In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (44 page)

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 they 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.

The parade continued past them. The bagpipes bleated and the drums beat as the band of some New York borough’s fire department marched by.

Mo sat on the edge of the float's paper Savannah River next to a sobbing Britney as Ross recounted a summary of the events of the past forty-eight hours.

Ross became increasingly frustrated with Officer Tim’s struggle to follow the convoluted tale. He just wanted to get to Mo.
Where
did things stand between them? Did she think that now the Russians had been caught and his film financing in the bag, they were done?

“And you say that this Russian had two of his henchmen assault and kidnap you?” The officer's tone was doubtful.

“Yes. And they also kidnapped Mo,” Ross replied to the officer.

“Who's Mo?” Officer Tim asked.

“Ms. Tuttle.” Ross tugged a hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair and then pointed at her.

“You were both held at the strip club?”

“In the warehouse behind,” Ross said.

“Who is this Russian again?” Officer Tim asked.

“Him.” Ross pointed at
Kubikov
who stood with Officer Dan on the pavement near the trailer hitch.

Officer Tim snickered. “I see.”

Ross didn’t find anything particularly funny.

Apparently neither did Mo.

“He's probably the one who killed Clarence too. Or had him killed,” she said.

Ross hoped murder would make the police take this seriously.

"I bet he sent that
Gigantor
guy to do it," Mo continued angrily.

Even with a scowl on her face, Ross wanted to kiss her.

“Who's
Gigantor
?" Officer Tim asked.

“Him,” Mo said, pointing toward the goon in handcuffs.

 Officer Dan dragged
Kubikov
and
Gigantor
forward.

“I kill nobody,”
Kubikov
growled thickly.

“Who did? Moose and squirrel?” Officer Dan said, putting on a mock accent.

“I not know this Clarence,”
Kubikov
said.

“Come on, Harold. Knock off the cheesy accent,” Officer Dan said.

Kubikov
looked down and muttered under his breath.

“What?” Officer Tim demanded.

“I Russian. I have accent.”

Officer Dan shook his head. “You’re no more Russian than I am. You’re from Georgia, and I don’t mean the Republic of Georgia.”