In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (24 page)

Mo caught the door as it came bouncing back and then held it open. A song featuring the sophisticated lyrics of “Ooh, baby, baby,” and a grinding beat, boomed out of the dark interior of the club.

“I think they jumped into the world’s horniest Lexus and drove away,” Mo said.

“Really? The young man staggered and swayed but didn't fall.

“Really.”

“That sucks.” The young man dropped down to sit on the ground before leaning against the metal wall.

“Don’t worry. They’ll come back for you,” Ross said.

“You think so?” The young man looked at him with widened eyes.

“You've got the wedding ring, right?”

“Right,” the best man said, closing his eyes with a satisfied smile. Then his drifted shut while a snore escaped from between his parted lips.

“Let’s go inside and get this over with.” Mo started forward, but Ross placed a restraining hand on her arm.

“Should we leave him out here alone?” Ross asked, pointing to the world’s horniest best man.

Mo inclined her head toward the entrance to the parking lot where the familiar Lexus had turned in.

Ross nodded. “I guess this means no more excuses. We go in.”

The interior tiny entranceway stank of beer and other things Ross didn’t care to try to identify. A woman of indeterminate age between twenty and forty, with a pile of teased brown hair and double D size breasts spilling out of a neon green tube top, sat behind a yellowing plastic window. Her eyes were barely opened slits.

“Twenty dollars,” she said in a monotone.

“Twenty dollars?” Ross asked.

“Pay the lady,” Mo insisted.

“Why should I pay her? This is your plan.”

Her glare could have cut glass. “Pay her. You're the client and these are the expenses.”

“Yes, but twenty dollars?”

A bruiser of more than six feet tall, square head directly atop a barrel chest seemingly unconnected by a neck, stepped forward out of the shadowed corner. “Don’t give the Mama any trouble,” he warned in a baritone.

Ross pulled out his wallet to extract a twenty-dollar bill.

“Each,” said the double D Mama.

“Twenty dollars each?” Ross asked.

“What’s the matter, are you having trouble with the exchange rate?” Mo asked.

“All right, all right.” Ross pulled out another twenty and then passed the two bills under the small slit at the bottom of the Plexiglas.

Mama passed some green, pink, and blue pieces of paperback. Imprinted on the paper were the words “Booty Bucks.” The bucks were in denominations of one, two and five.

“See? You got something for your money,” Mo teased before gliding around the half wall that blocked the view of the whole club.

“Yeah, you can use '
em
for drinks or whatever,” the bruiser said with a wink as he clapped Ross on the back, sending him staggering forward. “You can get some more when those run out.”

“I’ll remember that,” Ross said, rounding the half wall.

A pig-tailed girl pranced about on stage. She was dressed as a catholic schoolgirl in a white shirt—opened to the naval and bare breasts waving— atop a mini plaid skirt and knee high white socks. She thrust her behind toward a man perched on his seat underneath her, revealing barely-there panties. Perhaps g-string more accurately described her undergarment.

Ross gawked at the blatant sexuality of the display. He would have to have been made of stone not to be effected. But to Ross’s utter amazement, the sight of that g-string didn’t turn him on nearly as much as seeing Mo protruding out of the sunroof last night.

“What are you looking at?” Mo asked, her eyes darting from him to the version of a young Britney on stage and then back again.

Ross answered before he thought about his words. “I’m merely noticing she’s not nearly as sexy as you are.”

Mo made an exaggerated examination of his face before commenting. “Oh, you’re a good actor.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Thank heavens she’d allowed him the opportunity for a cover.

Mo turned away in a huff and strode in a direct line to the bar.

Ross didn’t see any other female customers. Mo was garnering a good deal of interest from the male patrons. Even with much more skimpily clad women “
workin
’ it”, the louts weren’t too busy to ogle Mo. Ross had to admit the jeans she’d changed into before they left her house made her legs look like they stretched on forever. What she probably considered a plain black t-
shirt,
was tight enough to create a perfect display of her pear-sized breasts. He had thrown on clothing from her brother’s closet offered up by Mo. A white dress shirt matched with jeans.

“Do you really think this is the right time to drink?” Ross asked as they continued their way past the customers. One lout leered at Mo and reached out as if to pinch her behind. A "don’t-try-it-buddy" stare from Ross stopped him.

“I like a good drink as much as the next man, but don’t you think we need our wits about us?”

“You want to spend your Booty Bucks, don’t you? Or were you hoping to save up to buy a lap dance with the fake Britney?” Mo shouted to be heard over the new track of pounding music coming from the nearby speaker.

The bartender, a twenty-something with a scorching body and a face only a mother would love, strolled over to Mo and she ordered a bottle of light beer.

“I don’t suppose you have Guinness?” Ross asked.

The look from the bartender indicated she’d never even heard of the British ale.

“Whatever you have in a dark beer will be fine.”

The bartender quickly produced and opened two bottles. “Twenty Booty Bucks.”

“Twenty? For two bottles?” Ross asked.

“Just pay the woman,” Mo said, taking a swig of her beer.

Ross pulled the bucks from his pocket.

“Is the owner here tonight?” Mo asked. “We’d like to talk to him.”

The bartender shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I don’t know.”

Ross handed twenty of the booty bucks to the bartender and Mo grabbed the other twenty out of his hand before he could form a protest. Mo placed the bucks on the bar, keeping them in place with her index finger.

The bartender bent forward and spoke
softly
. “I don’t think you really want to see him. He’s been in a scary mood lately.”

“Give me a hint where we can find him,” Mo said.

The bartender looked from side-to-side around her and then slid the bucks from under Mo’s finger. “You might find the Booty
Callz
room interesting.” The bartender nodded her head toward her left.

A neon sign identified a curtained area as the room in question.

Mo nodded, clutched Ross by the arm, and pulled him in the direction of Booty
Callz
room and the Russian mobster in a scary mood.

* * * * *

Perhaps Ross was right. The closer Mo came to the curtain, the more certain she became that she didn’t want to see what was hidden behind it. However, she didn’t want to admit to Ross she might be wrong. Plus, braving the area beyond the curtain seemed the only way to find out what was going on. Was Yuri
Kubikov
behind the break-in at her house? Did he control
Gigantor
or not? What did they want?

“Wait.” Ross pulled her to a stop. “Going into that private lap dance—or whatever—room isn’t going to provide us the protection of the public we were planning on.”

“You’re right,” Mo admitted. “We have to find a way to get him out here.”

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.”