was involved in. Krasnyi had been charged with importing a shipment container from Novorossiysk, Russia, that contained a limited edition Rolls-Royce Phantom and enough pure heroin to get everyone on the western seaboard high.
Krasnyi was cleared of all charges when initial witnesses, including two undercover cops, recanted their statements about seeing him at the scene. This was despite him being pulled over and arrested six blocks from the docks while sitting in the back seat of the exact same silver Rolls-Royce that was on the shipping manifest.
No wonder Frank is pissed about it.
The fourth clipping is a photo and cutline that shows a younger Krasnyi as a pallbearer at a funeral. The cutline reads:
Following the death of alleged crime boss AlimÂzhan Izmaylovsky, police sources expect Krasnyi Lebed, right, to quickly take control of organized crime in San Francisco.
A low whistle escapes my lips. The clipping is unusual in that neither the name of the photographer nor the date it ran is printed anywhere on the sheet. I flip the clipping over to see if thereâs a date stamp on the back, but itâs blank, too.
Whenever it ran, it was obviously in the days when NOW had a true independent heart and much ballsier staff. There is no way our paperâs lawyer would ever let us run such a potentially libelous cutline today. I admire the cockiness of it.
Returning the folder to the morgue, I stop at the copy machine and make an enlargement of the photo. The faces of the other pallbearers are either out of frame or out of focus, and I wonder if that was the photographerâs decision or the newspaperâs.
I fold the copy and slip it into my back pocket.
âFind what you were looking for?â Lulu asks as I hand her the folder.
I shrug. âJust crumbs, but we keep archives of all our photos, right?â
âSure.â
âWhat about the negatives?â
Luluâs face wrinkles. âWeâre meant to, but there are definitely huge gaps. We lost a bunch when the roof leaked that one time, and photographers arenât always the best at returning negs after theyâve raided the archives for their portfolios, especially before I started here.â
âCould you look up the photo in that last clipping? See if we have any hard copies or, better yet, the negatives? Iâd like to find out who the photographer was and if more shots from that funeral are kicking around.â
âWhat are you hoping to find?â
I shrug again. âYou know me. I just pick at the scab until it bleeds.â
Lulu winces. âCute metaphor.â
âThatâs why Iâll never be a famous author; no time for pretty words.â
Lulu laughs. âIâll see what I can do, but it might take some time. The photo archives arenât in the computer.â
âThanks. Iâll check back.â
For my next phone call, I head outside. The closest pay phone is four blocks to the south, but there are some calls I donât like to make within earshot of nosey reporters. Especially if theyâre anything like me.
I turn up my collar against the rain and walk.
His phone is answered on the sixth ring. Thereâs no greeting, only silence.
âPinch?â I ask. âYou hungry?â
âWhat do you have in mind?â answers a voice that is so much deeper than you ever expect once you meet him in person.
âIâm thinking a cheeseburger at Pink Bicycle, but Iâm also being tempted by a chocolate-chip mint sundae with rainbow sprinkles at Polka Dots.â
âAnd these two disparate choices hold equal weight in your thoughts?â
âYeah, Iâm craving both, but I canât eat both, cause I already had a bagel and penis for breakfast. And if carbs went to your boobs, Iâd be okay, but they donât. So ⦠â
âI donât want to ask about the penis.â
âProbably for the best. So which do you