, grabbed her arm with a crushing grip, and slammed her against the wall. “Don’t you ever again lie to me,” he said. “I hate liars.”
21
Houston walked through the Claddagh Pub and directly to Jimmy’s office. He knocked on the door, and when he opened it, a cloud of smoke as thick as an early morning fog rolled out. He waved his hand in front of his face as if shooing flies, but the smoke just moved around. “Damn it, Jimmy, how can you breathe in this?”
“If it bothers you, stay the fuck out.”
“We got to talk. I need your help.”
Jimmy O appeared out of the smoke, much like Bela Lugosi’s Dracula appearing from the mist. He shut the door behind him, walked past Houston, and entered the bar. He surveyed the room and pointed to an empty booth in the rear.
Once they were seated, Jimmy said, “Okay, talk.”
“We keep hearing that this guy drives a fish truck. I want to check out the fish markets.”
“You don’t need me for that.”
“There’s too goddamned many of them for Anne and me to check alone. I need you to have your people canvass some for us.”
“What do I look like, your personnel department? I got my own businesses to run. I know that finding this kid is a big deal for you and Anne, but I already spent more time on it than I should have.”
Houston sat back. “I know you’re into all sorts of shit, Jimmy. But to the best of my knowledge, you’ve never been directly involved in the prostitution trade.”
“Human trafficking was never my thing. You run whores, you gotta recruit kids . . . and you know how I feel about that.”
“This guy doesn’t discriminate, Jimmy. He’s taken them in every race and age.” He took an envelope from his back pocket and took out a bundle of photos, which he fanned across the desk. He studied them for a second and then selected two—one of a young woman barely older than a child. “This is Martha Kahn. Her street name was Tia Del Rio. She’s believed to be one of his victims . . . and she was fourteen.”
Jimmy leaned back. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then sighed and said, “For someone who is on the other side of the fence, you sure as hell ask for a lot of favors. You do know, brother-in-law, that one day I’ll be coming to you to return some of them?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“You can bet that we will. Okay, I’ll do this much. I’ll give you Gordon and five guys for two days, no more.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
Jimmy stared at Houston. “You been back in town how long now?”
“Three days.”
“How’s Susie?”
“Susie?”
“You remember your daughter, my niece, don’t you?”
Houston’s face fell. He’d completely overlooked contacting his daughter. “Aw, shit . . .”
“Exactly . . .”
_________________
Winter parked beside the loading dock of one of Boston’s largest fish wholesalers. He had been questioning people all morning, asking if they knew of a truck fitting the description given by the hookers. Thus far, it had been an exercise in futility. He saw a man jump down from the dock and approach his Navigator.
“Sorry, pal, but you can’t park here. You need to use one of the parking garages.”
“I only need a minute. I’m trying to locate a guy, drives a big rig with a reefer box built on.”
“Lots of guys drive trucks like that.”
“This guy looks like he French kissed a brick wall at ninety miles an hour. The side of his head is fucked up.”
“There’s a guy with a fucked-up head who comes around from time to time.”
“What color is his truck?”
“It varies.”
Winter digested the information for a sec
ond. “It varies?” He parroted the man. “You mean he drives different trucks?”
“Nope, same truck—one time he’ll come by and it’s white. The next time it will be something else. Now that I think of it, I don’t think it’s ever been the same color on two consecutive trips.”
“You got a name for this guy or the company he drives for?”
“You a cop?”
“No, I’m just looking for this guy. I hear he sells a quality product and my boss wants to place an order.”
“His stuff is all right.” He seemed to swell up with pride when he said, “We don’t buy farm fish, only ocean caught.”
“He catches the fish himself?”
“I think he owns a boat, does some charter stuff, too—up the coast of Maine someplace.” The man started to look nervous. “Look, I’m not sure I should be telling you this.”
Winter reached into his back pocket, removed his wallet, and took out a hundred dollar bill. He offered it to the man. “This should help overcome your reservations—and maybe get me a name.”
The man glanced over each shoulder to see if anyone was around. When he was certain they were alone, he snatched the bill from Winter’s hand. “Be right back.”
The warehouseman returned in five minutes and handed Winter a piece of notepaper with a single name written on it. He turned, and before he could walk away, he looked back at Winter. “Looks like you wasted a hundred bucks.” He pointed to a truck entering the yard. “I believe that’s your guy right there.”
_________________
Fischer exited the O’Neil Tunnel at Purchase Street. He cursed the stopped traffic. Boston on a Friday afternoon was bad enough—throw in all the construction, and you had gridlock. He found himself thinking, The old man was right. He always said there are only two seasons in Boston—winter and road construction.
He turned into the loading dock of the fish market and parked the truck. He was wary but no more than usual; being in the city always made him nervous and suspicious of everything and everyone. He searched his surroundings, looking for anyone who paid him more attention than he felt was warranted. It did not take him long to spot the man: a big sonuvabitch wearing black jeans and a similar colored T-shirt. The fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his chest, conforming to the man’s well-developed muscles.
Fischer climbed the steps to the loading dock, keeping the suspicious man in the corner of his eye. Like a feral cat at a picnic, he was curious about the man but still ready to bolt if he came too close. He stopped and stood on the edge of the dock, returning the man’s stare.
The observer was dangerous, and Fischer sensed it. Something—maybe some form of innate kinship—told him that this was someone who would have no hesitation to kill. The nosy man seemed to transmit menace.
“What you got?”
Fischer turned to see the purchasing agent standing behind him.
“Pollack, some haddock.”
“Fresh or farm?”
“Fresh.”
The purchasing agent pointed to a portable chalkboard and said, “There’s what we’re paying today.”
Fischer nodded and walked down the steps.
“Pull up to door twenty,” the purchasing agent shouted. “Loose or palletized?”
“What?” Fischer’s attention was still on the man across the parking lot.
“The load. Is it loose or on pallets?”
“Pallets.”
“Great, we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Fischer returned to the truck and backed up to the dock. When he stepped from the cab, the nosy man was beside the truck.
“You down from Maine?” the snoop asked.
“Yup.”
“What part?”
Fischer did not like being questioned and felt his face heat with anger. “The coast. I don’t see where it’s any of your business.”
“Hey, don’t get upset. I got some frozen food I need to get to Portland, and a truck like yours is ideal. I figured if you were dead-heading back, you might like to make a few extra bucks.”
“Well, you figured wrong.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, call me.” He handed Fischer a business card.
Fischer glanced at the card. The only thing printed on it was Gordon Winter and a phone number. “I won’t be changing my mind, now leave me alone.” He flipped the card over his shoulder and turned on his heel. He did not look back before climbing the stairs and disappearing into the warehouse.
_________________
Fischer kept one eye on the mirror, watching the meddlesome guy in the shiny black SUV behind him. There was no way he could pick up a woman tonight. He would have to wait until his next trip into Boston. It was evident that someone was looking for him. He was going to have to change a few things. He decided he would use the van on the next run. It disturbed him to know that after all this time he seemed to have attracted the interest of at least one somebody in Boston. As to how they had finally caught on to him, he was clueless. He had always been careful to pick up whores only—women about whom no one cared. Had he slipped up and finally taken one who had somebody that still cared enough to send people looking? He thought about Cheryl saying her family were fishers. If, as she said, her grandfather lived in North Carolina, she might have relatives who lived close by. He would get more information out of her once he got home.
You fucked it up again, you damned idiot!
“Shut up old man, I ain’t got time for you.”
In his rear-view mirror, Fischer saw the black SUV turn off, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Still, he kept checking behind to see if any cars kept reappearing. If the guy watching the market had been a cop, there would be others—cops are like snakes, always traveling in pairs.
Fischer wanted to settle back and enjoy the drive, but the old man’s incessant raving was bringing on a major headache.
If that friggin’ Jesus freak had given me one more half-wit like you, I coulda opened my own school for simpletons.
Fischer slid into the right lane. He was upset because he did his best thinking while behind the wheel, and he wanted to plan how he was going to change things; the old man’s constant badgering made it impossible.
Hey, dummy, how about first you do something with this truck?
Fischer snarled and tried to focus on the road. He slammed his fist on the console between the two seats; if anything pissed him off more than having the old man rave at him, it was when the bastard was right. He made a note to toss the truck’s stolen plates as soon as he got home.
I told you that you had to stop. Now it seems you took one that somebody still gives a fuck about. They’ll be closing in on you.
“Shut the fuck up, old man. I got enough to deal with without you ragging on me.”
Have it your way, Willard. But it’s only a matter of time now. I hope you don’t have any delusions that the woman—
“Her name’s Cheryl.”
Whatever. Don’t think for a second that she won’t turn on you like a rabid dog.
Fischer drove in silence. He thought, Maybe he’s right . . . maybe it’s time for me to deal with Cheryl and get another woman.
22
Houston attacked his omelet while knowing that he’d regret it later. A large morning meal usually left him feeling sluggish all morning. The only reason he was in the diner was to meet with Gordon Winter, who sat across from him looking haggard and exhausted. “You look like crap,” he said.
“Had some business to attend to,” Winter answered.
“It must have kept you out late.”
“You know how it is in my line of business.”
“Not entirely. What I know is more than enough, though.”
Winter sipped his coffee and watched a shapely waitress bend over a table. “You know,” he said, “there is nothing I like better than a pair of legs rushing up to make an ass of themselves.”
“You been with Jimmy so long that you’re starting to talk lik
e him.” Houston followed his gaze and smiled. “I will admit that she’s a looker, alright. Now, let’s get down to business. You called and said you had a name.”
Winter turned away from the woman and said, “Willard Fischer. He owns a fishing boat and charter service someplace on the coast of Maine.”
Houston groaned. “Do you have any idea how much coastline there is in Maine? Not to mention the thousands of islands and inlets.”
“A few . . .”
“What else you know about him?”
“He sounds like a whacko. I’ve talked with several people who buy from him, and they say every time he comes to town his truck is painted a different color.”
Houston put his fork down. “That could explain why the cops keep getting differing descriptions of the truck.”
“Works for me,” Winter said.
_________________
Houston parked in front of the Guerette home, and he and Bouchard got out. He opened the gate in the picket fence, and Betty appeared at the front door. He waved, and Bouchard said, “Morning, Betty, nice day isn’t it?”
“Yup, ’twill be bettah if you have some news for us.”
“Is Archie around?” Houston asked.
“He’s in the back workin’ on the boat. Come in. I’ll fetch him.” She held the door open and let him in. “I have fresh coffee in the kitchen.”
She led them toward a cozy kitchen filled with the aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread. The inside of the house was as neat and clean as the yard. The primary feature of the living room was a huge marble fireplace with models of commercial fishing boats on the mantle. Houston stopped and studied the pictures that adorned the wall. Most were pictures of Cheryl as a child; several were of them with a young couple. Betty saw him looking at one of the pictures—the couple beside a fishing trawler—and said, “That’s our son, Jeremy, and his wife.”
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