the middle-aged North Carolina man and woman were now about ten feet away from him. They stopped and started to argue. She turned from the man and headed toward him.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled. Ross knew what was coming. He straightened away from the tree.
“Mr. Dagger?” the woman asked tentatively with a deep southern accent. “Are you Stephen Dagger?”
“No.” Ross could feel his nose involuntarily wrinkle as the heavy odor of alcohol on her breath hit him directly in the face.
“I aint stupid." The woman's eyes narrowed as she leaned forward to peer at him more closely. "You’re that spy.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I get it, you’re on a mission,” the woman said in a confident tone. “That’s okay. This won’t take long. How about an autograph? Do you have any of those posters? It’d be great if you’d sign one for me.”
Did she actually think he might have a poster that hadn’t been printed for ten years? And where would such a poster be? Rolled up in his pocket?
“How about one of them action figures. You could sign one of those for me, couldn’t ya ?”
Imogene Tuttle bolted from the agency building and then strode away in the opposite direction. Looking each way, she crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk.
“You don’t have to be mean. I know you’re Stephen Dagger.” The woman grabbed Ross’s arm. He shook her off and tried to go after Mo.
“Bastard,” the woman yelled at his back. “If it weren’t for people like me, you wouldn’t be a celebrity. You owe me,” she screeched.
Imogene Tuttle jumped into the driver’s seat of a neon blue Mini Cooper. Ross changed direction, running toward his own car. Unfortunately, that meant he traveled back in the direction of his fan.
“That’s better,” the woman said as he reached her.
Ross danced to the side, but the fan maneuvered in front of him again, forcing him to either halt or risk a collision. He decided to halt.
“Listen, Madam, I am not Stephen Dagger, and I do not have time for autographs.” He pushed past her to continue toward his car.
“What’d y'all call me?” She screamed at his back. “I’m not no madam. Aint that a prostitute? Are you gonna let him get away with that, DeWayne?”
Ross reached his car and then pulled the door open. DeWayne pushed the car door shut.
“Mister, you aint gettin ' away with callin ’ my wife no whore even if you are some kinda super spy.”
Dammit . Mo was escaping and he was going to have a fistfight with this lovely southern gentleman.
“You better apologize, Dagger, or I’m gonna beat your sissy ass,” the man bellowed and drew back a boney fist.
Ross straightened, readying himself for the blow.
Then DeWayne leaned toward him. “Look,” the man confided, his breath reeking as much as his wife’s. “I don’t want no trouble. But I gotta make the wife happy. If I don’t, I aint gonna be able to go back home. Y‘all understand, right?” The man's wide eyes pleaded with Ross.
“I did not call your wife a prostitute.”
DeWayne leaned back. “All right then,” he shouted. The North Carolina man swaggered back toward his wife. “He apologized, Marvelene . I guess I showed him who’s tough. Sissy super spy.”
* * * * *
Tracking down Clarence would have to wait. First, Mo had to meet Mrs. Jessica Nelson to give her the agency’s report on the investigation of her husband, Walter.
The couple, in their mid-forties, bore an uncanny physical resemblance to Richard and Pat Nixon. According to Mo’s background information, the two—Walter a respected accountant and Jessica a housewife—had been married for eighteen years and were the parents of two teenage children, a thirteen-year-old boy and a girl of fourteen. Mrs. Nelson had come to the agency a week before to find out if her husband was having an affair.
“Every woman knows when there is something wrong,” Mrs. Nelson had said. “I’ve been suspicious that there’s
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled. Ross knew what was coming. He straightened away from the tree.
“Mr. Dagger?” the woman asked tentatively with a deep southern accent. “Are you Stephen Dagger?”
“No.” Ross could feel his nose involuntarily wrinkle as the heavy odor of alcohol on her breath hit him directly in the face.
“I aint stupid." The woman's eyes narrowed as she leaned forward to peer at him more closely. "You’re that spy.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I get it, you’re on a mission,” the woman said in a confident tone. “That’s okay. This won’t take long. How about an autograph? Do you have any of those posters? It’d be great if you’d sign one for me.”
Did she actually think he might have a poster that hadn’t been printed for ten years? And where would such a poster be? Rolled up in his pocket?
“How about one of them action figures. You could sign one of those for me, couldn’t ya ?”
Imogene Tuttle bolted from the agency building and then strode away in the opposite direction. Looking each way, she crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk.
“You don’t have to be mean. I know you’re Stephen Dagger.” The woman grabbed Ross’s arm. He shook her off and tried to go after Mo.
“Bastard,” the woman yelled at his back. “If it weren’t for people like me, you wouldn’t be a celebrity. You owe me,” she screeched.
Imogene Tuttle jumped into the driver’s seat of a neon blue Mini Cooper. Ross changed direction, running toward his own car. Unfortunately, that meant he traveled back in the direction of his fan.
“That’s better,” the woman said as he reached her.
Ross danced to the side, but the fan maneuvered in front of him again, forcing him to either halt or risk a collision. He decided to halt.
“Listen, Madam, I am not Stephen Dagger, and I do not have time for autographs.” He pushed past her to continue toward his car.
“What’d y'all call me?” She screamed at his back. “I’m not no madam. Aint that a prostitute? Are you gonna let him get away with that, DeWayne?”
Ross reached his car and then pulled the door open. DeWayne pushed the car door shut.
“Mister, you aint gettin ' away with callin ’ my wife no whore even if you are some kinda super spy.”
Dammit . Mo was escaping and he was going to have a fistfight with this lovely southern gentleman.
“You better apologize, Dagger, or I’m gonna beat your sissy ass,” the man bellowed and drew back a boney fist.
Ross straightened, readying himself for the blow.
Then DeWayne leaned toward him. “Look,” the man confided, his breath reeking as much as his wife’s. “I don’t want no trouble. But I gotta make the wife happy. If I don’t, I aint gonna be able to go back home. Y‘all understand, right?” The man's wide eyes pleaded with Ross.
“I did not call your wife a prostitute.”
DeWayne leaned back. “All right then,” he shouted. The North Carolina man swaggered back toward his wife. “He apologized, Marvelene . I guess I showed him who’s tough. Sissy super spy.”
* * * * *
Tracking down Clarence would have to wait. First, Mo had to meet Mrs. Jessica Nelson to give her the agency’s report on the investigation of her husband, Walter.
The couple, in their mid-forties, bore an uncanny physical resemblance to Richard and Pat Nixon. According to Mo’s background information, the two—Walter a respected accountant and Jessica a housewife—had been married for eighteen years and were the parents of two teenage children, a thirteen-year-old boy and a girl of fourteen. Mrs. Nelson had come to the agency a week before to find out if her husband was having an affair.
“Every woman knows when there is something wrong,” Mrs. Nelson had said. “I’ve been suspicious that there’s
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