In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense)

by Patricia Mason

  “If you don’t have any questions, perhaps you just want to give me a check for the invoice and I can be on my way,” Mo urged. Let’s move this along, lady.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink? How about water?”

  “No really. I don’t want anything.” Except to get out of here. What was this crazy woman waiting for?

  “Did I tell you that my husband and I are going out tonight?”

  She planned to go out dressed like that? Mo plastered a pleasant smile to her face. “No. I’m glad for you.”

  “Maybe you’d like to come with us,” Mrs. Nelson said.

  Trying to answer in a pleasant tone, Mo responded. “It’s nice of you to ask, but I can’t.”

  At that moment Walter Nelson —with his Nixon face in a Tina wig and attire matching his wife’s, —strode into the room, causing Mo to jump.

  “Yes, Miss Tuttle. Come with us," Nelson said, stepping closer to loom over Mo. “We’re going to Hoochie Mama’s House.”

  Shitake. This was not good. Mo stood and inched backward in the direction of the front door. “No, I can’t tonight. Maybe another time.”

  Nelson lifted his hairy arm. His hand with long red tipped nails held a gun. “I’m sorry, but I have to insist, Ms. Tuttle. You’re coming with us.”

  Mrs. Nelson went to her husband’s side as she nodded. “Yes, we have to insist.” Her expression was sympathetic. “It really is for the best, Ms. Tuttle. Mr. Kubikov wants to talk to you. And he’s paying us a lot of money to take you to him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The crowded parking lot at Hoochie Mama’s House gave Mo some slight comfort.

  Surely, the Russian mobster wouldn’t kill her in the midst of this stripper-loving crowd.

  But fingers of fear ripped at her slight jacket of comfort when the Nelson sedan proceeded through the parking lot and headed down a dirt path toward a warehouse building some distance from the club. Only one vehicle was parked outside. The black SUV Mo had seen on more than one occasion.

  Mrs. Nelson pulled her sedan to a stop next to the SUV. “I’ll meet you in the club later, baby.” She puckered her lips and made smoochy sounds at her husband.

  “Okay, boo.” Mr. Nelson puckered right back with smoochy sounds of his own, still holding the pistol on Mo.

  If she hadn’t been so afraid to die of gunshot wounds, Mo would have puked.

  Walter Nelson dragged Mo out of the vehicle and into the building. A giant float, the length of a football field, dominated the interior. The float, covered in tacky tissue paper, was topped with a paper mache replica of the Hoochie Mama’s House building and sign. Along the length of the float were the words “Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

  Mr. Nelson tugged Mo around the front of the monstrosity where she saw Kubikov, Gigantor and a smaller goon.

  “Ah, Ms. Tuttle. Nice to see you again.” Kubikov came forward, took Mo’s hand and kissed the back as if he was welcoming her to an embassy reception instead of holding her captive. “You know other guest,” Kubikov said, taking Mo by the shoulders and turning her.

  Near the front of the float, Ross sat slumped and unconcious, tied to a chair—she prayed he was only unconscious.

  What had they done to him?

  Mo broke away from the Kubikov and pushed past Nelson uncaring about his threatening gun, as she scrambled toward her love on shaking legs.

  A gash with clotted blood marred his temple. Kneeling by his side she placed trembling fingers to his cheek. It was warm to the touch. He was alive!

  “Oh, Ross, Ross.” Mo stroked her fingers through his vibrant brown hair. Ross moaned and leaned into her hand as if by instinct. “He needs a doctor. He probably has a concussion.”

  “No doctor. Mr. Dagger will soon awaken and join in our party,” Kubikov purred. “It is pity, but we start without him.”

  Kubikov snapped his fingers and Gigantor came forward. Jerking Mo up, his beefy fingers bit into the flesh of her upper arm.

  “Where is it?” Kubikov demanded with a harsh sneer.

  “What do you want,” Mo cried. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. “Just tell me what it is?”

  “Why do you persist in this game play, Ms. Tuttle? Or should I say, Francesca.”

  “Francesca is a character in a movie. Stephen Dagger is a character in a movie.”

  “Yes, but these are the names you and your fiancée have used in the negotiation.” Kubikov snapped his fingers and the little goon scuttled away before soon coming back with a chair. Kubikov seated himself. “Okay, you wish play game. I humor. I explain what you already know and then you no pretend no more.”

  Kubikov crossed his legs, withdrew a gold case from the breast pocket of his expensive suit, and extracted a cross between a cigar and a cigarette. Mo thought they were called cigarillos.

  “Mr. Dagger wish me to provide him half million dollars. Perhaps he needs to finance film sequel to SpyMatrix movie.“ He pointed at Mo. “If he approach me like man and ask me finance film, perhaps I do. Everybody know the SpyMatrix so I think good investment.” Kubikov took a puff and blew it out as a ring. “But he not come to me. He try blackmail me with my own financial documents. And when I try get my documents back, negotiations break up.”

  “Down,” Mo corrected absently. Could Ross really have tried to get funding for a film project from this guy? Why wouldn’t he have told her? Why go through the pretense of going to the strip club to find out what was going on if he had known all along. Even though he’d been a gherkin by not believing her earlier, Mo was certain Ross wouldn’t have put them in danger like that. And he wasn’t stupid. He’d deal with bona fide businessmen to get financing. This was all Clarence.

  “Yes, negotiation break down. Mr. Dagger is greedy.” Kubikov made a tut-tut clucking sound. “That not smart. Fortunately, I know Sharlene,” he said, pointing at Nelson. “He say he meet you and Dagger yesterday and can get you to me. I think Dagger, he is more cooperative with you here.”

  “Cooperative?” Mo asked.

  “Cooperative to give me my documents. I want mess clear up.”

  Did clearing up the mess include killing Clarence?

  “I still don’t understand. You think we have your documents?”

  “Still play game?” Kubikov asked. “Dagger is oopryamee. What is word? He is like mountain. He not move."

  “Stubborn?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Kubikov puffed and blew the exhaled smoke in Mo’s face causing her to give a choked cough. Kubikov’s brows converged into an angry vee. “Dagger have photos of financial records I am not so eager that your government see. I am not paying all the taxes you know? So you understand I not so happy with blackmail.”

  Yes, Mo understood perfectly. She understood that as soon as he realized they didn't have any materials to give him, Kubikov would have them killed.

  Ross groaned and opened his eyes.

  * * * * *

  The accented voice came through the darkness into Ross’s brain, telling a story of Stephen Dagger and his Francesca and the theory about blackmail being a way to finance a SpyMatrix sequel. The confirmation of the hair-brained scheme— conceived by Clarence, a local yokel who fancied himself a super spy, and urged on by a model who’s brains were apparently scrambled by too much Botox— did as much to cause Ross’s headache as the blow did. Ross knew, unfortunately, that he wasn’t dreaming.

  Concentrating on his eyelids, Ross gave the mental command for them to lift. No immediate movement. Then they opened a slit. The light made him flinch and groan again.

  Ross’s surroundings had a blurred quality as if he needed glasses and wasn’t wearing them.

  Hard blinks and Ross straightened his neck. His head felt curiously heavy, but the movement brought relief to the pain the awkward angle had generated.

  Mo stood not far away—within touching distance. It took a moment to realize that it wasn’t his vision playing tricks. She was actually there, trembling slightly but bravel
y facing Kubikov.

  He longed to take her in his arms and feel her arms around him. He wanted to beg her forgiveness and feel her absolution in a kiss. He wanted to magically transport them out of this place.

  He tried to reach out to her, but his arm wouldn’t move. Ross realized his hands were tied around the chair behind his back with what felt like duct tape.

  “Mo.” His voice sounded faint to his ears. “Mo,” he said more strongly.

  “Ross.” Mo rushed to his side and wrapped her arms around him. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “How do you feel?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Gigantor grabbed Mo around the waist with rough hands and hauled her away from Ross. She screamed.

  “Don’t touch her,” Ross shouted, trying to jump up from the chair but finding his feet bound to the bottom. Duct tape there too.

  Standing, the Russian strolled toward Ross. “Give documents copy and I let you both go,” Kubikov said with a smirk. He puffed again on the cigarillo.

  Kubikov couldn’t let them go. Not without chancing prison for kidnapping. The reality was that they’d be killed the minute Kubikov got his hands on the photos he wanted…or when he realized that Ross and Mo didn’t have them.

  “Just let her go and I’ll give you what you want.”

  “No, I’m not leaving you here.” The exclamation seemed to burst from Mo.

  “Sweet love, the two of you. Just like Romeo and Juliet. You both want to die for the other."

  * * * * *

  If Kubikov’s words stunned Mo, they caused the opposite reaction in Ross. He erupted into a frenzy of thrashing and profanity, managing to utter every obscenity Mo had ever heard, or said, as he struggled against his bindings.

  A lazy snap of the Russian’s fingers and the smaller goon’s fist fell like a club against Ross cheek.

  “Stop,” she cried. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “Good. We make progress,” Kubikov said. “Where is it?”

  “It’s at the agency,” she sobbed out. “There’s a camera in my office at Incredible Love, it has a digi-card with your documents on it.”

  “Spaceeba. Thank you.” A curt bow from Kubikov. “Tie her up," he ordered Gigantor.

  “We not kill?” The baritone of the big goon intoned.

  “No,” Kubikov said. However, she had the feeling that when Gigantor nodded he was acknowledging that he’d get a chance to kill them when the blackmail material Kubikov wanted rested safely in his hands.

  * * * * *

  The smaller goon watched them from the corner of the warehouse as he alternated between munching chips from a crackling bag and swigging from a soda can. Mo and Ross had been placed across from one another, about thirty feet apart. Mo was bound with tape to the chair Kubikov had vacated.

  “I’m sorry,” Mo said. This had all started when she broke into Ross’s car. If she hadn't done as Clarence wanted, Ross wouldn't be here now.

  “It’s not your fault. You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” Ross replied. “It’s me who should apologize. I should have trusted you when you said you weren’t the source for that story. I should have trusted you about Clarence being involved with Heather.” His eyes bored into hers willing Mo to feel the sincerity. If they were going to die, he wanted her forgiveness. “I should have trusted you. That is the bottom line.”

  His apology rocked her with the strength of her feelings. But if they were going to die, she could give into them, couldn't she? The feelings suddenly weren't as threatening as she'd thought. Life was too short. Look at Clarence. He'd lost everything in an instant. One moment he was plotting and scheming to be with his girlfriend and the next...Mo could still see his body in her mind.

  “Poor Clarence,” Mo said, her face crumpling and a tear running down her cheek.

  “What do you mean?” Ross asked

  “Clarence is dead.”

  “These guys killed him?”

  “I think so,” Mo said, sniffing. She wasn't going to get a tissue any time soon, so she'd better stop the water works. She didn't want Ross’s last memory of her to be with snot running down her face.

  They both fell silent for a few moments.

  The goon on his cell phone interrupted Mo’s thoughts. “Hey, buddy. Bring me some wings from the club, will ya?” Unlike his cohorts he had a southern drawl.

  Apparently, his buddy didn’t want to accommodate.

  “Come on, dude. I’m hungry over here.”

  Silence.

  “I know it’s a busy night with St. Patrick’s tomorrow but…”

  More silence.

  “Dude, I’m not supposed to leave here. The big guy said…”

  More silence.

  “That’s true. Where can they go?” The goon scratched at his short buzz cut. “I’m comin' to pick the wings up. Have ‘em ready. I don’t want to be gone when the boss gets back. And man, include some beer, would ya?”

  The goon closed his cell with a snap. “Don’t go anywhere,” he shouted to Mo and Ross. He stuffed the gun he’d been holding into the back of his waistband. Then, with a laugh, he ran out slamming the metal door closed behind him. She heard clanking like some kind of padlock being applied to the door.

  Ross began hopping in his chair. Up and down it went, the legs thumping against the concrete floor. “Hurry," he said. "See if we can get close enough to each other for you to reach in my pocket.”

  Mo began an awkward hop scoot motion trying to make her way toward Ross. Perspiration broke out on her forehead and dripped down to her cheek. Her thighs burned with the strain. Finally, their knees were almost touching.

  “I’ll try to turn,” Mo said. Her breath chugged out. She gave a hop, twist, and scoot motion. The chair almost toppled over. The pain in her thighs increased as she tightened with all her might to keep from falling. “I knew I should have gone to the gym more in the last six months,” Mo muttered.

  When she got herself turned to the side, she could only see Ross if she strained over her shoulder. But with her head in that position she couldn’t hop.

  Facing forward Ross guided her. “More to the right. Just a little bit more.” She heard him moving too. “There you have it,” he said triumphantly.

  Fortunately, the tape bound her around her forearms and didn’t cover her wrists and hands. The tape tightened and cut into her skin as she moved her hands. Her fingers numbed but she could still feel the denim of Ross’s jeans.

  “Up a bit.”

  Mo felt the edge of the pocket. She heard Ross adjusting in the chair and he moved down giving her easier access. She strained upward as much as possible to get a better angle. Her fingers inched into the pocket. Would she be able to get to the bottom?

  “There should be nail clippers in there if you can reach them.”

  “Move toward me,” Mo said trying to dig deeper. She ran into some change. Not much help in the rounded edges of the coins. “Closer.”

  “I’m trying,” Ross said.

  Mo felt the muscles of his thigh tense under her fingertips. She arched and twisted to the right to get a better angle into the pocket and the ball of her left shoulder burned. The tendons in her triceps felt ready to snap. But, just as she thought she would come up with nothing...Success. The hard edge of the squeeze style clippers met her palm.

  Tweezing her index and middle finger, Mo gripped the metal, praying as she drew it out of the pocket, that she wouldn’t lose her tentative grip and drop it to the floor.

  “That’s it,” Ross said with a relieved exhale.

  The clippers cleared the pocket and, balancing her hand on the top of Ross’s thigh, Mo consolidated her grip.

  “Can you get the nail file part to slide out?” Ross asked. “That joker could be back any minute with his wings and beer.”

  “I know,” Mo said. “But my fingers feel like their going to come off. I can barely feel my fingers at this point.” She pushed the metal arm of the file with her
thumb and it twisted out of the way.

  “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Just a little more.”

  Mo knew he was just trying to be encouraging by using the endearment. He didn’t really mean she was his sweetheart. But still the word made her choke-up with tears in her eyes and throat.

  When the rough ridges on the nail file lay exposed from beneath the metal arm, she found the point at the tip was more blunt than she would have wanted. But at least it was a point.

  The nail file swung out into the opposite direction from the metal arm. Mo dropped her arms down off Ross’s thigh and felt relief in her shoulders.

  “That’s it. You’ve got it,” Ross said with triumph. “I’m going to try to move so that my wrists are within reach of the file.”

  The legs of Ross’s chair clanged and thumped.

  “Careful, don’t knock into my hands. I don’t know if I can hold onto the file.”

  “Righto.”

  Over her shoulder, Mo saw Ross maneuver into place. Mo strained to lift her wrists to feel for the tape of his bindings with the fingers of her left hand, while gripping the nail file in her right. When she made contact, she scooted the chair back to gain more leverage for the cutting motion.

  At first the tape seemed too elastic for her to make any headway in breaking through it.

  “Try to pull your wrists away from each other so the tape tautens up,” Mo said.

  Ross nodded and the nail file had more bite almost immediately. Back and forth, up and down, she dug and slashed in as wide an arc as the limits of her bindings would allow.

  “Keep going,” Ross said. “It feels like I can almost break the tape.”

  Mo dug forward and missed the tape. She lost her grip on the nail file and the clippers dropped to the ground with a dull clunk.

  “Shitake,” she moaned. “Oh, Ross.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Ross said.

  A dull snap and Mo saw Ross move to the bindings around his legs. He quickly dispensed with them and she felt him at work on her arms. When they were free, she rubbed her hands together to resume circulation while Ross worked on the tape around her ankles. A sound from outside the building caused them both to pause in the frantic movements.