Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant Read Free Book Online Page A

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 Alim­zhan 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 there’s a date stamp on the back, but it’s 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 paper’s 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 photographer’s decision or the newspaper’s.
    I fold the copy and slip it into my back pocket.
    â€œFind what you were looking for?” Lulu asks as I hand her the folder.
    I shrug. “Just crumbs, but we keep archives of all our photos, right?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat about the negatives?”
    Lulu’s face wrinkles. “We’re meant to, but there are definitely huge gaps. We lost a bunch when the roof leaked that one time, and photographers aren’t always the best at returning negs after they’ve raided the archives for their portfolios, especially before I started here.”
    â€œCould you look up the photo in that last clipping? See if we have any hard copies or, better yet, the negatives? I’d like to find out who the photographer was and if more shots from that funeral are kicking around.”
    â€œWhat are you hoping to find?”
    I shrug again. “You know me. I just pick at the scab until it bleeds.”
    Lulu winces. “Cute metaphor.”
    â€œThat’s why I’ll never be a famous author; no time for pretty words.”
    Lulu laughs. “I’ll see what I can do, but it might take some time. The photo archives aren’t in the computer.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll check back.”
    For my next phone call, I head outside. The closest pay phone is four blocks to the south, but there are some calls I don’t like to make within earshot of nosey reporters. Especially if they’re anything like me.
    I turn up my collar against the rain and walk.

    His phone is answered on the sixth ring. There’s no greeting, only silence.
    â€œPinch?” I ask. “You hungry?”
    â€œWhat do you have in mind?” answers a voice that is so much deeper than you ever expect once you meet him in person.
    â€œI’m thinking a cheeseburger at Pink Bicycle, but I’m also being tempted by a chocolate-chip mint sundae with rainbow sprinkles at Polka Dots.”
    â€œAnd these two disparate choices hold equal weight in your thoughts?”
    â€œYeah, I’m craving both, but I can’t eat both, cause I already had a bagel and penis for breakfast. And if carbs went to your boobs, I’d be okay, but they don’t. So … ”
    â€œI don’t want to ask about the penis.”
    â€œProbably for the best. So which do you