In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (25 page)

“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 his 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.