In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (12 page)

“Yes, sir.”

A tirade of obscenities erupted from
Kubikov
and he stamped a tiny—for a man—foot. “I say shut up,” he shouted, pulling a
Glock
from a holster he wore as a belt above the waistband of his shorts. “I’m going to shoot the first one who says one more word. So don’t say anything,
Khaarasha
? Okay?”

“Okay,” said Bruno, twitching nervously.

 “What did I just say?”
Kubikov
demanded.

Kubikov
fired the
Glock
into the ground near the man’s feet. A fragment of cement splintered, flew up and struck Bruno’s bare forearm, drawing blood. The thug pressed a hand over his mouth to suppress a cry of pain.

“Now, shut up,”
Kubikov
shouted again.

“Yuri,” a high-pitched voice called from the interior of the house through the open sliding glass door. “Don’t you shoot near that
pond.
It cost a fortune to replace the filter pump the last time.”

Kubikov
ignored his wife's shriek and sat down again. “I have the right to preserve my life and my liberty.
Praveelnee
?” He stared at the men expectantly. “Correct?”

There was absolute silence for long seconds.

“Right?” He waved the gun at them.

Bruno took a tentative step forward. “Are we supposed to answer?”

“Of course.”
Kubikov
gave a curt nod.

“Yes, sir,” the men chorused, saluting as if they were in the military.

“Yuri,” his wife's high-pitched voice called again. “Did you take out the garbage yet? The can stinks. Am I supposed to do
everything
in this house?”

Kubikov
groaned.
Sooka
.
He’d like to shoot that bitchy woman.

“Yuri,” she squawked. “The garbage. Take it out.

“Not now,”
Kubikov
shouted in reply. “I’m in an important meeting.”

 “Yuri, do you hear me?” she demanded.

He fingered the trigger on the
Glock
. He itched to do it.
Kubikov
would have shot her long ago, but since she was the mother of his son he had to avoid murdering her if at all possible.

“What if I get the garbage?” Bruno asked as he eyed
Kubikov
caressing the gun.

“No.”
Kubikov
shoved the
Glock
back into his holster. “Betsy doesn’t like business associates in house.”

“Yuri!” Betsy shouted again.

“Shut up, woman,” he shouted toward the house. “I'll take out the garbage when my important meeting is over.”

A woman with blonde hair emerged through the sliders wearing a bubble gum pink wrap dress, which revealed her ample cleavage. She carried an infant in her arms. The four-inch heels of her sandals clicked on the cement.

“Stop shouting, Yuri. You’ll wake the baby.” She strode to
Kubikov
and plopped the sleeping infant into his arms.

“I’m going shopping. Watch him.” She walked back toward the house, hips swaying. At the door she glanced over her shoulder, turning a glare on
Kubikov
. “You better have filled the gas tank on my Corvette," she warned before disappearing into the house.

 Shaking his head of black cropped hair, he stared downward for a moment. “I shouldn’t have married that
zhyeanshcheena
.
She’s always been a diva.”
Kubikov
gazed lovingly into the face of the baby. “But all I suffer is worthwhile for my little
Misha
. Besides, she’s very good at the
pawkhats
—you know. The sex.”

Ivan scowled as he shifted his legs apart to a wide stance and crossed his arms over his chest.

He had never liked Betsy,
Kubikov
thought.

The blond farm boy type snickered.

Anger shot through
Kubikov
like a
taser
, but he rose slowly from the chair.

“You.”
Kubikov
jerked his head toward the blond. “Have the respect for the mother of my son.”

The blond backed away, holding up his hands in surrender.

He turned to Ivan. “Why didn’t you follow my instructions? For the first time you failed me. You let them get away.”

The big man hung his head. “Da.
Sazhalets
. You're right, brother.”

“And what about how this blackmailer got my information?”
Kubikov
demanded, getting into his face.

Ivan continued to stare at his feet. “I’m sorry. I not know.”

Kubikov
shook his head slowly. “Apology is not good enough. Punishment is needed.” He crossed to a playpen set up in the shade and lowered the baby to the soft pad inside. “I must make an example of someone. I cannot look weak to my enemies,” he said as he stared down at his son. The baby continued to doze peacefully.
Kubikov
loved the innocent happiness in his son’s sleeping face. “Someone is always trying to knock you out of first place in my business. Perception is one hundred percent of the equation. If I look weak, I am a hundred percent weak. I must always be one hundred percent strong for my
Misha
.”
Kubikov
straightened and turned. “Right, Bruno?”

Bruno nodded.

“Da. Okay,”
Kubikov
announced to the group, pointing at Bruno. “Feed him to the alligators.”

 “Me? I’m not the one who failed. I wasn’t even there.” Bruno’s head swiveled back and forth. Two thugs grabbed Bruno by each arm and the smaller man began to thrash between them. “Ivan failed!”

“True, but he is my brother. I can’t kill him. I kill you instead."
Kubikov
turned to the others. "You know where to take him.”

“What if the alligators there won't eat him?” Ivan asked.

“Then take him to where the teen got eaten by alligator last year. Those alligators, they are hungry.”
Kubikov’s
eyes rolled upward. “Tie a piece of chicken around the neck of Bruno.”

“
Da
,” said Ivan.

 
Kubikov
looked to the sky. “Must I think of everything?”

“Da.”

 “
Agggghhhh
.”
Kubikov
would have taken out the
Glock
and shot someone…but the sound would wake
Misha
. So he merely snapped his fingers and the two thugs dragged a protesting Bruno away.

Misha
began to cry. Before
Kubikov
made it to the playpen, the cry turned to a wail.

“Now
look
what you did?”
Kubikov
yelled at the departing men. “You wake the baby.”

He turned back to Ivan and put a hand on the big man’s arm. “This situation is out of hand, brother. I want the blackmailer and the documents he took."

“More bad news, boss. I not tell others, but last time I talk to contact he threatened me. He say Dagger will turn records over to police if no money received by tomorrow.”

Kubikov
fired a round into a nearby tree. “You're just telling me this?”

Strangely, the baby stopped crying at the booming sound of the shot.

Ivan stared at him quietly. “Why don’t you pay the money? Then he
go
away.”

“I not submit to blackmail,”
Kubikov
answered. “Get my documents. Get Dagger and his girlfriend.”

“Da.” Ivan started to walk away, but
Kubikov
pulled him to a stop again.

“Don’t fail me,"
Kubikov
warned.

Ivan nodded.

“This time if you fail, I not know what I do. Brother or no brother.”

* * * * *

Mo's proximity was doing things to Ross's senses. He couldn't seem to get the thunderous beating of his heart to calm despite several deep breaths.

“Should you be doing that when you have a girlfriend?” Mo asked as they walked toward Ross’s Mercedes.

“What girlfriend?” Ross asked as he scanned the streetscape.

“I read the magazines. I see the articles about you and your girlfriend," Mo said. “You shouldn’t be flirting with me when you have a girlfriend.”

He stopped and turned a penetrating glare at her. “I don’t have a girlfriend and I’m not flirting with you.”

“What would you call it when a man has his hand where your hand is?”

Ross looked down. Oh Lord. He was pushing Mo along with his hand firmly pressed to her posterior. He hadn’t realized what he was doing.  Ross was so fixated on Mo’s bum that he had touched it unconsciously. He definitely had to get away from this woman. Once he found out who wanted to break into his car, he’d never see or think about Imogene Tuttle again.

He jerked his hand away as if touching her stung his skin. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Mo laughed. “It’s all right. Now I can say that I’ve been groped by a celebrity.”

“Yes. Be certain to tell the tabloids all about my behavior.” Ross grimaced. She’d probably earn a pretty hefty sum with her story. Done up right, the tale would make a sensational read. He could almost see the headline of the National Star: Ross Grant’s Asparagus Obsession.

Mo stopped a few feet from the car. “I was just joking."

"The tabloids aren't funny." He knew he was being boorish, but Ross couldn’t seem to help himself. He hated the invasions into his privacy that were the stock and trade of the press. The thought of Mo selling him out to the tabloids hurt more than the many times in the past when his so-called friends had actually leaked stories about him for extra cash.

The tabloids were always willing to pay—even for has-beens. Not that he thought of himself as a has-been. He just hadn’t had a hit in a few years. The expression about kicking a person when they were down was undoubtedly true when it came to the tabloids. In fact, they seemed more interested in following his “exploits” than the studios were in funding his films at this point. Now this Milton character and his obsessive grudge threatened his deal with Nicodemus.

“And what shall I say about the whereabouts of your girlfriend?” Mo crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe she’s behind this car break-in business. She probably wants to find out if her guy is cheating. And she’s right. Here you are trying to cheat with me.”

“I’m not in a relationship with anyone and, therefore, I’m not cheating on anyone. And I certainly wouldn’t cheat with you.”

“Oh, really.” Her face changed from hurt to angry. "Isn't your girlfriend's name Heather something?"

“Davies,” a third voice piped in from behind them. “Heather Davies. Where is the lovely Heather Davies, Mr. Grant? Have you thrown her over for Ms. Tuttle here?” The voice belonged to a man. He snapped photographs as he spoke. Ross recognized him from earlier when he seen him in the square across from Mo’s agency. The young man dressed in seersucker with the industrial strength eyeglasses.