CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Dick Fairchild was sitting in his older model light-blue Nash Rambler, which just happened to be parked in front of Zeeks Barber Shop. Off duty, he had decided it was time for a hair-cut; but first, he wanted to finish reading the Saint Cloud Gazette, just to make sure Jonah McGregor hadn’t published any articles concerning the police department or any of its officers.
The day was pleasant enough as he sat behind the steering-wheel. There was a steady breeze wafting through the rolled down windows; he sat with his left arm propped up on the driver’s side door, steadying his newspaper.
Glancing up momentarily, he spied Mad-Dog-Mable strolling down the dusty sidewalk, coming straight toward him. Mumbling softly to himself, “Dear god, not today.”
Mable walked right up to his car and leaned over, “Well, if it ain’t Detective Dick Fairchild, I haven’t seen you, out and about, for several weeks now. So Dick,” The very tone she used when uttering his first name infuriated him beyond belief, “what are you doing here?”
Looking up slowly as he now peered into her bloodshot eyes, “Now Mrs. Zeeks, you know full well I come here for a haircut every two weeks like clockwork.” He envisioned himself climbing out of his automobile and punching her squarely in the jaw.
“What’s with the big grin?” She asked smugly.
Back to reality, he quickly withdrew the smirk from his face, “Oh, nothing in particular. I’m just a happy-go-lucky kinda guy I guess.”
“I’ll just bet you are.” One could taste the haughtiness in her voice as she stared into his face. There was no love lost between these two; both were of the same temperament; aggressive and domineering.
Knowing her love for her cat—which he figured she loved more than her husband—he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get in a wisecrack, “Tell me Mrs. Zeeks, is it true what the Monday Night Mystics say about you?”
Placing her hands squarely on her hips, “And just what did those Devil worshippers have to say, pray tell?”
“That you’re a Witch, and you dance naked around your persimmon tree during the full moon, and that you cast a spell on poor Mandrake that made him disappear?” Fairchild said with a straight face.
“Don’t think you can rile me up, Dick Fairchild, with that line of bullshit! Those spook chasers don’t have the guts to say something like that, and you know it, buster!”
Fairchild broke out into uncontrollable laughter.
“So smartass, what was your boy Ronny doing over at Alan Wallace’s house late last Friday night? I bet you didn’t even know he slipped out. Some detective you are; your kid’s out lurking around past midnight, and you don’t have a clue about it.” She shot back hoping to anger him as he tried to get her goat.
That struck a nerve, he was very protective of his only child, and of all the people to spring this on him; he was pissed. Dick started the Rambler, threw it in gear and sped off. Mable stood with her arms crossed, watching his hasty departure, delighted in the fact she had gotten the better of him.
By the time Dick arrived home he had regained his composure; now he decided not to confront his son, but instead, he’d shadow him on his next midnight excursion and see what he was up to. Dick felt somewhat betrayed; but had to make sure Mad-Dog-Mable wasn’t making it all up just to bust his chops.