Are you a photographer when you aren’t carrying a camera?  It’s one of those questions, like the tree falling in the forest when no one is there to hear it, which has no answer.  I’m a photographer, so I have a camera with me all the time.

     I swung my Beach Cab taxi into the queue at the Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood International Airport just before noon on a perfect mid-January day.  It was the kind of day the Chamber of Commerce likes to brag about.  I was number eleven in line and hoping for a big fare, like maybe a trip to that yuppie enclave known as Weston, or to Boca Raton, the city decorated by Ralph Lauren.

     It was not to be.  Luck had not been my lady since I arrived in Fort Lauderdale as a “just out of school” professional photographer a year or so ago.  The guy ahead of me, driving a cab for Flamingo Transportation, got a fare to Deerfield Beach.

     It was finally my turn.  A well dressed, solidly built, middle-aged man of medium height, carrying nothing but one of those large, waterproof camera cases, got in.  A heavy topcoat was draped over his arm.  I turned around toward him.

     “Port Everglades,” he said.

     Disappointment.  It might take ten minutes to get to the Port, if traffic was especially heavy.  It wasn’t.

     “The cruise terminal?” I asked.

     “I’ll show you when we get there,” he answered. 

I could tell that this wasn’t a guy who wanted to chat.  He said nothing until we were passing the unattended guard station on Spangler Boulevard.

     “Turn right up ahead,” he directed.

     I made the right turn and slowed down, waiting for instructions.  An unrelenting petroleum scent pervades all of Port Everglades.  Maybe you can get used to it if you work in the Port.  My nasal membranes could not.

     “Pull over right here,” he said, pointing to a spot near the Florida Power and Light plant.  Across the street was a storage yard for large, seagoing freight containers.  He spoke with a hint of an accent, maybe German, maybe Russian.  I pulled over and was about to advise him of the fare, when he handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

     “Keep the change,” he said.  The door slammed before I could even thank him.  Short fare, good tip.  Not great, but not bad.

     He crossed the street, heading toward the container area, while I recorded the fare on my clipboard.  I was about to do a U-turn and head back to the airport, but decided to watch him.  His back was to me and I followed behind him, driving very slowly.  I reached for the point and shoot camera that I kept next to me in the cab and took a couple of shots, holding the camera with one, well-practiced hand.

     I passed him and with the camera in my left hand, got off a few more shots, even though I was looking away from him.  It’s lousy photographic technique, but the results are sometimes okay portfolio material.

*   *   *

     I finished my shift at 6 P.M. and headed back to my modest townhouse walking distance from the taxi yard.  I called Gillian Welles, my more-often-than-not girlfriend, and we agreed to meet for dinner at a downtown Irish pub--our favorite tryst.  In the meantime, I had film to process.

     In my converted-bathroom darkroom, I ran through the standard developer-stop-fix-wash steps, and within half an hour the film was hanging, suspended from a clothesline, to dry. I didn’t yet know if I’d gotten anything worthwhile   

At ten to eight, Gillian arrived at Maguire’s Hill 16 Pub.  I was comfortably ensconced in our usual booth.

     “Why Michael Kenner,” she said, feigning surprise at seeing me.  “Early as usual.”  I got up and gave her a quick kiss and hug.  My pulse always accelerates when I see her.  I loved everything about the way she looks, from her freckles and long, pulled-back, strawberry blonde hair, down to her always-painted toenails, some five feet two inches to the south. 

     I took in a breath to enjoy her “soap and water” scented perfume.  “I knew you’d be early and I didn’t want you to wait,” I said.

     “It’s bad for your reputation as a photographer to always be early.  You’re supposed to be an artist.”

     “Maybe I’m more my parents’ son than artist,” I speculated, continuing our usual banter.

     “I think it’s your bloody English genes,” she said, putting on the thickest Cockney accent she could.

     “You’re one to talk,” I answered in my best Liverpool accent, “being born there and all.  I can run for President.  You can’t.” 

     “Who in their right mind would want to be President?  Being a King or Queen, now that’s something!” she said.

     “That settles it,” I said.  I’m having fish and chips.”

     “A very clever diversion from talking about us,” she said.

     “What’s to discuss?  Neither of us is settled enough in our careers, let alone geography, for permanent plans,” I said.

     “You’re the one who’s not settled.  People would kill to be an entertainment reporter in South Florida.  I’ve got a great job and I love it in Fort Lauderdale.  You think you miss Santa Barbara, but that’s because you were in school, photography school at that.  I think you really miss shooting swimsuit models.”

     “I’ve got you, don’t I?”  A cold glare shot across the table at me. 

     “Let’s change the subject,” she said. “I haven’t seen any of your recent stuff.  Are you still carrying the point and shoot everywhere?”

     “Of course.  I always have it with me.”

     “Even now?” she asked.

     I picked up my trusty Pentax and without bringing it to my eye, got a shot of Gillian before she could make a face or stick out her tongue.  The flash caught the attention of a few of the patrons seated at the bar.

     We finished dinner and walked arm in arm across the parking lot to my beat-up Land Rover.  As I was about to back out of the parking space, Gillian leaned across to me, put her free weight-exercised arms around my neck and whispered in my ear.

     “Hey, photographer, let’s go back to your place and see what we can develop.”

     I didn’t need to be asked twice.

*   *   *

     “These negatives look interesting,” she said.  She had taken the dry negatives and put them on a light box in the darkroom.  “Let’s do some contact sheets and work prints.”

     And so we did.  It took just over an hour until we were looking at eight by ten prints of okay quality.

     “Hey, this one’s interesting,” Gillian said, holding up a shot I really didn’t remember shooting.

     I looked at the print.  “I was driving one way and looking the other way.  A one-handed grab shot.”  I pointed out my Port Everglades passenger.  “Here’s that guy I told you about at dinner.”

     “What’s the lady doing all togged up in a container yard in Port Everglades?” she asked.

     I took a careful look at the print.  My passenger was there in profile, along with two other men.  A striking woman was looking directly into the camera.

     “I never saw her.  I shot this over my shoulder.  It is strange.”  The more carefully I looked, the stranger it seemed.

     “She’s wearing high heels and an evening gown. Her hair wasn’t done like that in five minutes.”  Gillian continued to study the photograph.  “She’s as tall as a couple of those men. What eyes!  You’re sure she wasn’t the reason you took this shot?”

     “I’m sure.  Those eyes make her look kind of Asian,” I said.

     “A little bit, but I don’t think so.  This is a fabulous shot.  Shame we don’t know what’s really going on there.  It’s fun speculating though,” she said.

     “Speaking of fun,” I asked.

     “What did you have in mind?”

     “I thought we’d print a few more negatives,” I said.

     “How about making a different kind of memory?” she asked.

*   *   *

     The insistent ring of my phone woke me out of a deep sleep.  My foggy brain refused to send instructions to my arm to pick up the phone. The ringing wouldn’t stop.  My arm reached far enough to hit the speakerphone button.

     “Hello,” I mumbled, the sound heavily muffled by the pillow covering my mouth.

     “Michael, wake up.” 

     "What?"

     “You’re not here,” I said.

     “Michael.”  The tone of her voice jolted me fully awake.   

     “Did you see the paper this morning?” she asked.

     “Of course not.  I haven’t seen myself yet.  What’s wrong?”

     “The woman in your photograph,” she said.

     “What about her?” I asked.

     “She was found dead this morning.  The story and a police sketch are in the paper,” she said.

     “Are you sure it’s the same person?” I asked.

     “Absolutely.  The sketch looks just like her and the description of her clothes is dead-on, no pun intended,” she said.

     “I’m going to give my photograph and a statement to the police,” I said.

     “I have a better idea,” she said.  “Let’s do a little snooping ourselves and I’ll have a scoop for the paper.”

     “You’re an entertainment reporter.  You shouldn’t be messing around in criminal cases.  Are you crazy?”

     “Only about you.”

     “Jilly,” I said, drawing her name out.

     “I’m not crazy, but I would like a career boost.  Will you help me?” 

      "What do you have in mind?"

     “Get dressed and meet me at the Floridian for breakfast in half an hour.  I’ll tell you when I see you,” she said, and hung up.

*   *   *

     We plotted over breakfast.  More correctly, she plotted while I ate.  Despite my best judgment to the contrary, I was going to participate in a probably dangerous, definitely illegal investigation.  My defense—the most persuasive Englishwoman since Margaret Thatcher made me do it.

*   *   *

     Gillian drove us to the Port in her Honda Civic.  I showed her where I dropped off my passenger.  There was no action at the container yard, so we drove on toward the cruise terminals.  Gillian made a quick U-turn and headed back toward the container yard.  When we passed the containers again, there was a white limousine parked alongside a silver Lincoln Town-car.  Both vehicles had heavily tinted windows.  We couldn’t see anyone.

     “Get the license numbers,” Gillian yelled.

     “You went by too fast,” I answered.

     We flew past the yard and headed toward the convention center.  Gillian made a U-turn that would have done the Honda racing team proud.

     “We’ll try again.  Is your camera ready?”

     I gave her one of those “what do you think” looks.   

“I don’t want them to notice us.  I’m going to slow down this time.  Make sure you get it.”

     I didn’t answer, instead concentrating on the scene.  I had my eye to the viewfinder and practiced locating the lens on the license plates of other cars.  I put the lens on maximum telephoto.

     We passed the limo and the Lincoln again, this time under the speed limit, going a modest 25-mph.  I called the letters and numbers off the plates and repeated them over and over as I got off three shots. 

*   *   *

     “The limo and the Lincoln are both registered to Paradise,” Gillian reported, less than an hour after dropping me off and going to her office.  Ah, the power of the press.

     “Paradise?  I don’t get it.”

     “You better not get it at Paradise,” Gillian said.

     “You know what I mean.  What would vehicles from a strip club be doing at the container yard? Maybe the club is a front for something going on at the Port.”

     “We need to go there, tonight.” said Gillian.  “Dress like you’re James Bond.  They’ll think we’re celebrating.”

     “I don’t have a tuxedo,” I said.

     “Is that the reason you don’t shoot weddings?  Just remember, Michael, no undue smiling tonight or you’re in big trouble,” she said.

     “I have a feeling I’m in big trouble anyway,” I said.

*   *   *

     Sitting at a table next to the stage at Paradise with Gillian made me feel like a gay man in a brothel.  The dancer, wearing only a garter and a look of marginal interest in the audience, came toward me.  I tried to tell her to go elsewhere with my eyes, but it didn’t work.  I swallowed hard.

     She emerged from the smoke and the colored lights.  In a defensive measure, with Gillian looking from her to me as fast as the human eye can shift, I stared into beautiful green eyes.

     It’s not possible.  She’s the same woman in my photograph and in the newspaper.  But she’s . . . she’s dead.  She got down on her knees and crawled towards me, smiling.  It was obvious that the smile was forced.  I felt myself being pushed towards her.  What the hell was going on?  Then I realized Gillian was pushing me.

     Gillian’s lips were on my right ear, but not in a kiss.

     “She looks like the same girl.  Impress her.  Get some money out,” Gillian said.

     I couldn’t believe what my own girlfriend was saying.  Super-possessive Gillian was encouraging me in the direction of another woman.

     The dancer’s face was only six inches from me.  Her obviously natural breasts were closer.  She kept moving towards me.

     “Vot’s your name, lover,” she asked in an accent I now recognized as Russian.

     “Michael.”  It was the best I could do.

     She kissed me on the mouth.  “I am Svetlana. You are very good kisser,” she said, her breasts bumping into my chest.

     Gillian leaned in, and told me to slip a five-dollar bill into Svetlana’s garter.

     “Do you do parties, Svetlana?  Maybe a party of three?” Gillian asked.

My eyes went wide.

“Maybe,” said Svetlana.

*   *   *

     Three days later, Gillian and I were in a room with an ocean view at one of Fort Lauderdale’s fanciest beachfront hotels. 

“This is dumb--this is dangerous,” I said to Gillian.

     “This could be your lucky night, big boy,” she said.

     “Very funny.  Gillian, I think it’s time for the police.” I said.

     “If I told you that ‘This could be your finest hour,’ you’d probably not think that was too funny either,” she said.

     “You’ve got that right.”

     “Okay, we’ll just talk with her, see what the deal is, and then maybe we’ll call in the gendarmes.  Where’s your sense of adventure?” she asked.

     “Adventure I like.  Antagonizing thugs and murderers doesn’t strike me as anything but stupid.  What’s in it for us?” I asked.

     “Maybe fame, maybe fortune, maybe serious career boosts for two people who could use some boosting.  Your photograph, my story--I can almost see the Pulitzers,” she said.

     “I hope the story isn’t about two more bodies they find floating in the ocean outside this hotel,” I said.  “Couldn’t we have at least saved a little on the room?”

     “What’s the matter, don’t you like the view?  Besides, it’s for our image.  Who’d pay a thousand bucks for a three-way and then stay in a dump?”

     “You promised her a thousand dollars?” I said in disbelief.  “Do you know how long it takes us to earn that much?”

     “Don’t worry.  We won’t have to pay her.  We’ll just be having a friendly chat,” she said.

     “Let’s hope the KGB doesn’t show up with your friend Svetlana,” I said.

     “From where I was sitting, she seemed more like your friend, stud,” she said.

     I was about to counter with a witty rejoinder, but there was a knock at the door.  Gillian and I looked at each other, trying to decide who should answer the door.  My palms felt like used dishtowels.  I looked through the peephole, trying my best to see as much of the hall as I could. 

Svetlana was alone.  I opened the door.

     “Hello, Mikhail,” she said as she entered the room.  Her dress was black and very, very tight.  It also was slit on the right side to reveal plenty of leg.  There was no shortage of cleavage either.

She walked over to where Gillian was seated on the king-sized bed and gave Gillian a long kiss on the lips.  Then she turned back to me.

“We talk business first, yes?” she said.

“Of course,” I said.  “We definitely need to talk about some business.”

Svetlana was seated next to Gillian on the bed.  “You are not police, I am right?”  She looked at each of us.

“No, we’re not cops,” Gillian said.  “I work for the newspaper.”

“I’m a photographer,” I added.

“So, you want to take pictures tonight?” Svetlana asked.

Gillian started to giggle.  “No, we don’t want any pictures.” I said. “I want to show you some pictures.”

“And this is why you wanted me to come here?” Svetlana asked.

“Yes,” Gillian said. 

Svetlana stood to leave.  “I misunderstood.  I go.”

“Please,” I said, “look at the pictures.  Something very bad is going on.”

“Okay,” she said, “I look.”

Gillian took the pictures from an envelope on the desk, pictures of my taxi passenger and of a woman who, if she was not Svetlana, could have been her twin.  She handed them to Svetlana.

Svetlana looked at the pictures and burst into tears.  “This is Katya.  I knew she was one they kill.”

“Who killed Katya?” I asked.

“Them,” she said, pointing at the picture that included my passenger and two other men.  “She wanted most to get away from them--things they make us do.”

“Is Katya your sister?” Gillian asked.  “You look so much alike.”

“They want us to look same.  They call it Anastasia look.  Classy for American customers,” she said, fighting back sobs while tears drew dark stripes down her cheeks with mascara.

“Why don’t you leave--run away and hide from these guys?” I asked.

     “We are not legal in this country.  I am working the club and parties to pay for bring me to this country,” she said, her shoulders still shaking.  “Katya tried to leave, so they kill her as warning to us.”

     “Did these men bring you to America?” Gillian asked.

     “Da, ‘yes.’  No one can pay what they demand, so we have contract with them for five years to pay,” Svetlana said.

     “How did they bring you over?” I asked.

     “In shipping containers.  Some are like rooms, in back part.  Front is made to look like cargo.  They let us out at port, then we are taken to apartment near club,” she explained.

     “How often do they bring girls in?  Is it the same ship every time?” Gillian started firing questions at Svetlana.

     “Go slow, Jilly,” I said. “Svetlana, do you want us to help you get away from them?”

     She did not speak, but her smile said it all.  I had no idea what to do next, but now I was as determined to break up this Russian flesh peddling ring as Gillian was to make sure Svetlana did not express her gratitude to me in a manner contrary to Gillian’s best interests.

*   *   *

     Gillian and I spent hours getting details from Svetlana about how the smuggling of illegal Russian aliens worked.  We now knew the how, when, where and who.  My instincts were to call the Fort Lauderdale Police, the Broward County Sheriff’s Office, the FBI, the INS, the Navy Seals and every other police and military organization I could think of.  Svetlana begged me not to call “the authorities” out of fear of being sent back to Russia, where friends of the smugglers would make short work of her. 

     I promised not to call the police.  Instead, I called my best friend, a former cop and college defensive tackle, Steve Overcash. 

     Steve wasn’t a cop anymore, but was now in law school.  I asked Steve for advice.  He told me to call the police.  After I told him I couldn’t do that right now, he offered to help.  Better yet, he again offered to help after he heard my plan, which he described as nuts.

*   *   *

     I called Paradise from a phone booth at the police station on Broward Boulevard.  When a female voice with a Brooklyn accent answered, I demanded to speak to Nicolai Petrovich.  Svetlana had identified him not only as my passenger, but also as the boss of the alien smuggling clique of the Organizatsiya, the Russian mob.

     “Who is this?” growled Petrovich.

     I tried to sound tough.  “We have Svetlana.  It will cost you half a million dollars to get her back.”

     He laughed.  “Half a million for a stripper.  You must be joking.”

     “One hundred dollars for the girl and four hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred for not giving you and your enterprise to the Feds,” I said.

     “You must have a death wish.  Do you know who you are dealing with!” he roared.

     “I know exactly who I am dealing with.  You do not have any idea who you are dealing with.  You can save your business and your ass--it’s a bargain.”  I felt like I was a movie character, I just didn’t know which one.  At five-nine and one hundred fifty-five pounds, I wasn’t going to be cast as a tough guy.

     There was a long pause before Petrovich spoke.  “Suppose I’m willing to accept your terms.”

     I told him where and when to bring the money, and what else to do and not to do.  He listened and agreed.  Something was wrong; this was too easy.  Waiting two more days for our rendezvous would take a lot of patience.  All things come to those who wait.  That’s what I was afraid of.

*   *   *

Gillian pulled in a few favors and we were able to get access to Fort Lauderdale Baseball Stadium, the former spring training home of the New York Yankees.  In January, it got little use.  What I had in mind was no sporting contest.  On the other hand, there’d be no umpires to make sure everybody played by the rules.  Standing alone in the dark where the second base bag should have been, I began to have second thoughts about this.  I also had third, fourth and fifth thoughts.

I touched my side, making sure my small flashlight was handy. The temperature was only sixty-two degrees, but I felt very cold.  The quiet made me all the more uncomfortable.  The sound of footsteps from the east ramp made me turn my head.  I tried to make out how many sets of feet were coming my way.  Two was the deal.  It sounded like there might be more.  I couldn’t tell.

     I couldn’t see much detail from the light of the quarter moon.  I wanted to use my flashlight, but it was too small to do me any good at this range.  I waited.  The sound of the steps disappeared as shoes left concrete and touched the field area.  I pulled out my miniature mag-lite®.  Before I could turn it on, three flashlights blinded me.  I looked toward the ground and saw what I thought were three pairs of shoes.  My eyes tried repeatedly to focus, without success. 

To my surprise, three flashlights pointed up, shining on faces.  The light from below created a Halloween tableaux with three ghoulish faces.

“I have the money,” said a now familiar voice.  “Where is the girl?”

“You’ll get her when I’m satisfied that you brought all the money,” I said.

“Show it to him.  Let him count it,” Petrovich said.

A very large, very muscular man I’d seen in the photograph brought what I recognized as the waterproof camera case from behind his back and put it at my feet.  The guy was huge.  I felt like a Chihuahua at a Bullmastiff convention.

“Open the case,” I said.  “There better be no tricks or Svetlana will do more singing than a Russian opera company.”

He glanced at Petrovich, who nodded.

The no-name man then unscrewed the locks on the black case and opened it.  Stacks of cash were tightly pushed into the case. 

“Back up, Boris,” I said.

“How does he know my name?” the man asked, turning to Petrovich.

“Lucky guess.  Move, and shut up,” Petrovich ordered.

“Let’s get your other friend out of my way,” I said, gesturing like I was dusting a table with my hand.

“Do it,” said Petrovich.  The third man backed up a few steps.

“Not enough light to count it,” I said.

Petrovich and the others pointed their flashlights at the open case.

“Still not enough,” I said.  After a pause, I spoke in a louder and more resonant voice, “I need more light.”

On cue, all of the stadium lights came on, bathing the entire field in so much candlepower it looked like daylight.

“What is this?” Petrovich demanded, pulling a 9-millimeter Makarov automatic pistol from a shoulder holster under his suit jacket.  He pointed the gun at my head.

Before I could say a word, a larger-than-life voice came from the public address system and echoed through the empty stadium.

“This is the police.  Drop all weapons immediately.  You are surrounded by a SWAT team and sharpshooters,” said the voice, sounding a lot like Marv Albert calling a basketball game.

The three Russians dropped their weapons.  Before I could react, Nicolai Petrovich grabbed me from behind and produced another weapon, which he jammed into the back of my head.  Immediately, red laser sights painted dots on the heads of the three Russians.

“Let Kenner go.  Now,” said the Marv Albert voice.  “Now or you die.”

“You can’t hit me without killing our hostage,” Petrovich yelled toward the empty seats.  “I will kill him,” he said.

“Take it easy, Nicolai,” I whispered.  His arm felt like a steel cable across my chest.

We were at an impasse.  The stadium lights went out and in a few seconds the illumination faded and the field was completely dark.       

“Now we are even, I think,” said the previously silent third Russian.

“I don’t think so,” said Petrovich.  “Night scopes.  Stay still.  They won’t shoot unless we do something.”

The laser dots stayed on the three Russians.  Then I felt myself slammed to the ground, the wind knocked out of me.  I couldn’t move.  I must’ve been shot, but I didn’t hear anything.

The stadium lights came back on.  My senses returned enough so that I could see Boris and the other goon running.  Two shots rang out at nearly the same instant and the two Russians hit the ground.  I managed to get up on one elbow.  I saw Boris with a bullet hole in his right temple and the other Russian with a hole in the middle of his forehead.

A black figure picked me up.  He pulled off his night vision glasses and ski mask.  “How’d you like my tackle, Mike?  Think the NFL should look at me?”  Steve Overcash smiled as he effortlessly held me up until my legs began supporting me. 

Petrovich was unconscious, having been clocked by Steve’s elbow to the head as he crashed into us in the dark.  I squinted in the light, seeing police and FBI running onto the field.  They looked like fans after a World Series victory.

*   *   *

Steve and Gillian and I found a cozy table at McGuire’s after giving our statements to the police.  We’d already given them the photographs and told them everything we’d learned and most of what we’d done.  We didn’t want some legal technicality to blow the case.  We may not be lawyers, but we do watch cop shows on TV.

“You’re not even going to have one drink to celebrate?” Steve asked Gillian.

“No way.  I’ve got a story to write tonight,” she said.

“I could use another drink,” I said.  “You really rang my bell.”

“Sorry about that.  I had to make an impression on Petrovich,” he said.

“I’d say you did that and more,” Gillian said, standing.  “Okay, guys, enjoy the evening.  I’m out of here.”

I followed her out of the booth and into the dimness around the bar. 

“I’d be dead if it weren’t for you and Steve, Jilly,” I said.  “I owe you big time.”

She looked deep into my eyes, pushed up onto the tips of her toes and wrapped her arms around my neck.  She kissed me in a way that was unlike any kiss she or anyone else had ever given me.

“Don’t worry, I’ll collect.  Just remember you can’t be a photographer at your own wedding.  ”She started to walk away and then turned back.  “You might want to lose that little camera, love.”

Gillian smiled and left.  Maybe she had a point.  On the other hand, suppose I miss that once in a lifetime shot?  I am, after all, a photographer.