In Deep Shitake Part 13

Another scab rubbed raw. Mo chose not to rise to his bait. "Yes, she is. What about Clarence?"

"Oh yeah. He went into the men's rest room opposite the women's."

"Thanks. Later, bro."

As they hastily walked toward the main hall entrance, Ross and Mo decided to split up. It seemed natural for Ross to follow Clarence into "the loo", as he called it, for the surveillance of Clarence and for Mo to follow Heather.

Once inside, Mo pa.s.sed two teenage girls dressed as streetwalkers-wonder which movie those outfits were from-giggling and primping in front of the mirror. There was no sign of Heather Davies.

Mo bent to scan under the stall doors. A pair of feet clad in fas.h.i.+onable strappy sandals, were visible in the first stall. Hopefully, the feet belonged to Heather.

The girls abruptly stopped giggling and eyed Mo's reflection suspiciously. A little brunette, in her thigh-high boots, leather mini-skirt, and blue tube top, straightened away from the mirror and then turned toward Mo. She whispered to the blonde who was dressed in four-inch red stiletto heels, hip hugging leatherette capris and a belly s.h.i.+rt. The blonde whispered back and then the two adopted a wide track around Mo as they made a hasty exit.

Holy frijoles.

She must look worse than she thought. Mo turned toward the mirror. When her eyes met her reflection, she bit back a scream. She did look like a clown... a demented clown...a demented male clown. On top of everything her make-up had smeared. Mo blamed that darned cat-woman. Mo had seen her flirting with Ross while they'd been selecting costumes. Susie had obviously done her best to put her rival, Mo, at an unattractive disadvantage. Mo had been so intent on choosing something which would disguise her from Clarence that she hadn't realized how truly awful the costume was.

Mo pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. Turning on the tap at one of the two sinks, she tested one finger under the stream and waited for the water to warm. She heard a flush sound and then the door to the first stall opened. Heather Davies emerged. Heather walked-if one could call a pony canter a walk-to the second sink. Heather turned on the tap and then washed her hands. She looked at Mo's reflection in the mirror and her lip curled. Even with an "Eeew" expression on her face, Heather looked gorgeous.

"This is the ladies' room you know," Heather said.

Mo nodded. She found herself strangely unable to speak. Probably mortification had gotten her tongue. Mortification caused by the costume pushed on her by a catwoman. So you could say, the cat had got her tongue.

"The men's room is across the hall." Heather finished laving her hands and then dried them with a paper towel.

Mo nodded again.

"Don't you speak English? I said the men's room is across the hall," Heather scolded.

"No English," Mo managed to choke out. Real smart Mo. What language did she speak?

The water finally warmed. Mo wet the paper towel and then rubbed at the whiteface make-up. She drew off the black wig to let her natural hair fall down her back.

"Oh. You are a woman," she exclaimed. "Sorry, but you looked like a..."

A cell phone trilled. Mo recognized the tune as You're Beautiful. Heather removed a tiny earpiece from the clutch purse she had placed on the counter and slid the device behind her ear. "You're talking to Heather," she greeted.

Heather paused and then screamed, "No. Absolutely no carnations for my wedding bouquet. What are you thinking? And no baby's breath either. Are you stupid or just completely lacking in fas.h.i.+on sense? I want special flowers. Rare. Nothing pedestrian. Exotic. Got it?"

She paused before speaking again. "Good. Kisses," she cooed. Heather touched the device at her ear to end the call. She reached into her purse to withdraw a make-up bag, a lipstick, and brush. As Mo wiped the white from her face with a paper towel, Heather painstakingly painted a perfect edge around her pouty, full lips with a bright red lipstick. You're Beautiful trilled again.

Mo slipped into the bathroom stall before shutting the door behind her.

"You're talking to Heather," she practically sang. "What? No. Everything is fine with Ross. In fact, I just talked to the wedding planner. It's those stupid tabloids trying to sell their papers and magazines. It's all been very irritating."

Heather subsided into silence for long seconds and Mo a.s.sumed the blonde was listening to someone speak on the other end of the phone.

"We are going to start filming on schedule," Heather insisted. "I told you that Ross thinks I'll be perfect for the part of Francesca."

More silence.

"They're what?" she finally asked. "What are you doing about it? I would have expected that you, as my sister, would be more supportive of my success. But then you always were jealous. Maybe you won't get an invitation to my Hollywood wedding after all."

Silence.

"Oh all right, don't yell in my ear, Sissy. You're invited." Heather paused before continuing, "No. I haven't seen anyone like that." She paused again. "Well, I think I would know if I had."

More silence.

"No, no one can hear me. I'm in the restroom with a woman who doesn't speak English. Or I think it's a woman. At first I thought it was a man."

Heather laughed. "Darling, you worry too much. I've got everything under control." With a singsong voice she called out "kisses" and then hung up.

Lurking in the men's restroom, Ross began to feel like a pervert. If his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror above the sinks was any indication, he looked like one too. The mask was lurid enough, but the cape added an even seedier quality to his appearance.

In the mirror, he caught the eye of a chap who used the urinals positioned on the wall perpendicular to the bank of sinks. The kid-probably about twenty-two-was dressed as a cowboy, and gave Ross a little come-hither smile and head waggle. Ross jerked away to face the opposite wall. Brilliant. If he didn't escape from this loo soon, the police would arrest him for some alleged lewd behavior. What fab publicity that sort of event would be. The tabloids would eat it up just as they had when they caught that rock star with his w.a.n.ger exposed in the public toilet. Ross and what's-his-name would vie for the number one spot on the list of the top ten celebrity bad boys of the bathroom on VH1.

When would Clarence emerge from the stall? Had he fallen into the bowl and drown? Maybe, Ross should wait right outside the bathroom. Surely from there, he couldn't miss Clarence when he emerged?

A cell phone tone echoed off the room's tiled walls with the irritatingly familiar theme music from SpyMatrix.

"Cheerio," a voice with a fake British accent said from behind the stall door.

Cheerio? Who said Cheerio anymore?

"Stephen Dagger here."

Stephen Dagger? The git, Clarence, was calling himself Stephen Dagger? He had taken the impersonation thing too far now.

"Heather," Clarence said. "Why are you calling me? I'll be out in just a minute." He paused. "It'll be completely fine. We're just a bit behind schedule, that's all." Clarence gave an affected "sh" instead of the "sk" sound on the word schedule. "It's virtuoso," Clarence declared.

What was virtuoso? Did the imbecile even know what that SpyMatrix catchphrase "it's virtuoso" meant? How could he? The saying was meaningless-only a line that had been added when the director had demanded the screenwriter insert something that would become famously quotable like "I'll be back" or "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a d.a.m.n." But Ross had felt ridiculous each time he'd had been forced to say that stupid line.

"There's no need for you to get your knickers in a twist." Clarence made a chuckle that sounded like he was saying "ha ha" before the Dagger-wannabe fell silent again. "I'll call them again right now if that's what you want."

What was this prat up to?

Clarence closed his cell phone and its ringer sounded almost immediately. He knew who the caller was even before he glanced at the phone's face. If Heather was panicking that meant someone else would be also. He groaned and then flipped the cell open again. "Hey sweetie," he answered.

"We have to get out of here. You have to make him pay the money," the female voice said from the other end. "If he found out it was us..."

"Don't worry," Clarence said, aware the accent he'd been feigning had completely faded.

"You keep saying that but still no results." Her hysteria rose with each word. "Is it Heather's photos you're concerned about?" She screamed the question. "At this point I don't care if we get them. Just the money."

"Okay, babe," he soothed. "I'll arrange to get the cash today. We'll be outta here in a few hours."

"All right. But if you don't get the money this time, I don't want to see you again."

The certainty in her tone sent a chill through Clarence. He couldn't lose her now when they were so close to what they'd dreamed of. She was counting on him.

"I'll get it," he choked out. "I love you." But as he said the last words he knew she'd already hung up.

Clarence didn't want to call Kubikov from his own phone, but he was desperate. None of his efforts to threaten the big man's underlings had resulted in any money. So despite his trepidation, Clarence punched in the numbers. As the line rang the first time, he cleared his throat.

"Da." Kubikov's voice came aggressively at him, making Clarence jump.

"Cheerio," he said, donning the accent. "Do you know who this is?"

"Dagger," Kubikov replied.

"Then you know what I want. I've got copies of certain doc.u.ments that could cause you problems."

"I understand your threat," the gangster interrupted. "If I give money, we meet in person."

"No. I won't meet you," Clarence said. "I'll give you an address to drop off the package. Once I have the money and Heather's photos, I'll mail you the doc.u.ments. You'll just have to trust me."

"You want photos and money? Photos take longer. They in safe deposit."

A nerve at the corner of his eye began to twitch as he thought for a few seconds before finally replying, "Just get me the money then."

In response, he received a long silence.

"I'm mailing the doc.u.ments after an hour," Clarence warned, trying not to see the fear in his own eyes reflected in the mirror. "I can mail them to you or to the police. You choose."

After a pause, Kubikov asked, "What your address?"

Clarence hadn't considered what address to use for the drop. Not his own definitely. Only one came to mind. "Um...528 Gaston? Put the money through the mail slot in the door."

"Da," Kubikov said before ending the call.

s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. Clarence punched more numbers into his phone. After four rings, voicemail answered.

"Mo, this is Clarence. Call me back as soon as you can. I need to know what you found last night. Um... Harriet wants to know what you found in the Mercedes. And there's something else I need to talk to you about." He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Anyway it's urgent, but nothing to worry about." He forced a laugh. "But don't go home. Just call me back as soon as you possibly can."

Moments later Clarence barreled out of the stall and the door banged, metal against metal. He pushed past someone in a Phantom of the Opera costume on his way out.

Mo wondered how much longer she could hide in this restroom stall. She really had to pee, but she didn't want to be caught with her pants down, literally or figuratively, when Heather made her move. Besides, there was something weird about peeing with Heather there freshening her make-up on the other side of the stall door.

A number of women came and went. Some of them pulled on the door to see if anyone occupied the stall. Unfortunately, the lock on this particular stall wasn't working and each time someone tried the door, it opened readily.

Listening intently for Heather to exit, Mo jumped when her cell phone song sounded. At the same time, the stall door pushed in with a jerk.

A woman dressed in naughty nurse garb waited on the other side. "Oh. Sorry," the nurse said, not sounding at all sorry.

"Occupadito," Mo improvised, trying to keep up the pretense that she didn't speak English for Heather's benefit.

The nurse turned a quizzical expression on Mo, scanning her up and down with a fish-eye. She probably wondered why Mo stood there doing nothing.

"Scusimente," Mo stated in her pretend language, pulling the door shut again. By the time she rummaged into her pocket for the cell phone, it had stopped ringing. The number the phone displayed for the missed call had been blocked. Cinnamon sticks.

The outer door to the ladies' room opened and closed again. She peeked out of the stall and saw Heather had departed. Mo rushed after her and the outer door flew inward-pushed by a fast moving figure-almost hitting her. Stepping back, she avoided a collision with the door but wasn't so lucky with the figure. Mo found herself face-to-fur with a plushy cartoon-like chipmunk. Then the chipmunk removed its furry head, revealing another rodent beneath. Stewart Milton, reporter not-so-extraordinaire, stood there wearing his usual s.h.i.+take-eating grin.

"Milton. What the duck l'orange are you doing here?"

"The better question is what were you doing in here with Heather Davies? Did it get physical?" His eyes sparkled with glee. "I can see the headline now: Celeb's Fiancee and Mistress Throw Punches Over the Porcelain."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mo scoffed. "I'm not Ross Grant's mistress."

"Then what are you? The public has a right to know the status of relations.h.i.+p."

"Oh no they don't." Mo shook her head. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the chipmunk head and rammed it into his chest. "Now get out."

The grin filled with the metaphorical brown substance returned. "I'll leave for now, but I won't go far. This Ross Grant story is too good to pa.s.s up." With that, Milton pushed his way out the ladies' room door.

Mo let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding and glanced at herself in the mirror. Placing her palms on her face, she found her cheeks were hot to the touch. Turning on the faucet, Mo let the water run before scooping soothing coolness onto her skin. Finally ready to confront the crowd in the convention center, she straightened and prepared herself to walk out the door.

Before she could touch the handle, the door flew inward again as another figure rushed through, sending Mo stumbling backward. Strong arms came up to grab her by the shoulders which kept her from bouncing against the wall. She recognized those strong arms.

"Ross."

He shoved the Phantom mask up. "Listen," he said in an urgent whisper, "I just overheard Clarence give out an address where we might find something."

"Find what?"

"I don't know, but it seems to have something to do with why he wanted you to break into my car. I think he-"

The restroom's outer door began to swing inward again.

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks," Ross grumbled and rushed Mo into the first stall. After squeezing himself in the small s.p.a.ce with her, the stall door shut at his back. He held Mo to him, saving her from balancing over the toilet bowl.

Awareness of his body pressed against hers zinged through Mo. He was all hardness and strength as his body touched hers from the tops of her thighs to her chest. She hoped he couldn't feel how her b.r.e.a.s.t.s tightened through the rough cloth of the clown-er, ninja-costume. His musky warm male scent mixed with a hint of expensive cologne enthralled her. Mo's skin sizzled. Her body buzzed, it was so alert and sensitive to his. His full lips, so succulent they begged for a bite, were nearly touching her forehead. She had read somewhere that s.e.xual attraction was based on pheromones. Ross must be drenched in them.

His breathing had quickened. Was it from the exertion or was he affected by her proximity also? She hoped for that latter option.

The two of them listened as someone else entered the restroom. Heather's voice echoed against the tile. "I can't hear a thing. Just a sec."

Mo peeked around Ross through a small slit at the stall door opening and saw Heather speaking into her cell phone hands-free device again.

"That's better. Now what is it?" She paused and then said, "No. Absolutely not. The cake has to come from Delphine's. She is the baker to the stars, you know. I don't care how expensive it is. And the photographer has to be Narducci. He is the definitive in guy right now. You're the wedding planner. You should know these things, darling."

Ross's jaw clenched and he frowned, creating a few s.e.xy lines between his brows.