The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 12, post 15

Chapter 12 The Norphlet Mafia Okay, the chains were probably over the top. I guess we figured the chains would just yank the car to a stop, but according to Fred Smith down at the garage, the chains caused about $2,500 worth of damage. Yeah, now we had more charges against us, and if we were caught, they’d surely send us to reform school, probably feed us only bread and water, lock us up in the cellar, and beat us once a day. Heck, I figured, what have we got to lose? It was time for the Norphlet Mafia to act again, and this time we were going to add someone who didn't have a clue he was going to be a part of the Mafia operation. The Norphlet Mafia met down at the breadbox late that afternoon, and made plans. “Listen guys, we’ve got to throw that guy off our trail, and make him think someone else is doing that stuff,” I said. “Yeah, Richard, but Homer Ray is on to us, and I can’t think of anybody else,” said John Clayton. I’d been thinking the same thing, but then I thought about the City Café and how Bubba and the guy got into it. “How about Bubba?” “Well, yeah, but how are you gonna get the man to thinking Bubba might be involved?” “That’s easy, I’ll write out a note on one of the cafe napkins, like Bubba might write, and it will say, ’Don’t tell me my food ain’t good.’ And Ears can put it on the man’s car, which is still at Fred’s garage, but Fred said his car would be fixed by this afternoon, so it’ll be sitting in front of Mrs. Graves’s house.” “Nope, y’all has sucked me into this way too much. I ain't fixing to do any note posting.” Ears, you chicken! Well, that’s not a big deal. I’ll do it,” said John Clayton. & I stopped by the City Café on my way home and picked up a handful of napkins and spent a long time trying to write like I figured Bubba would write, and then I thought of something. Yeah, one more note. I got some plain paper and wrote, “Your food is terrible. It is not fit to feed to the hogs.” This one was going to go on the door of the City Café—late tonight. I went back to my house and gave John Clayton a call, "Meet me at the breadbox at 12:15.” Well, I know I’ve made a few mistakes since the whole Chihuahua mess started, but I didn’t start it, and to sic a danged Little Rock private eye on me and John Clayton…well, all I can say is that man deserves all the stuff we can come up with. Yeah, I knew those notes would be like pouring gasoline on a fire, but in war anything goes, so look out Mr. Paul because Big Bad Bubba is coming after you. & Yeah, John Clayton was waiting on me when I got to the breadbox, and I could tell what we were about to do was bothering him. Heck, he was yakking at me before I even got there. “Richard, do you realize that the last trick with the chains and all was a felony ’cause there was so much damage?” “You bet I do. That's why we’ve got to confuse this thing with the notes. If we just sit around, sooner or later that Paul guy will corner Ears, cut a deal with him, and off to reform school we’ll go. We have to do something.” It was after 1 before we finished talking about whether to plant the notes, but finally, we decided we’d have a better chance of not getting caught for everything else if we caused another problem. And with Bubba, who will maim folks just for saying the coffee isn’t hot enough, and the private eye, who is out of his mind crazy because of the chains, dog poop, and his car, we knew all hell was gonna break loose when those guys read the notes. I took the note to the Paul guy’s car, which, sure enough, was parked back in front of Mrs. Graves’ house, and stuck it under the windshield. And John Clayton put the note to Bubba in the crack between the door and the wood trim. They couldn't miss ’em.