The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 9, post 11

“Dang you, Ears, if you don't stop yelling the whole town is gonna know what you did.” “Ahaaaa, don't say that, Richard! Y’all made me do it!” Peg stepped up, and hushed us down, and then he said, “Y’all settle down ‘cause I ain't told you the worst part.” “Huh?” Yeah, that sure got our attention. “Y’all just stay put, and let me finish. When Wing returned from delivering the dog to Mrs. Graves he was fit to be tied.” “Well, why on earth would that upset Marshal Wing?” I asked. “It’s what she told him, Richard. Mrs. Graves told Marshal Wing she has a nephew who’s a private investigator, and he is coming to Norphlet to investigate the Chihuahua dognapping and bleaching. According to Mrs. Graves, there will be arrests.” “Oh, my Lord, Peg... but why was Marshal Wing upset?” “Well, it's like Wing wasn’t doing his job, and it would take an outsider to solve the thing.” “Oh.” “Yeah, but there is one good thing. Wing ain’t gonna help, so you’ve just got some Little Rock private eye to dodge.” Gosh, we walked away from talking with Peg not really knowing what to do. Yeah, we’d all seen some movies about private eyes, and it was hard to see how an undercover private eye would work in Norphlet. But we were going to find out ‘cause about 1 o'clock an older-looking Ford pulled up in from of the City Café . Heck, we were just hanging around the breadbox down at Echols Grocery when he went into the cafe. “Come on guys, let’s head down to the Café, and have a Coke. I’ve got a feeling that may be the private eye.” “Are you crazy, Richard? We should be hiding out,” said Ears. “Naw, Ears, he doesn't have a clue who we are, and I want to hear how Bubba treats him. You know Bubba just asks everybody who comes all kinda of stuff. You tell me, how is an undercover private investigated gonna stay underground after being grilled by Bubba?” Yeah, Bubba, who is a little touched, if you know what I mean—like he’s a nickel short of a quarter—is the combination short order cook and waiter at the City Café. Well, to say Bubba gives the cafe a different look, would be an understatement. Bubba, who is about 6-foot-6 and weighs a good 280 pounds, was injured in an oilfield accident when the chain on the rig floor broke and whipped back hitting Bubba alongside his head. It looked like Bubba was a goner, but the doctors put a steel plate in his head and sewed him up. After about three weeks, Bubba sat up in bed and asked for a beer. It was just about the nearest thing to a miracle Norphlet has ever seen, but it did leave Bubba not quite right. Yeah, he walks kinda spraddle-legged and when he talks, it sounds like he has a mouth full of marbles. And that’s not all. Bubba sometimes starts shaking like a fish out of water, and somebody has got to whack him to get him to stop. Plus he’s been known to just spout off the most off-the-tree things. That’s why we wanted to listen in when Bubba gave forth to the undercover private investigator—who now wasn’t undercover, but he didn’t know it. That sounded real good to everybody, so we hightailed it over to the City Café, and took a table right beside where the private investigator was sitting. The stranger had just sat down, and Bubba really took notice. ’Course sometimes months pass between new customers, so when Bubba spotted what sure looked like someone from way out of town, he grabbed the menu and headed over to the man’s table. We were on the edge of our seats ’cause we knew the conversation was gonna be a real humdinger.