In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense)

by Patricia Mason

  “I don’t have to see you to know,” he said. Everything about her inside and out was beautiful.

  He felt her position herself before sliding down onto his shaft. Ross lifted his hips, driving himself deeper into her sleek wetness, to the core of her. Mo groaned and gasped.

  Lifting and dropping, she rode him with tormenting slowness. Gripping her hips, he lunged upward not being able to keep from increasing the pace of their rhythmic movements. Finally, he felt her arch and tense. The convulsions of her inner muscles milked at his shaft, sending him over the edge into his own release.

  Mo collapsed atop him, panting. Ross wrapped his arms around her, caressing over Mo’s hair and down her back as they both calmed. For long minutes they lay against one another without speaking.

  “It’s a damn good thing none of the thugs came back,” he drawled. “They definitely would have heard us.”

  “And saw us,” Mo said. He felt her smile against his chest. “If the parade floats a rockin', don’t come a knockin'.”

  A hearty laugh burst from Ross and he squeezed Mo, cherishing her. God! This woman made him happy. After a few seconds his tone turned serious, and he said, “Thank you for forgiving me.”

  “What makes you think I did?”

  “Cheeky,” he teased with a chuckle and then lightly pinched her behind.

  “Ow,” she cried.

  “What we did just now,” he said. “Making love…that certainly felt like forgiveness to me.”

  “To me too,” she whispered.

  * * * * *

  “Do you think the wall’s intact?” Mo asked, still draped over Ross.

  “I’m not sure.” Ross felt around in the darkness. Then the light of her keychain came on. He pointed the pinprick beam this way and that. “There’s no damage. At least not to the wall.” He turned the light off and put the keychain in his pocket. “I’m a different matter. I may never be the same.” He stroked a hand through her hair and down her back. “You know I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “You’re just fishing for compliments and I refuse to indulge you,” Mo said. “You’ve had enough birthday presents for this year.”

  “That’s true. Even with all this nonsense with the Russian mob, this has really been the best birthday I can remember—because of you.”

  “Speaking of the Russian mob,” Mo said, trying to divert him from the subject of their relationship—or whatever it was they had— back to the less dangerous subject of the people trying to kill them. “It sounds like Clarence and your fiancée, Heather, got us into this mess.”

  “She’s not my fiancée, but yes they got us into this.”

  “I guess I can’t hold it against Clarence, him being dead and all. It seems petty somehow to be angry with him.” Mo swallowed hard. “Oh, Ross. I’ll never forget how he looked with his head smashed up that way. And the big gun laying by his side covered with blood.”

  “You found his body?”

  He felt her nod.

  “Oh, baby. I’m sorry.” He stroked her back and then hugged her to him. “What’s that about the big gun?”

  “A replica of the SpyMatrix gun was the murder weapon.”

  “Fab. No wonder the police suspect me,” he muttered.

  “Hopefully, I put them onto the trail of Kubikov and Gigantor where they belong.”

  They lay together and Ross felt their breath fall into the same rhythm.

  “Can I ask you something important?” Ross questioned her.

  Mo hesitated. “I guess so.”

  “Why are you using the food references?”

  “This is not important. Besides, I already told you I just don’t want to swear any more. That’s all.”

  Sensing the significance, Ross pressed on. “Yes, but why such a strong commitment to avoiding the curse words.”

  Mo yawned. “I haven’t wanted to admit it to myself, but I think it has something to do with guilt feelings. Like I’ve sold out or something.” Mo's lips nuzzled his neck before planting a kiss there. “I went to culinary school but took a job at the agency when I couldn't afford to finish."

  "You've got nothing to feel guilty for."

  “I suppose I also felt like a failure at school. And I don't think I'm cut out for being a PI. I'm a failure there too."

  "You're a fantastic PI," Ross soothed.

  "Well...swearing just doesn’t feel right anymore. The food words are automatic so I guess I'll stick with them." She lifted her head from Ross’s chest. "Is that weird?"

  Ross stroked her hair and nudged her head down to rest against him again. “Of course not my dear vegetable mouth.”

  “Shitake’s are a fungus, not a vegetable as you’ve reminded me before.”

  “Okay, fungus mouth.”

  “We’ll get out of this tomorrow,” Mo said in a confident tone.

  “Definitely.” Ross loved her feistiness, wrapped in vulnerability.

  Mo yawned. “I’m so tired.”

  “I know. Go to sleep, sweet.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and felt her drift into unconsciousness. “Nothing will harm you as long as I can help it,” he whispered.

  * * * * *

  The next morning Mo awoke to the realization that she was extremely uncomfortable. What had happened to her bed? The mattress was much firmer than she remembered. And where was her pillow? Noises of movement and conversation seemed to surround her. Had she left on the television? In fact, her bed was either moving or she’d imbibed way too much alcohol last night.

  Disoriented, Mo opened her eyes and saw Ross crouched a few inches away. Oh yeah, Clarence dead, Russian mobsters, hiding in float... Blah, blah, blah. It all came flooding back.

  Ross appeared to be staring out of one of the holes in the paper wall of their hiding place. Mo sat up, silently crawled to him, and found a hole of her own to peek through.

  The trailer holding the float had been hitched to a pick-up truck, hauled through the overhead doors of the warehouse, and was now bumping along the two-track dirt road awash in the sunshine and crisp air of the outdoors. Two figures loomed in the bed of the truck—Gigantor and the bouncer from the club. Two more men were seated in the cab.

  Before long, the truck made a wide turn and the trailer swung onto the highway. Mo had to grab onto a two by four to keep from falling through the paper wall. She gripped the wood and sat down, spreading her legs out to ground herself. She felt more stable, but she’d lost her view of the passing scenery.

  Mo glanced over and saw that Ross had taken a similar position.

  “I assume they're towing us to the St. Patrick’s Day parade,” Ross said. “When this thing stops we can make our escape.”

  “Maybe we should wait until we get to the parade. There’ll be more people around then.” Mo shouted to be heard over the noise of the truck and the wind whipping around the strip club replica. “I bet those guys in the truck are armed.”

  Ross nodded.

  The trailer abruptly took an uphill trajectory and the wind tunnel sound effect increased. They must be passing over the Talmadge Bridge that spanned the river. Mo chanced a peek through the wall and saw the huge spans of the suspension mechanisms with the sky as a backdrop.

  Just as quickly the trailer nosed downward and Mo slid against the wood post, her hand crashing through the green paper wall.

  “Bell pepper,” Mo shouted, jerking her hand back. She retrieved some of the paper that was still stuck to the structure by heavy glue and pulled it back into place. But a few sheets flew away like miniature kites on the wind.

  Grimacing, her eyes met Ross’s and he mouthed something that looked like, “It’s okay.

  Mo didn’t try any more peeks outside.

  The trailer turned right and Mo imagined them exiting the bridge. A few more turns and she was lost in the mental imaging of the route. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before the trailer pulled to a halt.

  Mo and Ross crawled to the wall at the front of the trailer. Peering
out, Mo saw they had stopped in the staging area of the parade route. Gigantor marched to the end of the truck bed and hopped onto the float. He turned, bent forward, and adjusted something. The movement hiked up the black jacket he wore over a blue dress shirt and jeans, exposing the butt of a gun jammed into his waistband.

  The trailer dipped and several other men, including Kubikov, climbed aboard. The Russian mob boss pulled one of his goons to a halt near the wall. If Kubikov glanced in their direction, there would likely be eye contact. Mo and Ross each jumped back.

  “There was a camera in her office just like she said. But the digi-card wasn’t there. Maybe she doesn’t have the card.”

  “Stupid, byeazoomyets. Of course she has the card. She couldn’t print copies of documents to show me without card.” Kubikov pushed the goon off the float.

  “Find the woman! Find Dagger!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guy limped away.

  Britney, the stripper from the other night, hopped up. “Hey there, honey buns,” she cooed and planted a kiss on Kubikov’s face while grabbing his butt cheek.

  “Hi, baby,” he replied, smooching on her neck. “Be careful. We don’t want Betsy to see us.”

  “Why don’t you just tell her about me?”

  “I will, I will.”

  Mo saw several other women from the club climb aboard the float, all garbed in bikini tops and miniskirts over bikini bottoms. One strode over the model city, looking like a huge stripzilla, to grasp a pole next to the trailer hitch.

  Mo crawled to Ross and whispered. “Should we chance it?”

  Before Ross could reply, the trailer began to move. The song Stripper Love blared from speakers mounted on the four corners of the trailer. Britney and two other blondes, giggling, tromped up the stairs apparently taking up a position in the Hoochie Mama’s House interior. Two strippers with green hair took places at the front corners. Mo assumed that the other two she’d seen were at the back.

  Could they take on four thugs, one mob boss and eight strippers, in a fair—or unfair—fight?

  * * * * *

  A local channel later broadcast, as part of its coverage of the parade, a compilation of footage taken by their cameraman and a video camera mounted on a Shriner’s clown car traveling along the parade route.

  The segment began with the announcer’s voice over video of the Hoochie Mama’s House trailer coming into view along Abercorn St. in front of the Cathedral location where bleacher seating had been erected for local politicians, business owners and other VIPs.

  The female host shouted to be heard by her co-host, over the song Gold Digger. “And here comes one of the most controversial of the floats allowed in this year’s parade.”

  The trailer halted and the ladies on the float ratcheted up their movements.

  “That’s right,” the male host said as the video close-up of a writhing woman, with “Britney” written on her belly shirt in sparkles, played. “The parade committee insisted on a private performance last month in order to evaluate whether the costumes and dance moves would be family friendly enough.”

  “Permission was granted only after the owner of the club sued claiming violation of the First-Amendment of the Constitution as to Freedom of Speech,” the female host said.

  “Just enjoy the show folks,” the male host said with a chuckle.

  The camera panned back and the entire float came into view.

  “The crowd here is certainly enjoying it,” the female host said with a sour tinge to her words.

  “Except for the City Council members. A few of them look—Oh what’s that? Part of the foundation or hill underneath the club just broke away.”

  The door-sized piece sailed away and landed in the street a few feet from a group of on-lookers. A handsome muscular man dressed in a black dress shirt, burst out in a fury and threw a punch that connected with the jaw of the closest man, a much bulkier bald bouncer-type.

  “Who is that?” the male host asked.

  A woman, with brown hair flying behind her, exploded from the opening behind the man. She swung an oversized purse by the long handle and connected with the head of another bouncer-type before he took a step to help his bouncer cohort.

  “What’s going on?” the female host shouted.

  Two thugs, who had been positioned near the front of the float, stormed toward the fighting, one stomping his booted feet and crushing the model city hall.

  A full-scale battle ensued with one man taking on three larger men; he had martial arts movements so skilled the commentators commented that they must have been choreographed. The woman, less smooth, fought two men with her purse.

  Parade-goers hooted in the background as the melee on the float continued.

  “Hey, it’s Stephen Dagger,” someone called from crowd. “SpyMatrix, baby!” The crowd gave a loud cheer. A few voices started chanting, “Dagger, Dagger, Dagger,” accompanied by rhythmic clapping. Then a few more joined in and soon the entire crowd seemed to be involved.

  “Stephen Dagger. Wow,” the female host’s excited voice shouted as the fighting continued. “It’s just like a movie. In fact, we have some information from our reporter on the ground about a film connection."

  Then came the reporter's voice, shaking with glee. "I just got a quick interview with the City’s mayor. He said they'd heard that Ross Grant, more popularly known as Stephen Dagger in SpyMatrix, was in Savannah to film a sequel to his famous film. But they never thought they’d be seeing a scene played out during the parade.”

  On screen, the melee continued.

  “Who’s that woman with Dagger?” the male host asked.

  “Must be the actress playing Francesca in the sequel,” the female host answered.

  A goon grabbed the swinging purse of the woman before he tossed it aside. Then he seized the woman by the neck.

  “Oh no,” the female host said with a mocking tone. “Looks like Francesca’s in trouble."

  The woman hammered the thug’s nose with the heel of her hand, and gouged at his eyes, before twisting away. He stumbled into one side of the mini suspension bridge.

  “Look at the blood coming from that guy’s nose,” the male host announced. “What realism. Who would have thought the special effects could be so good.”

  As the man reached to cover his bloody nose, the woman rammed a kick into the back of his knee and the goon fell forward through the bridge and off the trailer. On the way down, his head fell against the edge of the trailer. He landed hard on the pavement of the road and lay still.

  Dagger dispensed with one of his opponents by sending him crashing into the Hoochie Hill opening, from which the thug didn’t emerge. The second goon received a flying kick to the midsection that sent him sailing into the mock Savannah River where he came to rest, unconscious, near the head of a stuffed gator on its banks. The third, who’d taken a blow to the gut, turned and ran. He jumped off the side of the trailer and sprinted down the street.

  A smaller man approached Dagger with a gun in his hand. A hush fell over the crowd.

  “You’re going to die now, Dagger. Die,” the man with the gun said in an accented voice.

  “Kubikov, no," Francesca screamed from behind. “If you shoot him you’ll never get your documents.”

  The gun wavered and Dagger leaped on the man. The two of them crashed to the green paper covered floor of the trailer.

  A stripper ran down the stairs to the base of the Hoochie hill and picked up the woman’s fallen purse. On four-inch stilettos she tottered toward the men. She lifted the purse with the apparent intent of hitting someone with it, but as the men rolled she had to totter to and fro and didn’t seem able to get a good shot.

  “Oh look. Here comes Francesca to the rescue,” the male host said.

  Dagger's woman bent at the waist and ran at the stripper, tackling her and wresting the purse from her grip. The stripper gave up as the woman stood over her.

  The other strippers began screaming as th
ey scuttled off the float before scattering in every direction.

  Dagger and Kubikov continued to struggle with one another. They wiped out the west half of the mini downtown. The crowd oohed and aahed in turns. A collective gasp burst forth when the gun rose up from the two wrestling men and pointed skyward. A shot rang out. More than a few screams erupted from the crowd.

  Then Dagger elbowed Kubikov in the face, hammering him one, two, three times before the man collapsed and Dagger captured possession of the gun.

  “This is amazing,” the male host exclaimed.

  The crowd cheered and applauded furiously. The “Dagger” chant began anew as the breathless star rose and stood over Kubikov with the gun trained on the defeated man at his feet.

  “Call the police,” Dagger yelled.

  Chapter Twenty

  Anderson Nicodemus—dressed in another plaid nightmare— marched toward them as they waited for the police to arrive. Cringing inside, Ross braced for the worst.

  “Ross Grant,” Nicodemus shouted, his face set in grim lines. “What do you mean by creating that spectacle of yourself on a St. Patrick’s Day float…and a strip club float to boot.”

  “Brilliant. There goes my financing,” he muttered with a groan.

  But then Nicodemus laughed. “I’m only sorry you didn’t use my float for the stunt. What fantastic publicity! Great job!”

  “It wasn’t publicity,” Mo said. “All that was for real.”

  Nicodemus threw back his head and laughed even more heartily this time. “Reality is even better publicity!”

  His film wasn't dead after all, Ross thought with relief. But somehow, after all he and Mo had been through, he didn't feel the satisfaction he thought he would in knowing Nicodemus was on board.

  Naturally, Officers Tim and Dan were the first police to arrive.

  Kubikov and his crew—at least those still around after the ambulances departed—were handcuffed while parade-goers cheered. Officer Dan commandeered the abandoned cab of the truck and pulled the float trailer into a narrow lane where it was surrounded with police crime scene tape. Other responding officers held back the fans that pressed the limits of the tape at either end of the alley.