“Start over with nothing? Are you kidding? You’re as useless as my husband,” she said, her voice shrill. After a moment, she asked, “Is Kubikov onto you?”
Yes, he thought. “No,” he answered.
“That’s something good at least,” she replied.
“Will you come over?” he pleaded. “Or I could meet you at a hotel. Please, baby. You know how I crave your body.”
Perhaps he could convince her to leave town with him if they were together in person. He could do without the money if he had her. Surely she would feel the same when she thought about it.
“Not tonight. I’m busy. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Okay, babe. Love you,” he said even though she had already hung up.
Clarence plopped down on the bed, undecided whether to continue packing. He took the lipstick tube from his pocket and laid it on the bed next to his leg. As he continued to ponder his course, a knock sounded on his door. Must be his landlady.
He hesitated though. It could be one of Kubikov's goons...or the big man himself.
"Who is it?"
"It's me."
Relieved at the female voice he called, “Come in."
Almost immediately, the door opened and Heather Davies marched over the threshold.
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” she demanded with one hand on her hip. “You must have those photos by now.”
“No.” He slumped further into the bed. “Kubikov didn’t pay up.” Clarence didn’t mention he’d pretty much abandoned getting the photos back anyway.
“No?” she screeched.
“Shhhh,” he said, jumping up to close the door. “What do you want me to do? I can’t make him give me the photos.”
“You realize that if those pornographic shots of me get to the tabloid, my career is finished, right?”
“You never know, they could make you even more famous.
“Forget it,” she cried. “I’d be ruined. I’m supposed to be the girl next door.”
“You are,” he said. “Lots of girls next door are porn stars.”
Heather sobbed as she paced the room. Even though she was crying, he saw no tears. If she weren’t his girlfriend’s sister, he would have nothing to do with this crazy ass woman.
“Those photos cannot get out,” she ranted. “My fiancé will break our engagement.”
“He might like the photos.” He’d tell her anything to get rid of her. Why wouldn't she leave?
“My life will be ruined.” She pointed an accusing finger. “And it’s all your fault. I could kill you.”
“Me?” he asked with arched eyebrows. “You’re the one who let the photos be taken.”
“When I was eighteen,” she defended, “I needed the money and my sister set the gig up.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Clarence shook his head.
“Of course she would,” Heather said with a disgusted huff. “She’s a money-grubbing bitch.”
“Get out.” Clarence opened the door. “I’m not listening to that kind of talk about the woman I love.”
“You’re delusional,” Heather said as she walked out. When she got to the top of the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be back for those photos and you better have them. Or else.”
“Or else what, you crazy harpy?”
She didn’t answer as she stomped down the stairs.
Clarence slammed the door to his apartment. Heather hadn’t been gone a minute before there was another knock on the door. What did the stupid woman want now?
Pulling open the door, he screamed, “What—“Then he spotted Mrs. Truesberry with an ugly scowl on her face. “Oh, Truesy. It’s you.” He tried to force a friendly smile.
“Don’t Truesy me,” she said. “I’m very angry with you, dear boy.”
“I know, I know.” He placed a hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry about the noise.”
“Noise and you know I don’t allow female visitors.” Her gimlet gaze narrowed. “You have a girlfriend,” she accused.
“Heather?” he said, eyes widening. Then he laughed. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a very demanding client.”
“What about that lipstick?” she asked, pointing to the tube on the bed. “Why would she leave lipstick here if she wasn’t your girlfriend?”
The old lady was getting on his very last nerve. “You know I love only you,” he said with an insincere smile. “The lipstick belongs to a client. They left it at the office and I picked it up by mistake.”
“Can I have it?” she asked.
“No,” he said, his smile stiffening. “I have to take it to the client later.”
“Oh, I see,” she said seeming somewhat mollified. After a moment she asked, “What happened earlier? I thought you were going to take me to the conference with you.”
He’d completely forgotten his off-the-cuff remark. “I’m sorry. It turned out the agency wanted me to conduct some business while I was there, so I couldn’t take you.”
“That must be why your colleague and her friend were here earlier,” she said.
“My colleague?”
“Ms. Tuttle.”
“Yeah.” He cringed, thinking about how furious Mo must be. “Anyway, I’m gonna have to go back out now. More work you know." He continued trying to usher her out.
She walked in front of him. “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Tomorrow, Truesy,” he promised.
Nodding with a pasted smile on her face, she proceeded down the stairs. Clarence closed his door behind them and followed her down. No sense staying in his apartment waiting for Kubikov’s gang to bust in. At the front door, he stuck his head outside and scanned the street. The only person outside was a tall young man leaning against a Toyota and talking on a cell phone. Clarence decided the guy wasn’t a threat and headed out. Just as he was about to pass the car, the young man came around the bumper and grabbed him by the arm with an iron grip.
“Hey, Clarence,” the young man said. “Don’t you remember me?”
* * * * *
Ross slipped out the motel room door and then eased it shut behind him. Inside the room, Mo relaxed in a bath while Talley lay curled up on a pillow Ross had placed on the floor in the corner by a bowl of water.
Their room was on the second floor of a motel in the less prestigious part of town. To face facts, the place was a bit of a dump located on the outskirts of the Historic District. Not quite the hourly rental status, but close enough. The rooms were situated with each of their doors opening to the outside elements. This particular room had a lovely view of a nearby industrial installation.
Some birthday this had turned out to be.
At least he felt clean. Mo had thoughtfully allowed him use of the bathroom first due to the fact that his slime-covered state from crawling around at the strip club exceeded hers. Ross had showered and changed into baggy jeans and t-shirt hastily purchased from a truck stop they’d passed along the state highway before deciding to turn around and head back to the city. The t-shirt read: Bubbaland—presumably the truck stop's name. They should’ve purchased something to eat while they were there. But neither he nor Mo had been thinking clearly at the time. All she'd gotten was tuna...and that was for the cat.
Ross started down the metal walkway in the direction of the elevators. This place was a far cry from the penthouse suite he had in that four-star hotel, but their stay would only be one night. And surely the place wasn’t totally barbaric. There must be an ice dispenser, he thought, glancing down at the plastic ice bucket that had been provided in the room. This little item seemed to indicate there would be ice somewhere in this hellhole. And where there was ice there had to be a snack machine. Not a great source of nutrition but acceptable given his famished state. When he reached the elevator doors, Ross noted a sign indicating the direction of the “refreshments” around the next walkway corner.
Ross rounded the corner. There they were. The ice dispenser and the snack machines sto
od against the wall. However, he also saw three young men loitering around the machine dressed in futuristic military uniforms, complete with plastic laser guns strapped to their belts. Obviously, they were part of that ridiculous film convention.
The first skinny, redheaded nerd held a pile of assorted snack packages in front of him.
“I want peanuts,” said the nerd with the curly black hair and glasses, taking a pack off the top of the pile.
Nerd number three, a slightly pudgy guy with stringyhair didn’t speak. He nabbed the three top packages, leaving the redhead with a candy bar.
The three looked up, spotting Ross. Avoiding the group was impossible. Brilliant. What he didn’t need right now was fan recognition.
“Hey ya,” the redhead said. “You lookin' for some munchies too?”
“Yeah munchies,” Ross said in his best American accent as he walked to the machine. He examined its contents, keeping his back to the nerds.
The black-haired nerd moved beside the machine. “Are you here for the movie convention too?” He pushed the glasses up his nose.
Ross nodded, trying to keep his face turned downward. “I was there today.”
“Dude. Great make-up. You look exactly like that Stephen Dagger character,” Curly said.
“Thanks.” The jeans and t-shirt did not in any way resemble any of the wardrobe items from SpyMatrix. Classic. Even in a t-shirt from Bubbaland he looked like Stephen Dagger.
“Although the hair isn’t exactly right. You need more of a curl over your forehead.”
“I appreciate the tip,” Ross replied, eyes on the machine.
“I suppose the big gun is in your room,” the redhead remarked.
“Yeah.”
“Too bad. I bet it’s great.”
Ross turned back toward them. “You have no idea.”
“Maybe we’ll see you at the convention tomorrow.”
Ross nodded.
Each nerd held up a hand with a ‘v’ between their fingers. “Live long and prosper.”
Ross tried to return the gesture. “Go with the force.”
The nerds snickered and ambled down the hallway before they turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.
Examining his munchy choices, Ross considered the relative nutritional merits of peanuts versus crackers covered with some sort of cheesy substance. “Wow,” he muttered as he spotted the package of condoms offered on the last row.
“Y'all gonna be there all night?” A male voice said behind him in a southern drawl.
Fab. “I shan’t be a moment.” Forcing his eyes away from the condoms, Ross considered the ‘food’ choices. Perhaps a bag of crisps —er, potato chips. Potatoes were a vegetable. Oh Lord, Mo’s illogic had turned contagious.
“Huh?”
“What I’d really like is some greasy bangers and mash,” Ross mumbled to himself, still staring into the machine.
“What did you say to me? Did you say you want to bang me?”
Ross turned to see a familiar figure with a t-shirt that proclaimed “DeWayne does it better”. Ross didn’t want to think about what it the shirt referenced. Another encounter with North Carolina DeWayne was bad enough. Savannah must be the smallest big town on earth.
“I was talking about food. I most certainly did not say I wanted to bang you.”
“It’s you.” DeWayne obviously recognized Ross in return. “The famous super spy that likes to insult folks.”
“I don’t insult anyone.”
DeWayne looked back as if to check whether his wife had witnessed the conversation. “If you were talking about food then what was that about banging.”
“I’m speaking the Queen’s English, my dear man.”
“Queen. That’s a gay guy, aint it? Are you sayin' I’m gay?”
“Your mental acuity is astonishing.”
DeWayne stood there with his mouth hanging open for two full seconds before speaking. “I never woulda thought you swished that way.” DeWayne smiled. “Ya know, I gotta admit that it’s kinda nice that a big celebrity thinks I’m a cutie. I’m sorry to disappoint ya, but I don’t play for that team, if ya know what I mean.”
“I’m devastated,” Ross said as he tossed some coins into the machine and then punched in his selection. When the bag of crisps fell, he grabbed them from the dispenser. He had just obtained a candy bar for Mo, when one more item in the vending machine caught his eye. He couldn’t resist, so Ross punched in the number for the condoms.
As Ross walked away, DeWayne still had a silly smile on his face.
“I can’t believe Stephen Dagger thinks I’m a cutie. Too bad I can’t tell Marvelene.”
That guy was seriously insane. Unfortunately, DeWayne and his Marvelene weren’t the worst he and Mo had to cope with. Gigantor and his boss loomed as bigger threats to contend with.
When Ross arrived back at the room, Mo was nowhere in sight. She must still be in the bath. After Ross placed the candy on the bedside table, he walked over to the bathroom door to knock on its particleboard surface.
“Are you all right in there?” he asked. He heard a splash. Images of Mo emerging from the bath flashed through his mind, shooting fire through his body.
“Yes. I’ll be out in a minute.”
There were two full sized beds in the room. Looking at them led his mind to wander to some unsavory possibilities. Things he and Mo could do on one of those beds… or maybe both of them. Ross fought to reign in his thoughts. That was the sort of behavior Mo didn’t need after the stress of the day. Some Neanderthal jumping on her the second she left the bathroom would definitely be unwelcome.
Ross sat down on one of the beds. Then it struck him. He’d never even thought of ringing Heather. She at least deserved a warning about Gigantor lurking at the hotel, if he wasn’t too late already. And beside that, if he could reach her, she might be able to provide answers to some very pertinent questions.
He picked up the motel room phone and then dialed for an outside line. He punched in Heather’s cell phone number. A pad of paper with the motel logo and a pen lay beside the phone. Ross picked up the pen and doodled. One ring, two, three, four. Dammit the thing had gone to voicemail. He heard a click, then the familiar message in Heather’s sultry voice.
“You know what to do. If you’re anyone I want to speak to, I’ll call you back. If not, I won’t.”
He waited for the beep and then spoke. “Heather, it’s Ross. Don’t go back to the hotel. I don’t know what’s going on, but one of the guys you and Clarence seem to be involved with is there. We need to talk about all this.”
His message was interrupted by a beep, which signaled the end of the allowed recording time. Bloody hell. She wouldn’t even be able to call him back since his cell phone had died and wouldn’t be resurrected without the charger in his hotel room—the four star room.
After a few seconds, Ross dialed out to Heather again. This time she answered.
“It’s Ross.” He scratched the word “Heather” in block letters over and over on the pad.
“Ross? Where are you? This isn’t your cell phone number.”
“Where I am is immaterial.”
“And who are you with?” she demanded. “Are you with that woman? The one that reporter asked me about? The one you were kissing?” She didn’t pause for him to answer. “Don’t bother denying it. Stewart showed me the photo on his digital camera.”
“I’m not denying anything,” Ross started.
“Ross, how could you?" she sobbed. "Our wedding is only a few weeks away.”
“We are not getting married, Heather.”
The sobbing ended abruptly. “Are you saying you’re breaking our engagement?
“We were never getting married. I didn’t ask you to marry me. I don’t know what you’re playing at or if you’re actually delusional, but we are not now and never were engaged.”
“I think you’ll find that according to the top celebrity wedding planner, the most exclusive caterer, and the
most expensive florist in Hollywood, we are engaged. Not to mention, the designer of my $100,000 wedding dress. She’s absolutely certain we are engaged and you are paying for my dress.” Heather’s voice had turned surprisingly composed.
"You chose to make those arrangements, not me," he replied, getting irritated. He'd called her to do her a favor, not to get drawn into her insanity again.
Then the sobbing re-commenced. “Ross, Ross,” she cried brokenly. “How could you treat me like this? Don’t you know you’re breaking my heart?”
What heart?
“We’re completely off topic. We need to talk about something serious.” Ross found himself writing the words “wedding planner” and “contact”.
“What could be more serious than a broken engagement? You’re practically leaving me at the altar. I’m going to need compensation.” She didn’t sob now. She ranted. “You owe me something for humiliating me like this.”
“What are you talking about? Are you absolutely mad?”
“You owe me the role of Francesca and a share of the profits for the sequel to SpyMatrix.”
“There is no sequel to SpyMatrix.”
“I know there is. That new film you’ve been talking about is a cover.”
Ross tugged a hand through his hair. “Heather. Listen closely to what I’m saying and try to comprehend. We are not getting married and there is no sequel to SpyMatrix. We need to talk about Clarence and his friends.”
Silence screamed from the phone for long seconds.
“Who’s Clarence?” Heather finally asked
“Come on now. I saw you talking to him at the convention. The two of you are somehow mixed up with that Gigantor and his boss and I want to know what’s going on. Kubikov seems to think I’m trying to blackmail him.”
The call cut off.
“Dammit.” Ross dialed out to Heather’s number. A mechanical sounding voice intoned that the voicemail box of the cell phone customer he was calling was full.
Brilliant.
He tore the last sheet of paper off the cardboard backing and then tossed the trash in the wastebasket. He folded the note and then stuffed it in his pocket. Ross would worry about his “engagement” later.
In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) Page 16