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unleashes fifteen projectiles: three .10-caliber discs alongside twelve pellets of plated BB. The spread hits center mass to punch a hole in the target as wide as my hand.
    If that doesn’t knock an intruder on his ass and have his lowlife friends calling an undertaker rather than an ambulance, I don’t know what will.
    With a devilish grin, I fire the second shotgun round and follow up in rapid succession with the four .45s.
    As I reload, Frank moves around behind me and taps my shoulder. I lower my protective ear guards and turn to face him.
    â€œWhat in hell are you shooting?” he asks.
    I show him the gun and point to the black-jacketed shotgun shells.
    â€œNot exactly a purse gun,” he says.
    â€œNo,” I agree, “but I kinda like it. Wanna try?”
    I don’t need to ask twice. Frank grasps the loaded gun and a fresh silhouette has its chest turned to confetti before joining its siblings in the range’s recycle bin.
    When he hands the gun back, Frank says, “Should have called it the Don’t Fuck With Me instead of Governor.”
    I laugh. “So which gun is your favorite?”
    â€œWhichever one I have with me when I need to use it,” he quips.
    Frank turns to reload the magazine of his department issue Sig Sauer with .40-caliber brass, while I put in some more one-on-one time with the Governor.

    Once our skills are sharpened, I offer to buy Frank a coffee and we grab a couple of comfortable chairs in a quiet corner of the clubhouse.
    â€œSo, what’s up?” Frank asks.
    I tell him about my idea for the Father’s Day piece before asking, “How well do you know a Krasnyi Lebed?”
    â€œThe Red Swan?” Frank exhales through his nose. “Seriously?”
    â€œYeah. He’s connected to the story.”
    â€œHe’s connected to a lot of things, Dix. The man traffics in drugs, women, organs, you name it. He’s bad news.”
    â€œYou ever nailed him?”
    â€œOnce, but we lost in court.”
    â€œWas this about ten years back?”
    â€œTwelve. Why?”
    I tell him about the newspaper clipping that Bailey had shown me: Crime Boss Cleared of All Charges.
    Frank nods. “That’s the case. He might be called a swan, but Krasnyi’s also slippery as a damn eel.”
    â€œHow did he get the nickname?” I picture a swan swimming through a lake of blood, its snowy feathers changing color as the death toll mounts.
    â€œIt’s the literal translation of his name from Russian,” says Frank. “Maybe his parents hoped he’d be a redhead like you.”
    â€œHave you ever met him?” I ask.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?”
    â€œCharming and slick,” says Frank. “Reminded me of the first time I read Bram Stoker’s Dracula . If the novel had been set in Russia, it could have been called Red Swan .”
    I raise my eyebrows. “I doubt he drinks blood.”
    â€œNo, but he spills enough of it and is very good at hiding the evidence.”
    â€œWould he meet with me?”
    Frank sips his coffee before answering. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
    â€œI get that, but would he?”
    â€œYou’re not his type.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard.” I notice Frank’s avoiding my gaze. “But what, Frank? You’re hiding something.”
    Frank sighs. “He’s a news junkie.”
    â€œSo he’ll have heard of me?”
    â€œWithout a doubt.”
    â€œAnd that’ll get me in to see him?”
    â€œPossibly, but if you get in trouble, there are some places even I can’t go. You get that, right? You cross his threshold and as far as he’s concerned, you’re in Russia. And in Russia, nobody says no to him about anything.”
    â€œI just want to ask a few questions.”
    â€œAnd can you do that without pissing him off?”
    I click my tongue in disbelief. “Of course I can. What do you