In Deep Shitake Part 9

Bruno took a tentative step forward. "Are we supposed to answer?"

"Of course." Kubikov gave a curt nod.

"Yes, sir," the men chorused, saluting as if they were in the military.

"Yuri," his wife's high-pitched voice called again. "Did you take out the garbage yet? The can stinks. Am I supposed to do everything in this house?"

Kubikov groaned. Sooka. He'd like to shoot that b.i.t.c.hy woman.

"Yuri," she squawked. "The garbage. Take it out.

"Not now," Kubikov shouted in reply. "I'm in an important meeting."

"Yuri, do you hear me?" she demanded.

He fingered the trigger on the Glock. He itched to do it. Kubikov would have shot her long ago, but since she was the mother of his son he had to avoid murdering her if at all possible.

"What if I get the garbage?" Bruno asked as he eyed Kubikov caressing the gun.

"No." Kubikov shoved the Glock back into his holster. "Betsy doesn't like business a.s.sociates in house."

"Yuri!" Betsy shouted again.

"Shut up, woman," he shouted toward the house. "I'll take out the garbage when my important meeting is over."

A woman with blonde hair emerged through the sliders wearing a bubble gum pink wrap dress, which revealed her ample cleavage. She carried an infant in her arms. The four-inch heels of her sandals clicked on the cement.

"Stop shouting, Yuri. You'll wake the baby." She strode to Kubikov and plopped the sleeping infant into his arms.

"I'm going shopping. Watch him." She walked back toward the house, hips swaying. At the door she glanced over her shoulder, turning a glare on Kubikov. "You better have filled the gas tank on my Corvette," she warned before disappearing into the house.

Shaking his head of black cropped hair, he stared downward for a moment. "I shouldn't have married that zhyeanshcheena. She's always been a diva." Kubikov gazed lovingly into the face of the baby. "But all I suffer is worthwhile for my little Misha. Besides, she's very good at the pawkhats-you know. The s.e.x."

Ivan scowled as he s.h.i.+fted his legs apart to a wide stance and crossed his arms over his chest.

He had never liked Betsy,Kubikov thought.

The blond farm boy type snickered.

Anger shot through Kubikov like a taser, but he rose slowly from the chair.

"You." Kubikov jerked his head toward the blond. "Have the respect for the mother of my son."

The blond backed away, holding up his hands in surrender.

He turned to Ivan. "Why didn't you follow my instructions? For the first time you failed me. You let them get away."

The big man hung his head. "Da. Sazhalets. You're right, brother."

"And what about how this blackmailer got my information?" Kubikov demanded, getting into his face.

Ivan continued to stare at his feet. "I'm sorry. I not know."

Kubikov shook his head slowly. "Apology is not good enough. Punishment is needed." He crossed to a playpen set up in the shade and lowered the baby to the soft pad inside. "I must make an example of someone. I cannot look weak to my enemies," he said as he stared down at his son. The baby continued to doze peacefully. Kubikov loved the innocent happiness in his son's sleeping face. "Someone is always trying to knock you out of first place in my business. Perception is one hundred percent of the equation. If I look weak, I am a hundred percent weak. I must always be one hundred percent strong for my Misha." Kubikov straightened and turned. "Right, Bruno?"

Bruno nodded.

"Da. Okay," Kubikov announced to the group, pointing at Bruno. "Feed him to the alligators."

"Me? I'm not the one who failed. I wasn't even there." Bruno's head swiveled back and forth. Two thugs grabbed Bruno by each arm and the smaller man began to thrash between them. "Ivan failed!"

"True, but he is my brother. I can't kill him. I kill you instead." Kubikov turned to the others. "You know where to take him."

"What if the alligators there won't eat him?" Ivan asked.

"Then take him to where the teen got eaten by alligator last year. Those alligators, they are hungry." Kubikov's eyes rolled upward. "Tie a piece of chicken around the neck of Bruno."

"Da," said Ivan.

Kubikov looked to the sky. "Must I think of everything?"

"Da."

"Agggghhhh." Kubikov would have taken out the Glock and shot someone...but the sound would wake Misha. So he merely snapped his fingers and the two thugs dragged a protesting Bruno away.

Misha began to cry. Before Kubikov made it to the playpen, the cry turned to a wail.

"Now look what you did?" Kubikov yelled at the departing men. "You wake the baby."

He turned back to Ivan and put a hand on the big man's arm. "This situation is out of hand, brother. I want the blackmailer and the doc.u.ments he took."

"More bad news, boss. I not tell others, but last time I talk to contact he threatened me. He say Dagger will turn records over to police if no money received by tomorrow."

Kubikov fired a round into a nearby tree. "You're just telling me this?"

Strangely, the baby stopped crying at the booming sound of the shot.

Ivan stared at him quietly. "Why don't you pay the money? Then he go away."

"I not submit to blackmail," Kubikov answered. "Get my doc.u.ments. Get Dagger and his girlfriend."

"Da." Ivan started to walk away, but Kubikov pulled him to a stop again.

"Don't fail me," Kubikov warned.

Ivan nodded.

"This time if you fail, I not know what I do. Brother or no brother."

Mo's proximity was doing things to Ross's senses. He couldn't seem to get the thunderous beating of his heart to calm despite several deep breaths.

"Should you be doing that when you have a girlfriend?" Mo asked as they walked toward Ross's Mercedes.

"What girlfriend?" Ross asked as he scanned the streetscape.

"I read the magazines. I see the articles about you and your girlfriend," Mo said. "You shouldn't be flirting with me when you have a girlfriend."

He stopped and turned a penetrating glare at her. "I don't have a girlfriend and I'm not flirting with you."

"What would you call it when a man has his hand where your hand is?"

Ross looked down. Oh Lord. He was pus.h.i.+ng Mo along with his hand firmly pressed to her posterior. He hadn't realized what he was doing. Ross was so fixated on Mo's b.u.m that he had touched it unconsciously. He definitely had to get away from this woman. Once he found out who wanted to break into his car, he'd never see or think about Imogene Tuttle again.

He jerked his hand away as if touching her stung his skin. "I'm terribly sorry."

Mo laughed. "It's all right. Now I can say that I've been groped by a celebrity."

"Yes. Be certain to tell the tabloids all about my behavior." Ross grimaced. She'd probably earn a pretty hefty sum with her story. Done up right, the tale would make a sensational read. He could almost see the headline of the National Star: Ross Grant's Asparagus Obsession.

Mo stopped a few feet from the car. "I was just joking."

"The tabloids aren't funny." He knew he was being boorish, but Ross couldn't seem to help himself. He hated the invasions into his privacy that were the stock and trade of the press. The thought of Mo selling him out to the tabloids hurt more than the many times in the past when his so-called friends had actually leaked stories about him for extra cash.

The tabloids were always willing to pay-even for has-beens. Not that he thought of himself as a has-been. He just hadn't had a hit in a few years. The expression about kicking a person when they were down was undoubtedly true when it came to the tabloids. In fact, they seemed more interested in following his "exploits" than the studios were in funding his films at this point. Now this Milton character and his obsessive grudge threatened his deal with Nicodemus.

"And what shall I say about the whereabouts of your girlfriend?" Mo crossed her arms over her chest. "Maybe she's behind this car break-in business. She probably wants to find out if her guy is cheating. And she's right. Here you are trying to cheat with me."

"I'm not in a relations.h.i.+p with anyone and, therefore, I'm not cheating on anyone. And I certainly wouldn't cheat with you."

"Oh, really." Her face changed from hurt to angry. "Isn't your girlfriend's name Heather something?"

"Davies," a third voice piped in from behind them. "Heather Davies. Where is the lovely Heather Davies, Mr. Grant? Have you thrown her over for Ms. Tuttle here?" The voice belonged to a man. He snapped photographs as he spoke. Ross recognized him from earlier when he seen him in the square across from Mo's agency. The young man dressed in seersucker with the industrial strength eyegla.s.ses.

Ross and Mo stopped causing the man to skid to a halt. He dug in his pocket and came out with a beat-up business card. "Stewart Milton, National Star." He offered the card to Ross who immediately tore the card into pieces and then tossed the pieces to the wind.

Milton pointed the lens at the couple and snapped his camera in rapid succession. Mo slapped the camera down. The man fumbled with it, just catching a good hold before the thing toppled to the asphalt.

"I just interviewed Ms. Davies at Mr. Grant's hotel here in town," Milton said. "Heather denies the rumors of a break-up. She says you're a devoted couple and that the two of you are engaged."

Milton snapped another photo. When Mo swiped at the camera, Milton leaned away, holding it behind his back. "What do you have to say to that, Mr. Grant?"

"No comment," Ross muttered.

"What about you, Mo? Any comment?"

Ross stepped between Mo and the reporter. "Leave my friends alone. As for me, if you'd like to interview me about my upcoming film, I'd be pleased if you'd make an appointment through my publicist. If you want to talk about my private life, kindly b.u.g.g.e.r off."

"Call me when you want to talk about Mr. Grant," Milton said to Mo. "I can be reached through the National Star's main number."

Ross took Mo's arm and ushered her forward. When they reached the car, Ross opened the Mercedes' pa.s.senger door for Mo to jump in.

"Don't forget what I said, Mo," the reporter shouted.

"How do you know that reporter?" Ross asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"What?" Her eyes widened, his question had come out of the blue. "I don't know Milton."

"He called you by your first name." Ross scowled. "He knew you."

"I don't know him and we certainly aren't friends," Mo insisted. "Maybe Clarence told him about me. Clarence seems to be the root of all our problems so far. I'd like to thump him in the cantaloupe and take a paring knife to his grapes," she muttered to herself.

"What?" Ross asked, his hands confidently turning the steering wheel as he maneuvered the car around one of the squares.

"Nothing," Mo shot in his direction.

Mo could forgive a lot of things but lying and cheating weren't among them. Clarence had lied about the a.s.signment and thereby cheated her into violating her professional code of ethics. It was one thing to break into the car of the subject of an investigation sanctioned by the agency. But sending her off on a criminal activity for his own purposes? Just thinking about it made her burn with anger and humiliation again.

She'd nearly been fired. A humongous thug had attacked her. Worst of all, she was forced to contend with the mouthwateringly handsome Ross Grant. Mo glanced over at Ross, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he drove staring straight ahead. He knew he made her salivate. It was just a matter of time before she humiliated herself further by making a move on him.

Her mouth curved in a sneer. No doubt a guy in his rarified atmosphere of attractiveness probably enjoyed the hopeless yearnings of the trolls beneath him.

Stop, she thought. You're not a troll. You are a reasonably attractive-correction-beautiful woman. Well, maybe not beautiful but an attractive woman.

He glanced at her "What?" he asked taking one hand off the wheel and gesturing with it for emphasis.

"Nothing."

"Fab," he muttered. His lips pursed, making her want to take a bite of their succulent fullness.

He'd seemed interested in her at the restaurant for a few seconds there. But just when Mo started thinking that Ross wasn't so bad, she learned he'd lied to her about not being involved in a relations.h.i.+p. And he was involved with a supermodel, no less. Plus, he compounded it with that comment about how he certainly wouldn't cheat with her. Why not? What was wrong with her? Was the jerk saying that she wasn't cheat worthy?

Just kill me now, she screamed silently to him. Correction. s.e.x first then you can kill me. She groaned. Ross glanced her way, but this time didn't ask for an explanation.

The Mercedes finally pulled to a stop in front of an obscenely large antebellum mansion in the Victorian District. The enormous blue house was adorned with multicolored gingerbread carvings. The compact but pristinely kept yard was surrounded with a white picket fence. A woman knelt near the plantings in front of the house, digging a small hole with a garden spade. Unplanted geraniums waited in plastic containers beside her.

Mo confirmed the address on a sheet of paper and then shoved the paper back into her handbag. "This is it. He's supposed to be in apartment D. I'll go see if he's home,"

Just then she spotted a movement in the rearview mirror as a rustbucket pulled to a stop about a block away. Milton had followed them.

Mo cringed but decided not to tell Ross. She didn't want to start another fight.

Hopping out of the Mercedes, she strode down the walk, and then up the stairs of the wrap-around porch. Mo pushed the buzzer next to the front entrance for apartment D, but there was no response. She pushed the b.u.t.ton again.

"Can I help you, dearie?" the gardener asked. She had abandoned her planting and was now standing at the foot of the stairs. Mo was uncertain of her age since a wide-brim straw hat obscured much of her hair and face; nevertheless, she had the impression that the woman was perhaps in her sixties.