Devil With a Gun

by M. C. Grant

  I open the cardboard sleeve to find the film negatives stuck together in a celluloid blob. Useless.

  With a sigh I push the envelope away and close my eyes to think. What was I really hoping to find? A concrete connection between Joseph Brown and Krasnyi Lebed, the Red Swan, of course. But I already have that, don’t I? Bailey told me her father was doing a job for Lebed when he disappeared, and the tea house maitre d’, Mikhail, said Brown—if he’s alive—has evidence that could bring down the Red Swan.

  The trouble is that every question leads to another question; to write a story, I need answers.

  I pick up the cardboard sleeve again and notice the date penciled in the corner. It’s faded but still legible.

  I pull my own notepad out of my back pocket and write it down. The year of the funeral is the same year Joe Brown went missing—the same year that Lebed came into full control of the city’s Russian mob.

  Could Brown have been more than he seemed?

  Instead of being an underling, could he have been an equal? A threat to Lebed’s throne, even? If so, he would surely have been one of the pallbearers.

  I need a better look at the funeral photographs. I also need to know the exact date when Brown went missing, and the only person who accurately knows that information is Bailey.

  Twenty-Seven

  The taxi drops me in a part of town that smells of home. Not my home—too often filled with the static undertone of bickering and not-quite-good-enough—but home just the same. The humid air promises doughy perogies on the boil, onions in the frying pan, smoked ham on the bone, and hand-rolled cigarettes.

  I find the photographer’s shingle on a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it doorway nestled between a Korean convenience store and a Ukrainian import food emporium with jars of jellied pigs feet displayed in the front window. I’m not sure if the display is meant to entice customers inside or scare them away.

  There’s no buzzer or bell in the entrance alcove, so I try the door. It’s unlocked but not necessarily inviting. Inside, the narrow landing at the foot of the stairs is littered with broken glass vials, burnt squares of aluminum foil, and dead disposable lighters. The air is heavy with the stench of urine, rancid body juices, and no shortage of despair. Fortunately, the stairwell dwellers are out on their daily rounds.

  At the top of the stairs, I’m given the choice of two doors. The one on my right has a discolored plastic sign that boasts Mavis’s Makeovers and Alterations. The sign on the other door is etched metal, but the black paint that once made the letters stand out has cracked and peeled to the point where you need imagination rather than good eyesight to read what it says.

  By process of elimination—i.e., I don’t currently need a seamstress—I knock on the left-hand door.

  When there’s no answer, I knock again. Harder. And press my ear to the door.

  A distant grunt and cough from inside is followed by a shuffling of feet and the click-clack-click of something solid hitting a wooden floor.

  The noises continue until I can sense someone standing on the other side of the door, catching his breath. There’s no peephole, so I don’t have to fix my hair or put on a friendly smile.

  Finally, a hoarse male voice calls, “Who’s there?”

  “Dixie Flynn. I’m a reporter with NOW and I’m looking for a photographer who used to work for us.”

  “You got ID?”

  “Business card OK?” I pull one of the few cards that I carry with me and slide it under the door.

  After a moment, the voice asks, “How old are you?”

  “Same as my bra size, how about you?”

  The man grunts again, but he must have liked the quip, since a bolt slides back from the other side of the door.

  “Watch your step,” he says as the door swings open to expose a maze of newspapers, magazines, books, and camera equipment of every vintage.

  The passageway between the piles of fermenting pulp is deliberately wide to allow the man room to move as he sways from side to side like a penguin. Neither of his legs appears to work that well, and he relies heavily on a metal cane with a stabilizing tripod end. One of the rubber stoppers has fallen off the tripod, exposing a sharp-edged metal point. I glance at the floor and notice the scars it’s left along the hallway—a trail in inverted Braille.

  I close the door behind me and follow him through the warren into a cluttered room where two armchairs rest in front of two large windows with a view of the street. One of the chairs is indented in the shape of the man, while the other looks barely used.

  He plops himself into the worn chair with a grateful sigh before pulling a pouch of loose tobacco and a pack of rolling papers out of a well-used pocket sewn into the chair’s side.

  The man jabs his chin in the direction of the other chair as he expertly rolls a thin cigarette and slips it between his lips. He lights it with an ancient steel Zippo and the smoke drifts to a gap at the sill of the window closest to him. I patiently wait for him to settle and open the conversation.

  “I still read them,” he says between puffs, “the newspapers … but I can’t say I’m impressed. They’ve turned photojournalists into photographers and dulled their teeth with rubber caps. The only one with any guts anymore is that young punk up in Seattle, Hackett I think his name is, who stood his ground when a vigilante gang assassinated that murderer in the middle of the street. That took nerve. Everyone else is shooting grip ’n’ grins and puppies licking ice cream. Even you”—he points his lit cigarette at me—“with that dead artist piece. The narrative was great, but the paper didn’t run the crucial photo—the headless body and bloody canvas. Where’s the balls?”

  “The publisher keeps everyone’s testicles in a jar,” I say. “Kinda like those pickled feet downstairs. Break open only in case of emergency.”

  The man grins and holds out a hand. “I’m Victor Hendrickson. My shriveled jewels are locked in that jar, too.”

  I lean forward to take his hand. The skin is softer than I expect, like well-oiled calfskin.

  “So, what’re you looking for?” Victor asks. “Something for an anniversary piece? A look back at what NOW published before it became scared of its own shadow and everybody else’s checkbook?”

  I remove the photocopy of the funeral clipping from my pocket and hand it over. “I’m wondering if you still have any more shots from this day.”

  He blanches when he unfolds the paper and looks at the image. “Alimzhan Izmaylovsky’s funeral,” he says with perfect pronunciation.

  “Good memory.”

  “Not really.” He rubs his left leg. “That photo cost me both knees. The docs were able to replace my right one, but the left didn’t take and the bastard insurance wouldn’t let them try again. Too expensive, they said. Some fucking number cruncher refuses to tick a box and that’s me, screwed for life. Sweet land of liberty? Bullshit! Only if you can afford it.”

  “How did the photo cost you your knees?” I ask.

  Victor crushes the damp stub of his cigarette into the photocopied face of Krasnyi Lebed.

  “Musta shot his bad side, I guess. Not that he has a good one. The same day the paper hit the streets, I was jumped by two guys and driven to a warehouse near the docks. The Swan was there, but the bastard didn’t say a word. Just watched with those dead eyes of his as his goons took an axe handle to both my knees. When they were done, they drove me back to the paper and dumped me on the street. It took awhile for people to realize I wasn’t a homeless drunk sleeping off a bender and needed medical help. But I got off easy.”

  “In what way?” I ask.

  Victor sighs. “The copy editor who wrote the cutline—just a young guy in his twenties—he had the tops of all his fingers snipped off. They generously left him his thumbs and cauterized the stubs with hot tar.”

  “Jesus!”

  Victor nods. “The Red fucking Swan kn
ows how to send a message. I was warned he would take my eyes next, so I never did go back to the paper. Not sure what happened to the editor.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too—sorry I couldn’t nail that son-of-a-bitch with something that would stick.”

  “Did you keep any of your photos?”

  “Silly question.” Victor grins. “Of course I did. He took my mobility, not my ego.”

  “What about from Izmaylovsky’s funeral? The ones in our archive are ruined.”

  “Newspapers may write our history, but I’ve never trusted them to preserve it.” With some effort, Victor pulls himself out of the chair. “Heat up some water for coffee and I’ll dig out my scrapbooks.”

  I smile. “Deal.”

  Over cups of instant coffee, Victor and I flip through a dozen scrapbooks filled with photographs and newspaper clippings. Although he has blessedly arranged his lifetime’s collection by year, with at least a dozen scrapbooks dedicated to each one, he hasn’t organized the photos into any subcategories beyond that.

  Victor comes across the funeral first.

  “I hid inside a crypt,” he tells me. “I knew the Russians would post guards at each entrance to keep the media away, so I paid the groundskeeper to unlock one of the family tombs on a small hill near the gravesite, and I spent the night. Good job I don’t have much of an imagination, ’cause that place was on the spooky side. But the next morning, the view was perfect for a long lens and steady nerves. None of the goons spotted me.” He chuckles. “I even took pics of the cops setting up their surveillance, but they weren’t exactly trying to go unnoticed.”

  I sit beside him and look closely at the photos.

  “Anyone in particular you’re looking for?” he asks.

  “A man named Joe Brown. I’m wondering if he was one of the pallbearers.”

  Victor shakes his head. “No chance. Every pallbearer was pure Ruskie. If you’re born in America, you can only go so high in this organization. And with a name like Brown, he wouldn’t even make it to middle management, but—”

  Victor flips forward a few pages and stabs his finger at a photo. “This could be your man.”

  I look down to see a plain face frozen in time, unkempt hair and an ill-fitting suit, standing beside a giant oak. The picture is grainy, obviously shot from a long distance and enlarged, but I can see Bailey in the shape of his face—especially the eyes, which are tired and forlorn.

  “Looks like he wasn’t invited,” I say.

  “Nope. He was standing quite a distance away, but you can see in his face that he wants to be there. That’s why I snapped it. Curious, huh?”

  “This didn’t run in the paper, did it?”

  “Nope. No reason to. Is that your man?”

  “I think so. Any chance I can get a copy?”

  Victor peels back the plastic sheet that’s holding the photo in place. “Take this one,” he says. “Not even sure why I held onto it.”

  I take one more look. The face, apart from its passing resemblance to Bailey, is that of a stranger. A small romantic part of me had secretly hoped Joe Brown and my Good Samaritan would turn out to be one and the same. It would have made my next step so much simpler.

  I slip the photo into my pocket and stand up to go.

  “One more thing,” I say. “I forgot to check the story, but how did Izmaylovsky die?”

  “Heart attack,” says Victor. “Died in his sleep. Not the way a bastard like that should go.”

  I nod. “Thanks for your time,” I say. “It’s been helpful.”

  “Anytime.” He takes my hand and holds on to squeeze it with tight sincerity. “And if you ever get a chance to bring the Swan down, give me a call. I’ll bust open that jar, strap on my balls, and join in.”

  “You know, Victor,” I say. “I just may take you up on that.”

  Twenty-Eight

  The last person I expect to bump into is coming down the stairs as I enter my building’s lobby from the street. We both freeze in place, uncomfortable and awkward.

  The bastard is still handsome in that stormy-eyed, kissable-lipped kind of way that normally makes my heart flutter. Unfortunately, the last time I saw this man, we had a little misunderstanding in which I held a knife to his throat after trashing the art gallery he owns.

  “Declan,” I say to cleverly show I haven’t forgotten his name even though I’ve tried. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes are more hazelnut than almond, in both shape and color, which tells me he was hoping to avoid exactly this situation. His loss for words is worse than mine.

  “You didn’t come to see me, did you?” I say.

  “I … well … I was—”

  Bare feet patter on the stairs behind him and Kristy bursts around the bend like Sonic the Hedgehog coming out of a loop. With a tiny eek, she grasps the handrail to stop herself from slamming into

  Declan.

  I fold my arms across my chest and flash a look of annoyance that is too close to my mother’s for comfort, yet seems to fit as though custom made.

  “Oh, hey, Dix,” says Kristy with a fake and awkward smile. “Thought you’d be at the office.”

  “Why’s he here?” I ask. “Does Sam know?”

  Kristy sticks her lower lip out in an impressive pout. “Yes, Sam knows. We weren’t doing anything inappropriate.”

  “Such as?” I ask.

  “Such as … anything,” Kristy jabs back weakly.

  “I suppose he’s consulting on your art collection.”

  “No! We were … we’re just—”

  “I’m standing right here,” says Declan. “You don’t need to talk around me.”

  I lock onto Declan’s gaze. His eyes are smoldering yet cold. “Were you having sex?”

  He blushes slightly, and I wish he wouldn’t. “No.”

  I move my gaze to Kristy. “Were you?”

  “No.”

  “But even if we were,” declares Declan, “it’s of no concern of yours.”

  “I disagree,” I say. “Kristy and Sam are my friends. Anything that affects them, affects me.”

  “That’s sweet, Dix,” says Kristy. “We love you, too.”

  “So what were you doing?” I ask.

  Kristy sighs. “Declan’s agreed to be our donor.”

  “Sperm donor?” I ask.

  “Of course,” says Kristy, her brow knitting in confusion. “What else would we need a man for?”

  “Why?”

  “Look at him,” says Kristy. “He’s got good genes, and he’s smart too.”

  I look at Declan. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” he says.

  “Don’t be mad, Dix,” says Kristy. “It’s just, you know, business.”

  Declan takes the rest of the stairs until he’s standing directly in front of me. “Can I go now?”

  I keep my eyes locked on his as I step aside. “Keep it business,” I say as he brushes past. “I’m protective of my friends.”

  “Except when you get your wires crossed,” Declan snarls back. “Then it’s just Dixie for herself.”

  I almost rabbit punch him in the back of the head as he pushes through the door, but I clench my teeth instead.

  When he’s gone, I turn back to Kristy. “Really?” I ask.

  Kristy shrugs. “I want my baby to look that cute. Did you notice his dimples?”

  I sigh. Yes, I had noticed the dimples, and the eyes, and the way his jeans …

  “You want a glass of wine?” Kristy asks. “I’ve just opened a bottle.”

  “Maybe later. I have some work first.”

  “OK, just knock, I’m gonna watch Ellen.”

  I knock on Mr. French’s door and hear his parakeet, Baccarat, begin to chirp from inside.

  “Is someone at the door?” I he
ar Mr. French say as he clomps down the hall. “Oh, what a smart girl you are. Yes indeed.”

  When he opens the door, all three feet, ten inches of him twitches with delight. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, in tweed pants and sporting one of his many colorful sweater vests. Between his lips is the stem of a briar pipe carved in the shape of a busty mermaid, and the smoke has the distinct aroma of licorice and orange.

  But there’s something new. Dusting his upper lip is the beginning of a platinum moustache.

  I point at it and ask, “Errol Flynn?”

  Mr. French beams. “To begin with, perhaps, but I’m planning for a bit more length so that I can twirl the ends à la Rollie Fingers. I’ve even bought a lovely jar of French moustache wax in anticipation.”

  “I can see that on you,” I say.

  His eyes twinkle. “Come in, come in, Miss Flynn—any relation to Errol?”

  I only shake my head.

  “Pity. Anyway, Baccarat must have known it was you, his chirp was particularly robust upon your knock.”

  After following him into the main room and making appropriate kissing/cooing noises to Baccarat, I settle into the couch but decline his offer of tea.

  “I’m afraid,” I begin, “that time is of the essence.”

  “Intriguing, Miss Flynn. Do go on.”

  “I need you to do a bit of spying for me.”

  “Certainly. I have my walkie-talkies all charged from our last adventure, and I can get Clifford to help out if—”

  “I have another assistant for you this time,” I interrupt. “A photographer named Victor who knows the people involved and why it’s important to be careful.”

  “Ah,” he says, “sounds ominous.”

  I nod. “The people I want you to watch are dangerous. So your job, should you choose to accept it, is simply to observe and report back to me. You are not to engage them at any time and you are not to be seen.”