In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense)

by Patricia Mason

  They stood for a moment. The events of the day had already collapsed half of the synapses of her brain, and the pulsating music was working on collapsing the other half, making it difficult to think of a solution to the dilemma.

  “I have it,” Ross said.

  “What?”

  “Let’s announce there’s a celebrity in the house.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  It was a good idea, but she refused to feed his ego. “You’re a celebrity?”

  “Ha ha. Just go along with whatever I do.”

  “Okay, Mr. Celebrity,” Mo said.

  Ross claimed an open table in the corner, with seating for two of its four sides provided by red vinyl covered booths and the other two with chairs. Taking a seat at the center of the one booth, Ross motioned for Mo to slide in beside him. When she did, his arm came up around her to hang over her shoulder like a human stole.

  Mo glanced at his face in surprise and barely recognized him. In an instant he had transformed himself into the arrogant, swaggering persona of his character from SpyMatrix.

  An almost naked woman in a bikini, four-inch stilettos, and carrying a tray, scurried to the table. The nearly naked barista—all long blonde hair extensions and big white teeth—locked her eyes on Ross. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

  Mo looked down at her hands and wiggled her fingers. Despite all indications from the waitress, she hadn’t gone invisible.

  “How about sex on the beach,” Ross answered with a suggestive waggle to his eyebrows that had Mo blinking to clear her vision. Was she seeing this in person or on the big screen?

  “The drink?”

  “That’ll be great for a start, baby,” his voice lowered to a baritone and he gave the barista a wink.

  She giggled in response.

  “And a club soda for my agent,” he said with an inclination of his head toward Mo.

  “Who?” Then she glanced at Mo. “Oh yes, sir. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” He leaned forward as if to speak confidentially. “We’re expecting the producer for my next film to arrive any minute. Would you be a darling and bring him to the table when he gets here?”

  The girl almost jumped out of her skin. “Your film?”

  He placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. I want a quiet evening. No autographs.”

  She drooped with disappointment until he said, “Except for you.” He punctuated the sentence with a wink.

  “Thank you, sir.” She giggled again and trotted away with her breasts and bottom bouncing.

  “She doesn’t have a clue who you are,” Mo said.

  “I know.”

  “But you have her convinced she wants your autograph anyway.”

  “I know.”

  “You are a good actor.” Mo smiled.

  “You don’t have to sound so amazed. It’s a bit insulting.”

  “No, really I knew you were good, but it’s incredible to see it up close like this. You must be remarkable on stage.”

  “Thanks.” Ross both glowed and turned ruddy at the same time. He cleared his throat, switching back into all arrogance again. “Now go to the ladies room and give them a chance to question you. Make sure they know how important I am and that I’ll want lots of special attention from the ladies after my meeting with the producer.”

  “Aye, aye. It’s virtuoso.” Mo delivered a tiny two-fingered salute, which met with a glower from Ross.

  The waitress caught Mo about halfway to the ladies' room. “I know I recognize your client. I’m so embarrassed because I don’t remember his name,” the girl said.

  “Oh no, don’t let him know that. Mr. Grant will be so upset. Ross Grant.” At her continued blank stare, Mo continued, “The star who played Stephen Dagger in SpyMatrix?”

  “Stephen Dagger, I can’t believe it,” she squealed. “Now I remember!”

  Mo relayed the “script” including the bit about how the star didn’t want to be interrupted until after his meeting with the producer. With assurances of discretion from the waitress about keeping the presence of the VIP secret, Mo continued to the ladies' room in keeping with her cover. After a very brief visit to the horribly grimy facilities—where she didn't touch anything—Mo returned to the table.

  “She’s already whispering to another waitress,” Ross said as she joined him. “And now they’re both looking over here.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be a long wait.”

  The way the news of the VIP spread through the crowd at the club reminded her of seeing the fans perform the wave in a football stadium. Many of the patrons looked ready to stampede in their direction. One shouted,“I’m gonna go over there and get that super spy guy to buy me a drink. He must be rich. My girl forces me to watch that dang movie whenever it’s on TV. I bet he gets paid every time I’m forced to sit through it. He owes me.” Fortunately, his buddies were holding him back.

  The Britney look-a-like was the first to act on the news and headed toward Ross. Her approach conveyed a peculiar blend of hesitancy and boldness.

  “Sir, I don’t want to disturb you,” she said in a sweet child-like voice when she reached the table. “I just want to say that I’m your biggest fan.”

  “I’m always happy to meet my fans.” Ross gave an exaggerated, pompous wave.

  Mo certainly hoped his behavior was an act and not authentic.

  “Particularly, the beautiful and talented ones like you," he continued. "My agent and I watched your performance when we arrived.”

  “Thank you so much,” the fake Britney said. “It’s such an honor to dance in front of Stephen Dagger. My mom is going to positively flip when I tell her. SpyMatrix was the first movie my mom took me to when I was eight. She’s an even biggester fan than I am.”

  Ross’s smile lost a little dazzle. “Thank her for me.”

  “I know I’m not supposed to ask, but could I just have a little autograph?”

  “Certainly. Do you have a pen and paper?”

  A black ballpoint, along with a handbill advertising the club, was thrust in front of him with unexpected swiftness.

  “Make it out to Britney.”

  “Of course.” Ross wrote with a flourish as he spoke. “To Britney, my favorite exotic dancer. Best wishes for your dancing future. Ross Grant.”

  “Could I request a tiny change or two?” the high-pitched child-like woman asked. “Would you change exotic dancer to stripper and sign it Stephen Dagger.”

  Ross smiled through gritted teeth.

  “Certainly.”

  “It would be an even huger honor if I could do a lap dance for you,” Britney offered.

  “What would your mom think of that?” Mo couldn’t resist asking as she tried not to laugh at the stripper's eagerness.

  Britney didn’t hesitate. “She’d flip so many times she’d probably go into a coma.”

  Mo bent to whisper into Ross’s ear. “Apparently, she’d be proud of her daughter.”

  “Maybe later,” Ross said, handing the stripper the pen and autographed advertisement.

  Britney looked at the paper. “Oooh. Could you write something for my mom?”

  “Anything for my biggest fan and my biggester fan.” Ross took the black pen and paper. Pressing so hard into the table Mo feared the pen would break, Ross wrote again. “P.S. to Britney’s Mom. Continue to be proud of your beautiful daughter.”

  Awwww. Now matter how arrogant Ross appeared on the outside, he had a spot of sweetness inside the size of the sun. Mo liked that trait a lot.

  * * * * *

  Kubikov was in the midst of receiving a lap dance when one of his men popped his head around the curtain of the private room.

  “Boss,” he said. “You’ll never guess who’s in the club.”

  “It better be good. The dance not done yet.” The warning shot back. “My wife. She come to club later. So I must enjoy now.”

  “It’s good, boss. Stephen Dagger is here with h
is girlfriend.”

  * * * * *

  A group of fans had started to assemble and loiter behind Britney. Three tall, burly bouncer-types pushed through them and then walked up single file. They could have been triplets, except the first in line was an inch or two shorter than the one in back of him, who was an inch or two shorter than the third. They resembled a human step stool.

  The first guy in line clamped a hand on the stripper’s shoulder. “Beat it, Britney. Mr. Kubikov wants to meet the VIP.”

  “Sure thing, Little Joe.” Britney gave a nervous tittering giggle as she backed away. “Joe,” she said, nodding at the second guy. “Big Joe,” she acknowledged the third before turning to run toward the opening to the backstage area.

  Little Joe stepped to his right. One, two, three. Like a choreographed dance. The move revealed that a smaller, much stubbier, man had been sandwiched between Little Joe and Joe. He couldn’t have been much taller than five feet. From his clipped little bangs, to the soles of his shiny loafers, the demeanor of this man screamed “napoleon complex”. The handle of a gun stuck out of the waistband of his pants.

  Yuri Kubikov had finally appeared.

  “I wondered if the great Stephen Dagger would ever grace my humble business,” Kubikov said with a heavy accent and a sneer that passed for his smile. Kubikov slipped onto a seat in the chair opposite Ross in a manner much like Mo imagined a King would place himself on a throne. Big Joe stood at Kubikov’s back.

  “I eagerly await this time,” Kubikov continued. “Search him.” He double snapped his fingers and in response, one of the Joes pulled Ross up from the bench to pat him down. Then they pushed Ross back onto the bench seat.

  “Search bag,” Kubikov ordered.

  Joe grabbed Mo’s messenger bag from the bench beside her and dumped its contents on the table.

  “What the fried eggs are you doing?” Mo started to stand and Little Joe—or was it Joe—forced her down with a beefy hand.

  Ross started to get up as if he was about to come to her defense. She quelled him with a hand to the thigh.

  “What is question? Fried eggs? Do we discuss the breakfast? I not understanding,” Kubikov said. “The kitchen specialty, it is chicken wings. Not eggs. You wish wings?”

  Mo had observed drunken patrons chewing on messy BBQ wings and licking the sauce off their fingers like they probably wanted to lick on the girls. Yuck. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  Joe picked up Mo’s camera and then fiddled with the controls, scanning the digital photos on the memory card. He said some words Mo didn’t understand before tossing the camera down. Mo resisted the impulse to protest the rough treatment and opened her bag. She pushed the items off the edge of the table into it.

  “Very cagey, Mr. Dagger,” Kubikov said. He snapped his fingers once and one Joe produced a pack of foreign looking cigarettes and a lighter. After lighting up, Kubikov’s first puff produced a stream of smoke into Ross and Mo’s faces.

  Mo resisted the urge to remind him that the law forbid smoking in public places.

  “Search her,” Kubikov snapped again.

  This time Mo couldn’t stop Ross from jumping up. “Nobody touches her,” he growled. Mo had never seen him look so dangerous.

  “Okay, I agree,” Kubikov said. “For now.”

  Ross subsided onto the bench again.

  “You know I am Yuri Kubikov.”

  They nodded.

  Mo didn’t know what drew her attention to the area near the door to the club, but she glanced around one of the Joes and saw Gigantor enter.

  “Tell Kubikov what is bring you here, Mr. Dagger.”

  “My name is Grant. Ross Grant.”

  “Ah yes. But is name Stephen Dagger everyone knows you. Correct statement?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then no more games, Mr. Dagger. What is you want?” the Russian demanded with a flick of his hand.

  “I think the question really is what do you want of me?” Ross asked

  “Mr. Dagger I tire. If you wish money then say to Kubikov face.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Kubikov chuckled “I am understand you have copies of my documents. And you tell me leave money at your girlfriend house. Correct statement?”

  “No. I don’t have anything of yours and I don’t want money from you. What documents are you talking about?”

  “You know.”

  “What makes you think I have them?”

  “Your fiancée,” the Russian said with a nod toward Mo. “She works at investigation agency. Correct statement?”

  “Sort of,” Mo said, not correcting the fiancée part.

  “You know someone from agency contact us, Mr. Dagger.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me, was it?” Mo asked, hoping Ross didn’t suspect her of something.

  “No.”

  Relief.

  “But your agency.”

  “Who at the agency?” Ross asked.

  “This person use your name of Dagger.” Kubikov’s lip curled and his thick brows converged into one.

  Mo thought about telling Kubikov that Clarence was using the Dagger name, but then what would happen to the receptionist? As angry as she was with him, she didn’t want to reveal his identity to a mobster.

  One of the thugs whispered into the gangster’s ear. “And who was squirrely guy at drop point tonight?” Kubikov asked. “He your accomplice too?”

  Uh oh, Mo thought. Squirrely fit Clarence. Drop point? Must have been her house.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ross replied.

  “I lose patience with game, Mr. Dagger,” Kubikov said. “Give me documents now and I not kill you and your fiancée,” he said with a nod toward Mo.

  Gulp.

  “Maybe I am hungry after all. Could we both get an order of wings?” Mo asked.

  “I am good host,” Kubikov said, snapping his fingers in the air.

  Joe came forward. The Russian mumbled a few words Mo didn’t hear. Joe nodded and walked away.

  “Why are you ordering dinner when he’s threatening my life?” Ross whispered to her.

  “He’s threatening me too, you know. Besides, it got one of the henchmen to leave.”

  “Come now, Dagger,” Kubikov said, impatiently. “I no want to kill you. I am businessman. I come to country to live American dream just like you, big film star. Just give me my documents.”

  “I don’t have documents. How would I get your documents?”

  “Good question. I wonder same thing.”

  “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Ross said.

  “Come now, Dagger. Just give what you owe me. Give back what you take. No hard feelings. I get my American dream and you get your American dream. Everybody happy. I think fair, don’t you?”

  “Exceedingly fair,” Ross said to the mobster before leaning toward Mo. “I think we need to get out of here now. It seems to me we’ve found out about all we can without being killed.”

  “Yeah, let’s see what we can do,” Mo whispered back. “Be ready to drop to the floor.”

  “What are you going to do, Mo?”

  “Hopefully create a distraction.”

  “You have discussed enough,” Kubikov said. “Now give.”

  “Could we order drinks first?” Mo asked as loudly as she could. “I know Stephen Dagger appreciates his fans.”

  Kubikov’s eyes widened when she hopped up on the bench. “Hey, y’all, Stephen Dagger is buying drinks and signing autographs for the first twenty fans to get themselves over to his table.”

  Mo’s words acted like a starter’s pistol. And whether brought on by the promise of free booze or by the precious signatures, a melee of people rushed the table. Kubikov and his henchmen turned as one to confront the crowd. Unnoticed, Mo and Ross dropped to the floor and then crawled through the forest of legs.

  In the treetops above them, insults and warnings screeched out. Glasses spilled and punches were t
hrown. Glass broke. Bodies were pushed, pulled, pounded. Beer, chicken wings, cheese covered nachos—and indeterminate substances—fell from the treetops onto their heads and backs. Mo and Ross reached a clear space and then leapt up.

  As they sprinted for the door, a voice came from behind them. “Where is Stephen Dagger? He owes me a drink.”

  Mo and Ross rounded the half-wall. The bouncer they’d encountered earlier remained at his post, blocking their path.

  “What’s going on in there?” the bouncer asked.

  “There are some drunks demanding free drinks,” Mo answered. “You better go in and help calm them down.”

  “Again?” The bouncer headed into the club’s interior.

  Mo grabbed Ross’s hand and they ran for the door. Even in the parking lot, she didn’t look back. Not until they were in the Mercedes and driving away, did she give a sigh of relief. When she glanced in the side mirror, she didn’t see anyone emerge from the club.

  “I don’t see anyone behind us,” Ross said.

  “I don’t either. We aren’t being followed. That’s a good sign isn’t it?”

  “I see nothing good about this situation.”

  Neither did Mo.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clarence slammed his apartment door shut behind him and leaned against it, catching his breath. According to Mo, Kubikov hadn’t paid. Worse, his goons might have seen Clarence while he had been staking out her house. They might be out front waiting for him right now.

  Crossing to the closet, he took the phone from his pocket and punched in his girl’s number. He grabbed the suitcase from the floor, threw it on the bed, and opened the top.

  “Baby,” he said when she answered. “I’m leaving town. Can you meet me here in thirty?” He nabbed an armful of clothes—hangers and all—and shoved them into the case.

  “Do you have the money?” she asked.

  Pausing, Clarence winced. “No,” he said in a whisper. “He didn’t pay. He just sent his goons to ransack the drop point.”

  “Then what are you calling for?” she demanded. “We need that half mil to make a new life. I can't get the money on my own or I would.”

  “We can leave town and start over anywhere,” he urged. “We can do without the money.”