“Very funny, ma'am. You’re obviously not blind.”
“How do you know?”
He squirmed with uncertainty before his expression turned belligerent. “You’re not blind. You’re looking at the menu.”
“I’m holding it up so that no one sees I’m blind.”
He squirmed again. “The animal is in a carrier. How can it lead you anywhere?”
“I’m not deaf.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” His brows knit in confusion.
“The animal tells me where to go.”
“Are you trying to make me look ridiculous?” the new waiter demanded.
“You don’t need my help to look ridiculous."
“Since you’re blind you obviously won’t be able to see this.” The waiter saluted her with one finger—the middle—and walked away.
Over at Gigantor's table, the shadowed figure shifted and a pin light illuminated his face.
She recognized him.
Mo stood, knocking the table, which teetered on two legs before falling back into place.
“I’m going.” She grabbed Talley's carrier and then marched toward Ross.
She heard a shout behind her. “Ma'am, you still have our menu.” Over her shoulder she realized the waiter’s shout had brought the attention of Gigantor and his friend right to her.
Tossing the menu down, she increased her speed to a trot. Talley emitted a loud "Mmmmrrrrwwww" protesting the abrupt movement.
After what seemed like an eternity, actually just two or three seconds, Mo reached Ross’s side.
“Come on, Ross. We gotta go,” she said, tugging his arm.
“Not yet," Ross growled out. "This cretin still doesn’t understand the situation. He seems to think I’m making some kind of movie like candid camera. So he’s being especially unhelpful.”
“I know what’s going on here.” The desk clerk grinned. “And you’re not going to catch me acting like I stupidly believe a ridiculous story.”
“It’s not a movie!”
“Yeah sure. That’s what those frat guys thought and they ended up looking really stupid in that mockumentary.”
“Ross, it doesn’t matter.” Mo tugged again on his shirtsleeve. “Come on.”
“Just a minute.” He held up an index finger.
“No,” she shouted. “We don’t have a minute. I saw Gigantor and he was talking to someone I know. Worse, I think Gigantor saw me. So let’s go.”
“Hey, this script is pretty entertaining,” the desk clerk said.
Even though the desk clerk didn’t believe the alarm in Mo’s voice, her urgency did communicate itself to Ross. His eyes darted to the bar. When her gaze followed his, she saw Gigantor pounding their way. Surprising that the earth under their feet didn’t shift from the weight of him.
“You’re right,” Ross said, grabbing her arm. “We definitely have to go now.”
“Let me know when the movie comes out,” the clerk called after them.
Ross didn’t wait for the valet this time but pulled the door open himself and then practically pushed Mo through. When she crossed the threshold into the Savannah night, Mo glanced behind her just as Gigantor got caught up trying to maneuver around some Japanese tourists who had exited the elevator.
As they bolted to the car, Ross forgot his customary good manners and ran for the driver’s side without opening Mo’s door. He jumped in and started the car. The moment Mo closed the passenger door, he peeled from the curb. Gigantor emerged from the hotel just as they pulled away.
“That guy was talking to someone you know?”
“Yeah, the case from this morning. Nelson, the cross-dresser.”
“What connection does that guy have to Gigantor?” Ross glanced at her questioningly as his Mercedes shot at full speed down the street.
She gripped the leather seat as Ross careened around a corner. “I don’t know what Nelson’s connection is, but he did participate in a drag queen competition at Hoochie Mama’s House across the river.”
“Hoochie Mama’s House?”
“Yeah, I know. Classy name. Anyway, a guy named Yuri Kubikov owns the club. Our agency did an investigation there. Kubikov is a Russian mob boss.”
“What makes you think that Kubikov has anything to do with this?”
“Remember a few things we heard Gigantor say earlier sounded Russian? If Gigantor is Russian and he’s connected to Nelson who knows another Russian, maybe one Russian is connected to another Russian...if you see what I mean.”
“It frightens me to admit that I do.” Ross sighed. “All right. We may or may not have the Russian mob after us. And if they are, we have no idea why."
Ross pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket and punched in a series of numbers. "I think I need to call in reinforcements now. I’m contacting Aaron.”
“Aaron?” Being a celebrity, Ross probably had connections in all kinds of powerful law enforcement people. Ross must’ve consulted Aaron when he’d prepared for the Stephen Dagger character.
“Who’s Aaron?” Mo asked.
“Aaron Stillman, my agent.”
“I’m confused. Is he an agent for the FBI, CIA, MI5, Interpol?”
“No,” he said, still playing with the phone. “My agent. My theatrical agent.”
His agent? What could his agent do about this? Negotiate a contract with the mobster? What kind of commission would go with that?
“Bloody hell.” Steering the car into a gas station before coming to a stop, Ross glared at the phone as he continued pressing keys. “This phone is complete shite. It hasn’t been holding a charge and now the damned thing is dead.” He threw the phone into the back seat.
“I guess this means Aaron won’t come riding to the rescue on his briefcase,” Mo grumbled.
“If you’ve got a better idea of what we should do, I’d like to hear it." Ross shot a quizzical glance her way and then put the car back in motion.
“Not really,” Mo admitted after a few seconds.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Wait a minute,” Mo said as the car sped through the night. “Turn left at the next light.”
Ross obliged. “Why?”
“Over the river and through the woods, to Hoochie Mama’s House we go.”
Chapter Eleven
Hoochie Mama’s House loomed just across the Talmadge Bridge, between the alligator infested swamp and the sulfur belching paper mill. At this time of night, vehicles of every type packed the parking lot so full that more than a few cars had strayed from the gravel area and sat perched on the edge of toppling into the marsh below. The building resembled the type of warehouse-sized mobile home one would buy from a dealer named Trashy Trailers "R" Us.
A sign with flashing neon lights—mounted on the flat tin roof of the trailer—displayed a drawing of a scantily clad woman with enormous boobs in profile and her round behind prominently in the forefront. The figure was writing the words "Hoochie Mama’s House" on some imaginary wall in the same cherry red lipstick adorning her cartoony lips.
It would not be good for Ross to be photographed patronizing this sort of place.
“I don’t know about this idea of yours,” Ross grumbled as he trolled the lot for a space. “We’re pretty close to the marsh. Are you sure there won’t be alligators in this parking lot?”
“There might be,” Mo admitted. “Are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of being bitten. But I do have a fear of being digested.”
“Well, with this crowd, it's probably the humans we have to worry about.”
“Brilliant.”
“This is the only idea we’ve got," Mo noted. "Confront the bad guys when they’re not expecting it and maybe they’ll tell us what they want. If we know what they want, maybe we can get them off our backs.”
“Or maybe they’ll just kill us.” Ross drove another loop around the lot.
“Not in a club full of voyeurs.”
A group of laughing young men stagg
ered out of the darkness from the direction of the club, forcing Ross to slam on his breaks to avoid a collision. The Mercedes’ headlights illuminated the center man who wore a hat proclaiming himself as the world’s horniest groom.
The group stumbled toward a dark colored Lexus and then piled inside while Ross waited for them to vacate the space.
“They could pull guns on us and what good would the crowd do?” Ross complained. He tried to adopt a manly tone of complaint and not a whine. He didn’t want to seem like a wimp to Mo, but it had to be said.
“They aren’t expecting us. That’s the point. Why would they have guns?”
The world’s horniest groom stumbled back out of the passenger side of the Lexus. Hooting with laughter, he proceeded to the back, driver’s side, door. He flopped across the young men in the back seat and then the car door slammed shut.
“Don't you have a gun?" he asked.
"Yes, but not with me," she said. "Besides, the surest way to get us shot is to bring a gun in there."
The Lexus lurched forward and then stopped.
“These drunken gits are never going to move that car,” Ross groused. He turned to fix Mo with a glare. There were a lot of holes in her reasoning about the guns. “I still don’t like this plan.”
“Let’s try it,” Mo said. “If things don’t look safe, we’ll leave.”
“Yes, we’ll leave,” Ross said with deliberate sarcasm. “I’m sure it will be easy to leave any time we want."
The Lexus finally sped forward sending gravel spurting behind its tires, allowing Ross to swing his car into the vacant space.
“Besides, why are you worried about guns?” Mo jumped out. “If they pull their guns you can always pull yours. Everyone knows Stephen Dagger has a very big gun. I’m sure your gun is the biggest one in there.”
“You think you’re funny.” Ross climbed out of the car before following after her.
“Oh, I know I’m funny,” Mo glanced at him flirtatiously over her shoulder.
“I’ll try to remember to laugh when I’m bleeding from a gunshot wound.” It occurred to him that he must have been thinking only with his big gun by following her into this place.
“Think of the bright side,” Mo joked. “At least you’ll be surrounded by hoochie mamas at the time.”
The club’s door flew open and then clattered metal on metal, as it smashed into the wall behind it. A disheveled young man, reeking of vomit, lumbered out. He wore a hat identifying him as the world’s horniest best man.
“Hey, guys, this isn’t funny. Where are you?” He stopped short and turned bleary eyes on Mo. “Where are they?” he asked.
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 scorchi
ng 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.”
In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) Page 14