The Norphlet Mafia chapters 14 and 15, post 19

Yeah, I was about to panic ’cause Marshal Wing kinda cut his eyes around to where I was sitting still, sipping on my Coke. But Bubba saved the day, at least for a few minutes, when he brought three plates of the Daily Lunch Special to the table. Shoot, I took one glance at the three plates, and I was sure glad they hadn’t asked me to join the lunch. Heck, on Mr. Paul’s plate there was the possum’s head, eyes, and all just sitting there along a big side of turnip greens and sweet potatoes. Bubba looked as proud as a father whose wife had just birthed twins, and before anyone could speak up, Bubba said to Mr. Paul, “Down in Mississippi the head is the prize piece of possum, and I done cracked it for you so just dig right into them possum brains. The taters and greens will fix you up like nothing you have ever had.” My grandmother has fixed possum and taters for me a couple of times, but she has never served up the head, and, yeah, you bet that possum head with them kinda glazed-over eyes did look kinda funny sitting on that plate. In fact, as a few customers came in the care, they kinda glanced over at Mr. Paul’s plate, then it was as if they had hit a wall as they pulled up and stopped to get a better look. I could tell really fast that Mr. Paul wasn’t even gonna give possum brains a try. Well, Marshal Wing saw Mr. Paul kinda gag, and he said, “Paul maybe you don’t care for possum, but why don’t you try the sweet potatoes and those turnip greens.” I guess Mr. Paul was trying to act nice so he nodded and kinda poked at the sweet potatoes, but finally he speared a big chunk of sweet potatoes, and raised it up to his mouth as possum grease dripped off. Yes, he did put the whole forkful in his mouth at once, and you could see shiny possum grease on his lips as he mouthed that mouthful of sweet potatoes. He tried to swallow the whole mouthful at one time, but he gagged and had to drink a big swallow of sweet tea, which you could tell he really didn’t like. “Paul, try the turnip greens. I think you’ll like them a little better than the taters and possum,” said Marshal Wing. Yeah, Mr. Paul rinsed out his mouth with sweet tea again and dipped up a big fork of greens. Evidently, most folks who live in the South kinda cotton to greens of any kind, and Mr. Paul plopped a big fork full of greens in his mouth. He’d just finished off about half his serving of greens when he looked up at Bubba and asked, “These greens have a different flavor from most turnip greens I’ve had. What’s the flavor, and are these lumps in the greens ham hocks?” Bubba kinda puffed up like he was gonna give away a great cooking secret, and said, “Them greens is flavored with possum grease, and that ain’t no ham hock; it’s possum innards!” Well, even Marshal Wing kinda turned his head and put his hand over his mouth, and Mr. Paul had a startled look on his face— like he’d just been given poison. After he stopped gagging, he screamed at Marshal Wing, “Ahaaa! Damn, Marshal! That crazy idiot is trying to kill me! Arrest him! And Marshal, for your information, I have a very delicate sense of smell and taste, and I can’t stand to even smell something as gross as cooked possum!” “Now calm down, Paul. I can’t arrest someone for serving possum and taters. This ain’t New York City, it’s South Arkansas. And, yeah, I can smell the possum, but you’ll just hafta get used to different smells down here in South Arkansas.” That broke up the breakfast, and Mr. Paul stomped out spitting and cussing like nothing I’ve ever heard. Yeah, my mind was just clicking ’cause I knew Marshal Wing had me and John Clayton picked out, and unless we could dodge the bullet, he was gonna come up with enough to send us straight to reform school. The Norphlet Mafia needed to meet again, and since that stupid private investigator thought the Norphlet Mafia was involved, I had a plan to really put him into a tizzy. Hummm, bad smells bother him… Chapter 15 The Norphlet Mafia Strikes Again I could hardly wait to get the guys together and tell them what happened at the City Café, and before I was even halfway through, Ears was shaking like a leaf. However, John Clayton, who’s been in some trouble with me before, was laughing so hard there were tears were in his eyes. Then Ears nearly lost it. “For God’s sake, Richard! We’ve caused a riot, the City Café is all torn up, and Mrs. Deason got knocked out! There must be a half-dozen charges Marshal Wing is gonna file on us!” “You are exactly right, Ears…” “What? Oh, my Lord. What are we gonna to do!” Ears yelled. “The Norphlet Mafia is gonna strike again,” I said, really quiet like some underworld crook would say if he was trying to tell the other members of the gang they were gonna knock off someone. “Count me out! And I mean it this time,” yelled Ears. “Come on, John Clayton; we need to get outta here before Richard gets us in any more trouble.” “Well, maybe, but I want to hear what Richard has in mind.” I raised my hand and Ears got quiet. “Now, I’m not gonna just yell this out, so listen up. Okay, we need to do something that’ll just send that private eye right back to Little Rock. Right?” “Yeah, you bet we do,” said John Clayton. Ears just stood there like you see a deer in the headlights do, and started that shaking again. “Stop shaking, Ears—Okay, what d

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 13 and 14, post 18

“Now, everybody calm down!” he hollered.“And Bubba lay that skillet down, and you and Mrs. Davis get a mop and clean this floor where we can walk. Now, Doc get that damn wheelchair out of the doorway, and everybody who wants to leave just ease by Doc.” Chapter 14 The Daily Special Well, with the Marshal taking control, things kinda calmed down, and although everybody was soaking wet from being sprayed by Mrs. Davis wielding the sink hose, in about 30 minutes Bubba and Mrs. Davis had the floor mopped and the ketchup bottle glass picked up, and things were somewhat back to normal. “Bubba, you and Paul take a seat at this table with me. We’re gonna talk about this note Paul found on his car.” Bubba, who still had blood in his eyes was looking at Mr. Paul about like you might look at somebody who had slapped your mother, and Mr. Paul was nodding to Marshal Wing like “Yeah, let’s put that sorry Bubba in handcuffs and put him in a cell.” When the big fight started, I slipped over behind the counter to stay out of the action, and as things just got really wild, I kept thinking about what I had caused by writing the notes. I moved around where I could hear Marshal Wing, Bubba, and Mr. Paul talk, and the first thing I heard was Mr. Paul yell, “That sorry ______#* put chains on my bumpers and costs me twenty-five hundred dollars! Marshal, you’ve got note he put on my car! Arrest him!” “Now just calm down, Paul. I have the note, and I know about the chains hooked to your bumpers, but I have a few questions….” About that time Bubba broke in and said, “I didn’t put no note on your car, and I didn’t tie them chain on your bumpers, but I’d like to shake the hand of whoever did it. Anyway, putting that note on the cafe door telling me how sorry my food is should get you thrown in jail.” “Huh? I didn’t put a note on the cafe door, but whoever did sure knew how bad the crap is that you serve.” Yeah, Bubba and Mr. Paul were leaning across the table like two bulldogs ready to go at it again, and they would have if Marshal Wing hadn’t kinda fingered his blackjack, which sure got their attention. “Now, just calm down you two, and let’s figure this out. First off, Bubba was there a name on the note you found on the cafe door?” “Naw, Marshal, but I knowed it was that sorry Yankee…” “Hold on, Bubba. Paul was there a name on your note?” “No, but it had to be put there by that big lumbering idiot.” “Hold on, fellows. What we have is two notes with no names on them. Don’t y’all think somebody could be trying to cause trouble? And I think, the notes look like they were written by the same person. Somebody is just trying to get things in an uproar.” That’s when I felt little drops of sweat pop out on my forehead, and I started having trouble breathing. But that weren’t near all of the talk between the Marshal, Bubba, and Mr. Paul. Right off, Mr. Paul nodded like maybe the Marshal had something, but Bubba was still shaking his head when Marshal Wing said, “I think somebody did this to take the heat off of them.” Yeah, that caused a shiver to zip right up my back, and then Mr. Paul kinda started talking like he was Shureood Helms, “Marshal, I think you’re on to something, and this could very easily be organized crime right here in Norphlet.” There was a big couple of “huhs” from Marshal Wing and Bubba. “Yeah, I’ve seen this pattern before, and this is just the way it starts. Mark my word, the Norphlet Mafia will strike again, and it won’t be just a couple of notes next time.” Well, Marshal Wing had just been joking when he wised off to Mr. Paul about the chains on Mr. Paul’s bumper, and he was shaking his head like “no” but he couldn’t get a word in ’cause Mr. Paul was giving forth like nothing you have ever heard. And finally Marshal Wing just said, “Well, who knows, but let’s just put this little note thing behind us. Bubba, I think the three of us sitting down and having lunch would help get things back to normal. Why don’t you serve us up the Daily Lunch Special? I’m paying.” Well, I could tell Bubba didn’t really want to serve Mr. Paul, but he finally nodded and headed for the kitchen. Heck, things were just swimming through my mind when the Marshal said, “I have a pretty good idea who might have caused this mess…” And then Mr. Paul butted in and said, “I had only heard of the Mafia in New York City, but maybe they’ve spread south. Do you know any members of the Norphlet Mafia?” ”Well, if you want to call ’em that…” “What are you waiting for Marshal? Do you want me to call in the FBI to help round them up? This situation is only gonna get worse…” “Hold on Paul. I just said I might know who’s behind all of this, and I sure don’t need the FBI.” “Marshal, I’ve had experience is dealing with the Mafia. I think I can be of help. First off, do you have anyone in town from Sicily? That’s the home of the Mafia.” “Wait a minute, Paul. Let’s don’t jump to conclusions…” “Do you?” “Do I what?” “Have anyone in town from Sicily?” “Well, yeah, Mr. Frantinno. He has a shoe repair shop just a few blocks down from my office.” “Ha, I thought so! Marshal, I recommend we place 24-hour surveillance on him.” “Are you out of your mind? I can’t do that. I’m the only law enforcement officer in town. Well, Curly, the constable, might help, if we can keep him sober, but I don’t think Mr. Frantinno is a Mafia member, and if I’m not mistaken, this whole mess has been caused by someone a lot younger than Mr. Frantinno.” “You can never be sure, Marshal.”

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 13, post 17

I could tell Marshal Wing really didn’t want to have anything to do with that Mr. Paul guy, but he just nodded and said, “I’ll open up around ten. I’ve got a little problem here I’ve got to take care of.” Naw, Mr. Paul sure didn’t want to wait to see the Marshal, but after Marshal Wing turned his back to him and started talking to Bubba and the crew of roughnecks, he shut the door, and started down the street muttering to himself. I could see the note in his hand, and it sure made me take a deep breath. After a few more words with Bubba and Big Six, and after Bubba went back behind the counter, Marshal Wing said to the roughnecks, “Now y’all mosey on back to the rig and calm down. Eating possum innards ain’t gonna hurt ya.” Well, with the Marshal waving his gun around that seemed like something the crew might want to do, and they piled in Big Six’s pickup and burned rubber. Marshal Wing sat down at the counter and ordered breakfast, three eggs over easy, and biscuits—no bacon. I could tell he wasn’t in any hurry to sit down with that Mr. Paul. I hung around for a little bit to be sure Bubba wasn’t gonna go off half-cocked. But what I figure was that Mr. Paul was gonna show the Marshal the note and ask him to arrest Bubba. Yeah, I figured the explosion was just put off a few hours… and I was right. Things just simmered at the City Café for the rest of the morning, and I wondered what was going on with Mr. Paul, the private investigator and Marshal Wing. I found out about 11:30 when I was downtown and noticed Marshal Wing walking down the sidewalk toward the City Café with Mr. Paul. Shoot, I had enough interest to tag along to see what was about to happen. Wow, when Marshal Wing opened the door to the cafe and stepped inside—followed by Mr. Paul—all heck started to break loose. Bubba was behind the counter and he glanced up. And then, when the private investigator stepped in, Bubba’s face just went into the worst look you have ever seen. ’Course, just that wouldn’t have been real serious, but when Bubba started around the counter he picked up his big, black skillet. The one he had used on Big Six’s head. Everyone in the place kinda said, “Uhooo, ooo” under their breath, and the folks sitting at the two tables between Bubba and Mr. Paul hopped up and backed out of skillet reach. Yeah, Bubba was like a runaway freight train heading straight for Mr. Paul, and he had already drawn the skillet back when Marshal Wing yelled, “Bubba! Put that skillet down now!” Well, just yelling at Bubba wasn’t near enough, so Marshal Wing pulled his big .45 and shot a round in the ceiling. Uh, yeah, that kinda scattered the customers, and old Mrs. Deason actually fainted, which caused her husband to start yelling, “Ohooooo! Momma has done had a heart attack! Y’all has killed Momma!” Naw, it weren’t his momma, but you know how folk talk; it was his wife, but yeah, it was somebody’s momma. Anyway, that kinda shut down Bubba’s charge, and everybody ran over to check on Mrs. Deason. ’Course, she wasn’t even out, but just upset, and when Bubba, who was the first one to reach her, stood over her with a big, black skillet in his hand, she came to pretty quickly. “Ahaaaaa! Bubba don’t hit me with that skillet!” And then Mrs. Deason stuck Bubba with her fork…in a very sensitive place. ’Course there was a bellow from Bubba:“Uhooooo! Ahaaaa!” and then some words that would have gotten my mouth washed out at home. Yeah, with Bubba bent over and Mrs. Deason wielding that folk, nobody was watching Mr. Paul, who pulled out the note I’d written and stuck it in Bubba’s face. “Here’s your note, you worthless….” Whap! Yeah, Bubba might have been wounded, but it was just like tormenting a bull elephant. They can still hurt you, and Mr. Paul can vouch for that. Bubba just made a swish-like move and nailed Mr. Paul’s elbow, which evidently smarted ’cause Mr. Paul made this kinda of Ahaaaaa! Uhhhhhhh! sound and said some other really, really bad words as Marshal Wing tried to step between Mr. Paul and Bubba. You know, back when I was about 10 years old, I tried to break up dogfight between Sniffer, my dog, and a big hound. It took me nearly three weeks to heal up. I don’t break up dog fights anymore, and I’ll bet Marshal Wing regrets breaking up the City Café brawl. Heck, the fight was just getting started, and as I watched, I was regretting causing it, ’cause things started to reach a new level. Bubba, who was fighting from a crouched position—I guess Mrs. Graves’ fork wound was still kinda hurting—was just swinging at anything within reach, and the skillet was just whapping kneecaps like nothing you have ever seen. Well, I haven’t been hit on the kneecap with a big, black iron skillet, but they tell me it kinda smarts. It was a roundhouse swing that cleared the table of three cups of coffee, three plates, and assorted silverware, before it whacked Marshal Wing’s hand and kneecap. Heck, the Marshal’s gun went flying across the room, bouncing off the wall, and went off, kinda nicking Blondie Barringer, who screamed, “I’ve been shot!” And the lick on the kneecap dropped the Marshal like he’d been hit with a Buick. Well, I guess Bubba had decided the Marshal was out of the fight, so he tried to raise up to get a good swing at Mr. Paul, who was trying to straighten out his arm, which he managed to do. Bubba was about to deliver a real swing, still bent double, when Mr. Paul grabbed a ketchup bottle and caught Bubba alongside his head with it. No, it didn’t stop Bubba, but when you splatter a big bottle of ketchup all over someone it really looks like a serial killer is in the room. Gosh, there were about eight other customers trying to get out of the way, and when the ketchup splattered on about half the people in there, along with a gunshot, it caused a panic and there was a run for the door…just as Doc from next door rolled his wheelchair in. Doc always eats lunch at the City Café at straight up 12, and he was right on time. Yeah, when Doc plugged the door with his wheelchair folks stacked up like pulpwood, and it looked like they might just trample poor old Doc, but Doc is kinda tough, and when the City Café customers tried to push him out of the door, Doc just cranked up that wheelchair and plowed into the whole lot. And then, just when I didn’t think things could get any wilder, Mrs. Davis, who owns the City Café, came running out of the kitchen screaming. “Stop this! Stop! You are tearing up my cafe!” Well, that was doing about as much good as telling a runaway train to stop, and after a few screams, she started looking for some way to calm folks down. She spotted the sink clean-out hose, which is used to rinse out the sink and sometimes clean the floors, and she turned it full blast on everyone in the room. Yeah, but that didn’t help much ’cause when that water hit the ketchup, which had splattered all over the floor, it made the linoleum floor as slick as owl poop. In about two seconds, most of the people in the cafe were sprawled out on the floor, and Bubba, who was still swinging the skillet, was trying to hit Mr. Paul as he crawled around on his knees. Of course, Marshal Wing was doing everything he could to stop the fight, and since he had lost his pistol, he whipped out his blackjack, and, wow, he started swinging like nothing you have ever seen. But slipping and sliding while trying to hit either Bubba or Mr. Paul was causing some missed hits, and after one wild swing, Mrs. Deason took a lick, and went spinning around like a dying duck. Well, Mr. Deason, who’s a pretty spry old man for 90, yelled out like some wild Indian. “You done killed Momma! You sorry *****!” and he tackled Marshal Wing, which gave Bubba enough time to swat Mr. Paul with the skillet. Because of the slick floor it was just a glancing blow, but it was enough to back off the customers who were still trying to get around Doc. Finally, Marshal Wing managed to untangle himself from old Mr. Deason and began to take control of the fight. Well, with a lead-weighted blackjack, he made short work of Bubba and Mr. Paul, who were really going after it, and they backed off. Then the Marshal checked on Mrs. Deason, and as he leaned over to see if she was all right she gave him a good slap that knocked his hat off. Heck, you could have heard that slap halfway down the street.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 13, post 16

Chapter 13 A Note Explosion Yeah, I knew those notes were gonna set off a Norphlet explosion…and I was right. It started at 5 o’clock the next morning. I’d had a hard time going to sleep because I was worried about what was going to happen, and for once in about a year, I was at the newsstand right on time. Doc was really surprised, but I grabbed up my paper bag, and was out of the newsstand in a couple of minutes. I knew Bubba would be coming in right after 5 to open the City Café, and I was hanging around near to the cafe just waiting on him to show up. Of course, Bubba’s always late, but about 5:15 he walked up with a sack of sweet potatoes under his arm. I figured Bubba must have nailed a possum and sure enough, he pulled one out of a sack he was carrying. “Hey, Richard, lookie here. Somebody runned over this possum about an hour ago, and it’s still warm. Shoot, today’s special is gonna be Possum and Taters. Want me to save you a plate?” “Uh, well Bubba, I had possum just a few days back, and I hafta let my stomach settle for a while. You know possum is kinda greasy.” “Yeah it’s real greasy, but I pours the grease off, and uses the grease to flavor the turnip greens.” Bubba had started to unlock the door when he saw the note. “What's this?—Uh, it’s a letter of some kind. Let’s see... uh, “Your food is...” And then he had a kinda slow few minutes where I guess it sunk in, and after that—wow. Bubba went into this puffed-up I’m so mad I can’t say nothing phase, but that didn’t last but a minute, and he yelled out loud enough to make me put my hands over my ears. “I’m a gonna mop the floor with that sorry Yankee!” Yeah, the man was just from Little Rock, but that’s up north to Bubba. Heck, I had to calm him down, ’cause he had stopped unlocking the door and was about to take off after the guy right then and there. “Wait a minute, Bubba! You gotta open up! Big Six and his crew of roughnecks will be here in a few minutes!—And how do you know who it was that left you the note, anyway?” Well, Bubba kinda hesitated, and I said, “Go on in and get the stove hot and dress that possum. You can tend to whoever left that note later. Anyway, it’s just a few minutes after five, and nobody but me, you, and Doc are up.” Bubba kinda scratched his head, and I could almost hear him thinking. It took a few minutes, but he finally nodded, “Uh, well you know, Richard, it had to be that private investigator. Everybody else in town thinks my food is real good.” ’Course, nobody in town would ever tell Bubba how bad his food is after he hit Big Six with that big, black skillet. “Your food’s great, Bubba,” I lied. “Now you better get in there and take care of that possum. Heck, you gotta let it simmer in its grease for about four hours where the sweet potatoes can soak up the flavor.” “Yeah, you're right. Richard. I’ll get the kitchen going and the possum cooking before I take care of that no good Yankee.” “Okay, Bubba; I’ll see you later.” Shoot, I took off knowing I’d just put off one part of the explosion for a few hours. The paper route went fast since I was so nervous, and I was back at the newsstand in less than an hour. Well, I figured Bubba was still mad, and maybe I could calm him down a little more, so I stepped into the cafe. Bubba was just about to serve Big Six and his crew of roughnecks breakfast. “Boys, I done run outta bacon so I made a substitute. Y’all let me know how it is. Okay?” said Bubba. “Sure, sure,” mumbled Big Six. “Now get me another cup of that sorry coffee. We pulled a wet string last night and it was pure hell!” The comment “sorry coffee” had Bubba kinda glaring at Big Six, but he just grumbled and walked back behind the counter to pick up the coffeepot. Well, the crew went to cutting up their fried eggs, and while they were doing that, I took a good look at what Bubba was calling his bacon substitute. And it sure didn’t look anything like bacon. There were pieces of what I thought might be lizard and then there were some kinda half-moon-looking things and maybe something that I thought might be chicken liver. Heck, that crew of roughnecks were just chowing down when one of them asked, “Hey, Bubba, this meat you served for bacon ain’t bad. What is it?” Well, ”ain’t bad” is a real compliment from a crew of roughnecks, and Bubba kinda sauntered over, puffing himself up like you might see a chef in a New York restaurant do, and started to tell the crew what his bacon substitute was. “Y’all ain't gonna never believe it, but I got the idea from today’s special, Possum and Taters. And by the way, if y’all wants a plate you had better say so right now where I can put it aside. It weren't that big of a possum.” Well, there were no takers of the today’s special, so Bubba kept on talking. “Yeah, I’m cooking a whole possum just surrounded by sweet potatoes, and it’ll be in the oven all morning...” About that time Big Six mouthed off, “I don't give a damn about the possum! What in hell is this bacon thing?” “Grilled possum,” said Bubba. “Possum? This don’t look like no possum I’ve ever seen,” mouthed Big Six. “Naw, ’cause them’s the parts we usually don’t eat.” The last bite of the bacon substitute was just about to go into one of the roughneck’s mouth when Bubba said that. It was as if he was frozen in place, ’cause Bubba sometimes gets real creative with his cooking. “Yeah, you know I don't like to waste nothin’, and I read somewheres that some folks were eating parts of animals we usually don’t eat. That’s when I looked at that possum’s innards, and had an idea. Y’all are the first to eat my new grilled possum treats.” “Damn, Bubba! Grilled possum treats? Exactly what are we eating?” demanded Big Six. “Well, them little half-circles are possum kidneys, and that long thing you just put in you mouth, is the possum’s tongue. And that’s the possum’s liver on Zeke’s plate, which I done sliced up and chicken-fried.” Well, Big Six spit that possum tongue halfway across the room, and one of the other roughnecks who had just swallowed a last piece of grilled possum kidney gagged and then ran for the bathroom to throw up. Yeah, that broke up breakfast at the City Café, and if Marshal Wing hadn’t stopped in for a cup of coffee, there would have been the wildest fight you have ever seen. Heck, with all the threats and cussing going on, I figured Bubba would forget about tackling that private eye, and I was right. Marshal Wing had to stand between Bubba and the roughnecks—who were claiming they had been poisoned—and Bubba was trying to collect a $4.59 breakfast check. About that time, the private eye stuck his head in the door and called out to Marshal Wing. “Marshal, I’d like to see you in your office as soon as possible. I have some evidence about the person who did that stuff to my car.”

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.

cornbread recipe correction

Oven temp. should be set on 400 degrees not 300

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 11, post 14

Chapter 11 The Execution Some things happen around Norphlet that are just as regular as clockwork, and Mrs. Graves coming out to feed her dogs is a good example. As I sat down, I checked my watch: 10 minutes to 8. It was almost like hearing a clock strike 8 when Mrs. Graves walked out of the house calling her dogs. “Here, Prince Charming, here, here, Snow White, Dopey,” and on and on, but nothing happened, and then she looked kind of puzzled as she walked over to the doghouse. “What... where are my little friends!” “Ohaaaaaaaaaaa!” Mrs. Graves let out about the loudest scream I have ever heard, and after that she began yelling, “Paul! Paul! Come here! Hurry! All my dogs are gone!” Well, yeah I did feel kinda bad upsetting a sweet, little old lady, but in about 10 seconds a man I guess was Paul, the private eye, came running out of the house buttoning up his shirt. “What's wrong, Auntie?” he yelled. ’Course Auntie was just hysterical, like there’d been multiple ax murders, but Paul figured it out pretty quickly—somebody had swiped all the dogs. He grabbed Mrs. Graves, and cooed “Auntie, calm down, calm down, I’m going to the Marshal’s office to report this. I promise you, I'll find your dogs… I’ll be right back.” I smiled. Gosh, old Paul just sprinted for the car, and in about two seconds he had the door open. And as he stood there, acting kind of startled, 10 Chihuahuas staggered out. Well Paul, called out to his auntie that he had found all the dogs, and then he looked in his car, kinda took a whiff, and, well, let’s just say, he was upset. “Auntie, I’ve got to take my car down to the station to get it cleaned up. I’ll be right back.” Auntie was busy feeding her little friends, who didn’t seem to be hungry, as Paul hopped in the car, rolled all the windows down, put the car in low, and roared off. Well, he only roared about 2 feet when he ripped up the gate and about 10 feet of fence. Wow, he let out some words that had auntie covering her ears, jumped out, and untied the chain from his front bumper, which had been yanked off the car. “Somebody’s gonna pay for this,” he screamed. Then he jumped back in the car, and this time he really floored it. Well, at least for the first 8 feet. Then there was a yank and the big doghouse came flying over the fence, hit the ground, and splintered all to heck. Yeah, I’ve seen and heard mad folks, but nothing like that, and Auntie, who was standing by the doghouse, went into a wail like nothing you have ever heard, and Paul just looked stunned. Well, he untied the chain, and this time he circled the car checking it out. No more chains—so this time he finally made it out of the front yard after managing to get his bumpers in the trunk of his car. I sneaked off heading toward home. That guy was as good as back in Little Rock, or so I thought. Anyway, the little trick had worked better than I even thought it would, and I couldn’t wait to tell John Clayton and Ears. & It was right after lunch when I found John Clayton, and it took us nearly an hour to locate Ears. He was slipping down the alley—Norphlet just has one alley-—and when we yelled at him, it was like he was shot. “What in God’s name are you doing hiding out in the alley?” I yelled. “Oh, Richard, we shouldn’t have done that. I just talked to Fred Smith down at the filling station, and he said the detective man was just so upset you wouldn’t believe it. He came in with both bumpers hanging out the trunk of his car, and there was dog poop on the seats and nearly everywhere else in his car, and he’d been sitting in it.” Yeah, me and John Clayton were snickering before the words were even out of Ears’ mouth, but Ears wasn’t laughing. “Y’all, he told Fred that if it was the last thing he ever did, he was gonna catch whoever did that.” “You mean he didn’t head back to Little Rock?” John Clayton asked. “No, he was heading to Marshal Wing’s office.” Well, yeah, that did kinda bother us, so I figured I had better go see Doc and find out what was going on. Doc and Marshal Wing are good friends and Doc will tell me everything the Marshal tells him. I walked in the newsstand and Doc was smiling, which he never does. He looked at me and said, “Richard, y’all shouldn’t have done all of that, but...” and then Doc started laughing. “No, Doc, we’re innocent...” “Innocent? You’re innocent of what?” Yeah, I usually have a quick comeback, but I just stood there like a rabbit that had been shot between the eyes. “Uh, yeah, well I heard something happened...” “A few days back, I saw the water pistol in your paper bag,” Doc said. And then he just laughed out loud. Oh, my gosh, you will never know how those words “water pistol” sent a chill down my spine. “Oh, don’t worry Richard. I’m not going to tell a soul. Paperboys are too hard to find.” And then Doc laughed again, and he added, “But your last one was a real humdinger. Wing said that detective guy came running in his office just screaming about his car being chained to stuff, and he smelled to high heaven—dog poop, he said. Well, Wing said he started laughing, and it really upset the man, and he yelled at Wing, “Who do you think could have done such a thing?” Well, Wing, who’s really mad because a city private eye is way down here in Norphlet trying to tell him how to do his job said, “The Norphlet Mafia, and get outta here, you’re stinking up the place.” Doc started laughing again, and I felt a little better, but the guy was still in town. Maybe the Norphlet Mafia needs to strike again, I thought. And this time we’ll hit him so hard he’d hitchhike back to Little Rock.

Vertis's Famous Cornbread Recipe

If you're going to try Vertis's famous Cornbread Dressing Recipe for Thanksgiving, it needs the best cornbread, or it won't be perfect. So, as a public service, I have posted her cornbread recipe. Vertis's Famous Cornbread Recipe 1 cup of stone ground yellow cornmeal 1 teaspoon on baking powder 1 1/2 teaspoons of baking soda 1 scant teaspoon of salt 1 egg Add buttermilk until soupy (note: don't make tight bread so don't worry if it seems too soupy.) Take a medium size black 2 to 3 inch deep skillet and pour in a couple of teaspoons of cooking oil. Get the skillet smoking hot on the stove, and then pour in the soupy cornbread mix.) Then put in a 400 degree hot oven and cook for 20 minutes or until done.

Best Cornbread Dressing Recipe

Everyone who has tried this recipe will tell you "It's the best!" Vertis Mason’s Famous Cornbread Dressing Recipe: 4 cups buttermilk corn bread crumbs 2 cups buttermilk biscuit or day-old bread crumbs 1 cup chopped celery 1/2 cup chopped onion 1 tart apple, chopped 1 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon black pepper 1 teaspoon poultry seasoning or 1/2 teaspoon sage 6 eggs, beaten 1 cup milk 1/4 lb. Butter, melted 4 cups hot chicken broth Combine breads, celery, onion, apple and seasonings; mix well. Combine eggs and milk; pour over bread mixture. Combine butter and broth; pour over mixture. Let set for 15-20 minutes. Pour into greased pan; bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 10, post 13

Chapter 10 The Plan We followed the Little Rock man out of the cafe, and watched as he roared off, turned the corner at Hill Kennedy’s Grocery Store, and parked beside Mrs. Graves’ front gate. “Humm, he staying with his aunt,” I mumbled to the others. I’d just thought of a plan, and we needed to meet. “Hey, let’s go over to the breadbox at Echols Grocery and talk. I just thought of something that might keep us all out of reform school.” Well, that really got everybody’s attention, and when we sat down, they were all ears.” “It’s real simple, guys: Marshal Wing is really mad about this guy coming into town like he gonna show us hicks how to solve the Chihuahua thing, so he’s not about to help the guy. That just leaves us and him. All we have to do is run him out of town. Bubba helped, but we have to really do a bunch more, if we’re gonna get out of this mess. This is what we're going to do tonight—after midnight. I want John Clayton to bring a big, heavy-duty tow sack. And Ears, your daddy does logging so you bring two, long logging chains, and I’ll bring some good canned dog food.” “What on earth are we gonna do with all that stuff?” asked John Clayton. “Look, it’d take too long to tell you right now. Y’all just bring the stuff and meet me right after midnight across the street from Mrs. Graves’ house.” “I ain’t gonna be a part of this,” said Ears. “Okay, Ears, if going to reform school is what you want to do, then just stay home, but if you want to get rid of that sorry guy who’s trying to send you there... show up with those logging chains!” “Come on, Ears, it's him against us!” said John Clayton. Well, after I promised we weren’t gonna kill any dogs or hurt anyone, Ears agreed to bring the logging chains. On my way home, I started wondering if my plan was a little over the top, but then I thought about this guy coming all the way from Little Rock just to try and put us in jail. That’s when I decided that this was war—us against him. And from what I know about wars, I figured a first strike was a really good idea. & I was standing across from Mrs. Graves” house at about 15 after 12 that night, holding a bowl of special dog food, when Ears walked up dragging two long chains. A few minutes later John Clayton sauntered up carrying a big, oversized tow sack. We were ready to set up the “run-him-out-of-town-quick-trick.” I said, “Ears tie one end of a chain to the guy’s front bumper and the other end to Mrs. Graves's front gate and make it kind of tight. Then take the other long chain and tie it to his back bumper.” “What do I tie the other end to?” he asked. “Nothing right now. Wait until me and John Clayton get the next part of the plan ready.” “John Clayton, get your toe sack and hold it over the opening of the doghouse. I’m going to beat on the back of that doghouse, and when all the dogs run out into the tow sack, bring the sack of dogs over to the man’s car. “And Ears, when John Clayton has all the dogs in his tow sack, tie the other end of the chain around the doghouse real good, and leave about eight feet of slack. I've got a clothes hanger to unlock the car. We’ll put all ten little dogs in the man’s car, and then I’ll put this store-bought special dog food in his car.” “Okay, Richard, I kinda get the chain part, but ten dogs in the man’s car ain’t much of a deal,” said John Clayton. “Nope, it’s not much of a deal, but with this special dog food, it becomes a big deal.” Special dog food?” “Uh huh. How about dog food mixed with castor oil?” “Wait a minute, Richard. I think that’s way over the top,” Ears whined. “Of course it is, Ears, but we have got to do something big to let the guy know we’re serious.” “Yeah, and when we get to reform school, we can tell all the other criminals how serious we were.” “Okay, if y’all are chicken, then just go on back home. I can take it from here.” Well, there was some standing around whining, but finally everybody said they’d stay, so we started getting the trick ready. Heck, it really went quickly. John Clayton put that sack over the entrance to the doghouse, I whammed it on the back of the house, and we had a sack full of Chihuahuas in about three seconds. Ears dashed up, tied the chain on the doghouse and John Clayton brought the sack of dogs over to the man’s car. I had the door unlocked in no time. We put in the special dog food, and then turned the dogs loose in the car. They were lapping up the dog food when we left. Of course, when I planned the trick and got everything ready, I wanted to see what would happen when the dogs turned up missing and the guy took off in his chained-up car. I figured it would happen about 8 o’clock the next morning when Mrs. Graves usually feeds the dogs, and I was gonna be watching from behind some bushes across the street.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 9, Post 13

And, well, Mr. Secret Private Investigator didn't like that question at all, and he just mumbled something that we couldn’t hear and Bubba, who is almost deaf sure couldn’t either. "Mister you’re gonna hafta speak up. Since my accident, I’m a little hard of hearing.” Well, the man did speak up and he simply said, “Maybe.” “Huh? What does ‘maybe’ mean, and why are you here in Norphlet, anyway?” Yeah, Bubba had asked the big question that we knew he'd ask, and then, after some head-shaking, the man said, “I really can't say.” Shoot, Bubba lit up and just jumped on that one. “Ohoooooo, yeah… yeah, Uh, yeah,” and then Bubba pounced. ”You’re here because of the Chihuahua thing, ain’t ya?” Heck, if you had hit that guy with a baseball bat you wouldn’t have gotten much more reaction, and for about five minutes he just mumbled and squirmed, while we tried to hold back a laugh. Then Bubba nodded and kinda whispered—but loud enough that you could have heard him out on the street. “I know who did all that stuff to Mrs. Graves’s Chihuahuas.” “You do?” Yeah, the man was on the edge of his chair now, and so were we. Ears turned white as a sheet and mumbled to me, “Should we take off runnin’? I don't want to just sit here until the man puts handcuffs on us.” “Naw, Bubba can’t possibly know. Just be real quiet and listen to what Bubba’s gonna say,” I whispered. Well the man leaned forward, and asked Bubba, “Who?” Shoot, Bubba just drew himself up, threw his shoulders back, and bellowed, “Space creatures!” Heck, I had to put my hand over John Clayton’s mouth to keep him from just cackling. Yeah, the investigator man looked like he’d been slapped, and tried to ignore Bubba, but I knew that wasn’t gonna work ’cause Bubba was just getting started. “Yeah, I figured it out back when them dogs first showed up with white spots on ’em, and I told the Marshal, but he didn't believe me. And when that little dog just disappeared, I knew I was right ’cause that happened to me last year..." and Bubba went on and on about how different animals and people were being marked to be harvested... Uh, like eaten by the Space creatures, and he figured Chihuahuas must be really high on the Space creatures’ menu. We had split a Coke three ways, and had finished it, but we weren't about to leave until Bubba served up the Daily Special, which had been the “Special” for most of the week. Bubba went on and on about how the Space creatures were gonna gobble up stuff on Earth, until Mr. Investigator begged Bubba to go fix the Daily Special. Yeah, Bubba did finally head back to the kitchen and as he left the room, he yelled, “Tatum, don’t chunk out the rest of the onions and liver.” Bubba left the room and headed for the kitchen, and in a few minutes, we heard a Whooooommmm! and Bubba ran out and grabbed a bucket of water. Some kind of greasy smelling smoke drifted out of the kitchen, and Bubba stuck his head out and hollered, “Nothing to worry about, just strong onions.” Well, I could tell the Little Rock man was ready to break and run but he didn’t, and in about 30 minutes Bubba came out looking kinda burned... you know, his hair was signed, and it looked as if his face been lying out in the sun for about a week. “Here you go, the City Café's Daily Special.” Well, we could see the man’s plate, and there was a huge pile of onions that looked like they had been cooked to death, buried, and then cooked again. “I done gived you extra onions since we’re running short on liver, and the stove overheated and caused them onions to get a little brown."” Well, the man kinda looked that stack of burned onions, shook his head, and then looked up at Bubba. “Where's the liver?” Well, Bubba kind of puffed up said, “I done told you we was short on liver, so I gave you extra onions.” “I don't see any liver.” “Look under them onions.” I was watching as the Little Rock man started digging into that huge pile of burnt onions, and when he finally came up with a really bad sliver of what was maybe a piece of liver, Bubba said, “See the liver was just covered in all them extra onions I done gived you.” Wow, the man just lost it and, after he slammed his fork down and said the City Café had the worst food known to man, he got up and left. Bubba yelled after him, “I'll have you to know the City Café is the best in Norphlet!” Yeah, Bubba was right, ‘cause The City Café is the only place to eat out in Norphlet. But as the man jumped in his car and roar off, I had another real good thought, and it just might save us all from reform school—we had to run him out of town, and Bubba had been a good start, but we needed to do a lot more.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 9, post 12

Chapter 9 A Conversation with Bubba Bubba was almost running as he kinda weaved over to the man’s table, and handed the man a menu. Then he smiled… uh, well, make that a half-smile, since the accident left the teeth on the right side of his mouth on the rig floor. “Welcome to the City Café, sir!” he slurred. “Today’s special is liver and onions... uh, wait a minute... uh, that was yesterday's special, and what was left has already been fed to the hogs... no, maybe... oh, I got it! Yes, today’s special sure is liver and onions.” You bet Mr. Private Investigator looked confused, and I could have told him not to ask Bubba a question, but I didn't. “I thought you said that was yesterday's special,” the man replied. Bubba looked a little confused, but he just threw back his shoulder and gave forth. “Mister, this ain’t no fancy place that changes their special every day. Sometimes, if I get carried away cooking, the daily special is the same for a whole week, and besides Darwin Tatum, who picks up the leftover slop, told me his hogs won’t eat liver and onions, so what I said about them hogs don’t go. I got enough liver and onions back there to feed most of Norphlet.” Yeah, we were grinning like possums eating green persimmons, ’cause we knew things were just getting going. “Well, thanks, but I think I’ll order from the menu.” “Suit yourself. Just give me a whistle when you’re ready to order.” “Okay.” We were watching the man like a hawk when he opened the menu, because we knew what was on the menu. All the menu said was “See Today's Special” in big, black letters. Yeah, we could see him grit his teeth, but he finally closed the menu and waved at Bubba, who sauntered over. “Hi,” slurred Bubba, which sounded like “Hiahaa.” “What?” “Well, you kinda waved hiahaaa, so I just said haahaaa back.” “Well I just meant I was ready to order.” “Oh, well, what can I whip up for you?” “I guess I'll have Today’s Special.” “What's that?” “Huh?” “Well, if you don’t know what's on one of our specials, how do you expect me to fix it for you?” “You have more than one special?” “Yes, especially when we have liver and onions.” “Oh, I didn’t understand. Do you have other specials today?” “No, but we will tomorrow ’cause we’re loaded with Today’s Special.” “What is Today’s Special?” “Onions and liver.” “What?” “Uh, we’re gettin’ low on liver.” “Uh, well I’ll take on order of… Onions and liver.” “Got it. How do you want it cooked?” “Medium rare.” “Okay. How about the liver?” ”I told you medium rare.” ”That was for the onions. How about the liver?” “Oh, I understand. Cook the liver medium rare to rare with a very pink center.” “No.” “No? What do you mean? Okay, maybe medium-rare is a little tricky; just cook it medium.” “No.” “What? Why not medium?” “Well, Mister, nobody in Norphlet has ever had liver anything but well-done, so that's what it is.” “Why didn’t you tell me it was already prepared?” “It’s not.” “The liver is, but not the onions.” “Okay.” “What do you want to drink?” Yeah, Bubba was just being Bubba, but he really had the man going, and there was a long pause, and then the man said carefully, “What do most of your customers drink?” “Sweet tea.” “Do you have any unsweetened tea?” “No, but why would anybody want unsweetened tea?—Say, are you from up north?” “No.” “Are you from Arkansas?” “Yes.” “Where in Arkansas?” Yeah, there was a long pause, and I figured the man was trying to come up with something to get rid of Bubba, so he finally said, in almost a whisper, “Little Rock.” Whoa, Bubba lust lit up, and he hollered at us, “Boys, we done got a real tourist from up north. This here gentleman is from Little Rock!” Of course Bubba said that loud enough to be heard all the way out into the street, and a couple of other customers kinda looked up to see what somebody from Little Rock looked like, and then Bubba asked, “Do them folks up in Little Rock drink unsweetened tea?” Well, I could tell the man sure didn't want to answer, but finally he whispered, “Yes, sometimes.” “Is that a fact? Just let me tell you this, if any of them folks ever tasted my sweet tea, they wouldn't never have nothin’ else.” “Well, then, I’ll have the sweet tea.” “We’re out for today, but if you’re here by eleven-thirty tomorrow, I can fix you up.” "Okay, that sounds fine. I’ll just have water.” “What kind of water?” “Huh?... uh… well what kind do you have?” “Well, we have just plain and ice water. The ice water has four cubes of ice in it, and there’s no extra charge.” “Well, I think I’ll take the ice water,” the man answered a bit nervously. “Do you want a large glass or a short glass?” “I'll take a tall glass.” ‘No.’ ‘What?” “We don't have anything but large and small, and the large will cost a nickel more for the extra ice.” “Okay, I’ll take the large.” “With or without?” “With or without what?” Yeah, by now Mr. Private Investigator was getting kinda upset. “With or without ice. It’s free without ice, but it’ll cost you a nickel more with ice.” “With,” replied Mr. Private Eye. “With what?” “Ice, damn it!” “Listen Mister, this is a public restaurant and Miz Smith won't allow that kinda language.” “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, just bring me the special of the day.” “Coming up, uh, by the way are you gonna be staying in Norphlet for a while?” asked Bubba. Yeah, that question had us on the edge of our seats.

The Norphlet Mafia

It's the summer of 1944 and Richard, the Norphlet Paperboy, John Clayton, and Ears are in one heck of a mess. Yeah, there was an 'accident' involving a small herd of 10 Chihuahuas, which has sent the whole state into an uproar, and the three boys are right in the middle of it. An attack by the Chihuahuas on Richard, the paperboy has left the brown, award-winning Chihuahuas with white spots, and as Richard will tell you, "It was all a danged accident, but we're in big trouble, and if lying won't get us off, then maybe the Norphlet Mafia is gonna hafta do something really, really bad. You know, like dognapping, or something so gross it will run the Little Rock private eye right out of town." It's all the the new novel from Richard Mason, The Norphlet Mafia. Order it from Amazon.com and read one of the funniest, wildest stories you can imagine. The Norphlet Mafia by Author Richard Mason

The Most Haunted Town in the USA

Imagine for a minute; a ghostly theater, a historic gunfight, a lawless oil boom, and a cast of scoundrels. Now add thirty brothels, characters such as H. L. Hunt—who got his start in Downtown El Dorado—some racy women, and finally sprinkle it all with gobs of money as a roaring 1920s oil boom swept over this little community of 3500 and blossomed it to 40,000 in 18 months. You’ll find an “OK Corral” gunfight, mules drowning in muddy streets, and yes, most importantly, you’ll find an old 1920s theater surrounding by numerous other old buildings.—and they’re all filled with spirits! Is Downtown El Dorado, Arkansas the most haunted town in the country? A new book by Author Richard Mason

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.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 8, Post 10

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 7, post 9

Yeah, everything from confessing to running away crossed my mind, but I couldn't decide. I knew that real soon things were going to happen that were out of my hands. Mrs. Graves would report one of her dogs missing, and Marshal Wing would be on the case like a hen on a June bug. But I had to pull the trigger on Homer Ray. I didn’t have a choice. That was the only way to get the Marshal off the trail. It was about 9 o’clock when I finished my chores and got back downtown. I met John Clayton, and after he just went crazy when he saw all the little dog bites, we decided it couldn't be either one of us who told the Marshal about the Chihuahua in Homer Ray’s back yard. We had to take in another one of our friends to help. We picked Ears. We knew Homer Ray had really been bullying Ears, so we figured he was the one to tell Marshal Wing. Yeah, but we had to tell him the whole durn thing, and when he heard everything, he almost backed out. But finally, Ears said he’d do it. I figured things were just about to get totally out of hand, but what actually did happen was so over the top that it shocked me out of my ever-loving gourd. Chapter 7 Boomerang Dog Yeah, we had to walk along with Ears to be sure he actually went to see the Marshal, and he did. However, when he came out he was shaking so badly we could hardly understand him. Finally, he just yelled, “Oh, Richard, you shouldn't have dognappedd that little Chihuahua!” Marshal Wing started cussing up a storm, and he yelled that everybody who had anything to do with Mrs. Graves’s dogs was gonna get sent to Texarkana! John Clayton looked like he didn’t understand, and then Ears just yelled, “That's where the Arkansas Reform School is!” Well, it was getting real clear to me that we didn’t need to hang around downtown, and just wait on the Marshal to come grab us up. “Hey, I gotta go feed the chickens. Let’s all go home and maybe when Marshal Wing finds that little dog in Homer Ray’s back yard, it’ll throw things into such a mess they’ll forget about us.” Well, everybody thought that was a really good idea so we took off like scalded dogs. Heck, I was home in less than 10 minutes, and I didn’t even go inside to drop off my paper bag. I just went straight to the barn, picked up a bucket of ground-up corn, and headed for the chicken yard. Feeding the chickens is one of my chores, and I was late. Shoot, I wasn’t about to walk in the house and have the first question flung at me, like, “Richard, have you fed the chickens?” Well, I opened the gate and of course, the whole flock of chickens headed my way, but then I got another shocker-roo. The chickens just parted and a dang white-spotted Chihuahua came running toward me. “Ahaaaaaaaaa!”

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 6, post 8

Chapter 6 The Dognapper Okay, I’ll admit it. Everything I’d tried do just caused more of a problem. Now, I had another criminal charge against me, and what I was gonna do tomorrow would either let me dodge the bullet, or get me sent off to reform school. I had decided to pull off a dognapping. Yeah, that’s right. Real early tomorrow morning, I am gonna grab one of Mrs. Graves' little, white-spotted Chihuahuas and take off with it. Yeah, but I’m not going very far with a dognapped dog—just as far as Homer Ray'’ fenced-in back yard. Hah! And then, after Mrs. Graves goes just a little off her rocker, I’d have John Clayton tell the Marshal that he saw the dog in Homer Ray’s back yard. And if that that doesn’t get that kid arrested, I didn’t know what will. Well, since Mrs. Graves has 10 Chihuahuas, they have a big doghouse in her back yard that even has an electric fan in it, and in front of the doghouse there is a special little food and water dish. Shoot, that doghouse is really big, and each dog has its own little bed. Real early tomorrow morning I was going to sneak up, crawl in the doghouse, and snatch one of the sleeping dogs. Then I’d put it in a toe sack, and take off to Homer Ray’s fenced-in back yard. Heck, I figured the whole thing wouldn’t take 30 minutes. The next morning I set my alarm clock for 4 o’clock instead of 5, and about 10 minutes after 4, I was slipping along the street in front of Mrs. Graves’ house. I eased open the front gate, and slipped real quietly around to the side of the house. There was the big doghouse, and I’ll admit it, I started to wonder if dognapping was a good idea. But I figured I was too far along to quit, so I eased up to the door of the little house, got down on my knees, and started crawling in. Gosh, it was pitch black inside the doghouse, and it was so quiet I could hear little dogs breathing and kinda whimpering real softly. I started feeling along one side until I touched a sleeping dog. Okay, little dog, you’re coming with me, I thought. Everything went perfectly until I grabbed the sleeping dog and stuffed it into the tow sack. Then things started going crazy. First off, the dog I’d stuffed in the sack started barking, howling, and going nuts trying to get out of my sack. Shoot, that woke up the other nine Chihuahuas, and now it was me on my knees, dragging a sack with a going crazy dog in it while being attacked by a doghouse full of wild, nipping little dogs. Well, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but since it was midsummer all I had on were cut- off shorts—no shoes or shirt—and as I tried to crawl out of that doghouse nine of them danged dogs latched onto me like I figured dogs from hell might do. And if you don't think nine little dogs with only God knows now many teeth can really get after you, you’re crazy. Yeah, I tried not to yell real loud through my gritted teeth. I didn't want to wake up Mrs. Graves, and have her run out of the house and see that I just hauled off one of her dogs in a tow sack, but I couldn’t hold everything back, so I yelled muffled through gritted teeth. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Uh, Uh, Uh, Uh, Oh, oh, Ahaaaa, oh, Uh un Ahaaaa, my ear!” My gosh it seemed like it took an hour to crawl out of that doghouse, ‘cause about every foot I crawled, I’d have to stop and knock off dogs. It was something else, and I knew right then, if I died and went to hell, it would be full of the same dogs, but it would be really hot. I almost shouted when I got out and could stand up, but I was still hanging on to the toe sack with the dog in it. Now, I had to fight my way out of the back yard, which was jump, kick, and run… but I made it. Yeah, it had gone really bad, but I had managed to get the gate open and, boy, did I turn on the gas as I ran down the street chased by nine Chihuahuas. ’Course, they gave up after about 50 yards, so I limped along headed for Homer Ray’s house. Shoot, I was really glad to let that dog loose in his back yard, and head to the newsstand to pick up my papers. I was just about on time for my paper route, and for the first time since I rolled out of bed, I felt like taking a deep breath. Doc had just cut the strap on the bundle of Shreveport Times papers when I walked into the newsstand. He looked up, and then took a long look at me. “My God, Richard what happened to you?” “Huh?” “You have little red spots all over you. They look like bites of some kind.” I looked at my arms and legs, and, yeah, the dang, sorry dog’s teeth had left little red marks. None of the bites were deep enough to bleed, but it looked like I had really been in a dog and boy fight---and lost. Heck my mind was just whirling ’cause the last thing I was gonna tell Doc was that I had been crawling around in a doghouse full of nipping Chihuahuas. “Uh, well let’s see...” Then I thought of something. “Oh, yeah, Doc, me and John Clayton went fishing yesterday down at Flat Creek and the mosquitoes were terrible. Just gray swarms, and I have nearly scratched myself to death.” Well, I’m not sure Doc really believed me, but it was enough of an excuse to make it out of the newsstand. You bet I was upset, and as I walked along throwing papers, thoughts just kept flashing through. Why, did I do something so stupid? I should have confessed... now I have John Clayton all messed up, and when it’s all over we’re a cinch to be hauled off to reform school... what can I do? What? What?

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 5 Post 7

And you know something? That sorry kid has bullied nearly every smaller kid in school, and if there ever was a kid in school that was hated worse, and deserved this, I have never heard of him. Well, Homer Ray had to kind of push his way through the folks standing out in front of the Marshal’s office, and when he was almost to the door, a reporter from the El Dorado Daily News stepped in front of him and took his picture. It was time to boo, and me and John Clayton just poured it on, followed by Ears and Tiny, and then a bunch of other kids as I shouted, “Why’d you do it, Homer Ray?” And John Clayton yelled, “Dog killer!” I screamed out, “Let’s get that dog killer!” And, shoot, you wouldn’t believe it, but when me and John Clayton kinda rushed Homer Ray, a bunch of other kids followed us, and one of them grabbed Homer Ray’s shirt and pulled him back in the crowd. Okay, maybe we did whack him a few times, since he was the school bully, and yeah, it got pretty wild. Finally we acted like we were gonna haul the sorry kid off, and some of the adults started yelling for the Marshal, who had to come out and shoot his gun up in the air. About that time, the reporter for the El Dorado Daily News flashed another picture for the paper, and it crossed my mind, Well, that should take some heat off me. Me and John Clayton walked back to the breadbox at Echols Grocery, where we leaned back and talked about the grilling Homer Ray was getting. Well, I went home that night thinking that maybe that rat Homer Ray was gonna what was coming to him, even though it was kinda sneaky. And the next morning when I got to the newsstand Doc was holding up the El Dorado News-Times. Wow, there was a picture of Homer Ray on the cover with “Suspect Questioned in Chihuahua Bleach Investigation.” And then there was another picture of a bunch of boys trying to beat-up on Homer Ray. The headline over that picture was: “Boys Riot to Grab Suspect.” There was John Clayton taking a punch at Homer Ray, with me and a couple of other boys pulling at him. I figured all of that might just take care of all my Chihuahua problems. “Doc, I’m sure glad they caught that sorry kid.” “Well Richard, the paper said he was just being questioned, and Marshal Wing told me it was because his house didn't have a bleach bottle beside it. You know whoever put out all those bleach bottle s is gonna be in big trouble if the Marshal ever catches them. He said they’d be charged with obstructing a police investigation, and that would make it two felonies.” That was way more than I wanted to hear, so a grabbed my paper bag and took off. Of course, I was thinking about the whole mess, which was getting messier every day. Now there was another charge out there on the person—me—for putting out all those bleach bottles. But I was hoping Marshal Wing would keep after Homer Ray, and maybe Homer Ray wouldn’t have a good excuse. Well, the route went about like always, but when I got back to the newsstand there was another surprise. Marshal Wing was there talking to Doc. Yeah, I stopped breathing, but I did managed to squeeze out a “Hi, Marshal Wing.” Have you ever had someone act really nice, but you knew they were prying into stuff? You know, kinda throwing out questions like, “Richard, did you happen to see those poor. little, white-spotted dogs when you passed Mrs. Graves’ house this morning?” Well, that sounds like a very simple question, but what was I going to say? I sure wasn't going to tell the Marshal that when the dogs saw me they howled and ran under the porch. So I lied. “Yes, Marshal, I always stop to pet those sweet, little puppies, and sometimes I’ll bring them dog biscuits.” Yep, they ain’t many things I’m really good at, but lying just comes naturally, rolling off my tongue about every time I open my mouth. Uh huh, that little lie kinda set the Marshal back ‘cause I seemed like the top Norphlet Chihuahua lover. Then, since I was on a roll, I said, “Have you locked up that sorry Homer Ray?” But then things changed when the Marshal said, “No, Homer Ray was in El Dorado staying with his aunt most of the time the dogs were sprayed. He’s not a good suspect anymore, but maybe you can help me find the boy who attacked those dogs.” Well, I didn’t have a clue how I could help, since I was the kid, so I said, “Sure Marshal, just tell me how I can help.” Marshal Wing reached in his back pocket and pulled out a red water pistol—my red water pistol. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! just kept ricocheting through my mind. How did he get my water pistol? “Take a good look at this water pistol, Richard. I just happen to cross the railroad tracks in front of my office, and I saw it lying there, and it still has some of the bleach water in it. Have you seen any of the boys about your age with this water pistol?” More sweat popped out on my forehead, and just the sight of that danged gun of mine sent a shiver up my back like what you might feel if you were strapped in the electric chair up at State Prison. It was hard to get that next lie out of my mouth, but even I surprised myself. “It does look kinda familiar, Marshal. I think it looks like the one an El Dorado kid was using last Saturday at the Ritz Theatre.” I could tell Marshal Wing didn’t like that last answer. He shook his head and said, “Well, if you think of any Norphlet boys, you saw with this gun, let me know.” “Sure, Marshal.” Well, that was all the questions and in a few minutes, he left the newsstand. Gosh, I sure came away from that little talk with the idea that Marshal Wing had me close to the top of his list of suspects. I was going to get nailed if I didn't throw him off the trail: so I came up with another plan.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 5, post 6

Chapter 5 Trying to Dodge the Bullet Okay, I’m not the sharpest kid in town, but I knew one thing for dang sure. I had to do something to keep from gettin’ nailed. Heck, Marshall Wing is really a whiz at figuring out who did something around Norphlet, and I kinda figured he had a list of boys who might have squirted the Chihuahuas, and I didn’t have any doubt that I was on the list—probably close to the top. Yep, my mind was just a clicking about what I could do before I was called into the Marshal's office. Then, while I was running my paper route the next day, I just happened to see an empty bleach bottle lying in the ditch. Ha, probably put there by the kid who squirted the dogs, I thought, and then I laughed ’cause I knew the Chihuahuas’ bleach came from my momma’s bottle, and it was still on the shelf at home. But a “what if” just hit me like a sack of rocks. Get a bunch of bleach bottles and put them by a lot of kids’ houses that might be on the Marshal’s list. Wow, I couldn't wait to hightail it to the dump and haul back a tow-sack full of bleach bottles. That night I went through town and put empty bleach bottles at the houses of somewhere around 20 kids. I even put one in the ditch in front of my house. However, I did miss one kid’s house: the home of Homer Ray, the school bully. I knew for durn sure Marshal Wing would be out snooping around, and he’d hafta be blind not to see all those bottles. & Well, I guess the Marshal did his snooping early the next morning ’cause when I finished my paper route the next morning at about 8, he'd already been by Doc’s. Gosh, according to Doc, who’s a good friend of the Marshal’s, Marshal Wing was just all out of sorts, and he was just going on and on about how somebody had planted bleach bottles by every kid’s house in town.... but one. And he didn’t know what to make of that, but he was gonna ask that kid with no bleach bottles a lot of questions. Naw, the Marshal didn’t name the kid, but I knew it was Homer Ray. Okay, so just finding no bleach bottle was going to help, but I needed to do a lot more. It was time to plan more trouble for Homer Ray. He dang sure deserved it. Shoot, Norphlet is a little town, and when the Marshal sent for Homer Ray to come in for questioning, it flew all over town ’cause Marshal Wing called on a party line. And when the bully showed up at the Marshal’s office that afternoon there was a pretty good crowd. I had rounded up a good group of boys, and I was dead sure that every kid there hated Homer Ray’s guts. Since John Clayton is my best friend, I had told him about having to squirt bleach on the sorry dogs. Yeah, he thought I did the right thing, and now since he knew about it, we were in this mess together. We were standing there waiting for Homer Ray to come to the Marshal’s office when I whispered to John Clayton, who was standing right beside me, “Ease over to where Ears and Tiny are standing and tell them and the other boys around them to just start booing and just go crazy when Homer Ray walks up.” Heck, in about two minutes, all the boys were grinning like possums eating green persimmons, and I knew what was about to happen might not be enough to nail—or, I guess say frame—the sorry kid, but it would really put a big question mark in everybody’s mind.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 4, post 5

Chapter 4 More Danged Trouble Okay, now I know things are sounding kinda bad. You know, like I’m a kid John Dillinger. But you’d be wrong. I have three-year Royal Ambassador Perfect Attendance pin from First Baptist, and never ever have I swiped anything from Doc, even though he pays me hardly nothing for delivering those sorry papers. And what actually happened was me trying to keep from getting eaten up, and I just thought the watery bleach would just smell up the dogs. Who would have ever thought it would cause all those white spots? So I’m innocent as Jesus… Uh well maybe not quite that innocent, but I really didn’t mean to mess up those dogs, even though I said I would pull the switch if that momma dog was strapped in the electric chair. And it did bother me a bunch that Mrs. Graves was going to lose money because so something I did. I know what you’re thinking: If you’re so innocent why, don’t you just confess and tell folks what really happened? Listen up, and I’ll tell you why... “Yes, your Honor, I was just defending myself against flesh eating… Uh, Uh, Chihuahuas.” Yeah, that really don’t sound all that good does it, and I can just hear that judge: “Guard, put this juvenile delinquent on the next bus to reform school!” That’s why I’m not about to confess, and I’m really worried about where that water pistol went. Okay, what I’m thinking is just to act like I’m really upset that someone in my hometown of Norphlet would do such a terrible thing, and just about everybody I talked to would get from me, “That's sure a terrible thing about Mrs. Graves’ little dogs.” Actually, I was thinking, I sure wish it had been some kill-you-dead-as-a-sack-of-hammers poison. You guessed it: I think the only good Chihuahuas are underground ones—you know dead ’uns. But nobody, nobody—well except John Clayton and Ears—will ever know I pulled the trigger on that water pistol. Anyway, things were pretty quiet for a couple of days, but then another shocker-roo: I popped into the newsstand right on time, which I had started doing after ‘the Chihuahua problem” showed up in the local paper. But that morning when I picked up the papers Doc yelled, “Richard, Norphlet made the front page of the Arkansas Gazette… look!” Well, the Gazette is a Little Rock paper and it goes all over the state. Norphlet has never been on the front page. When I took a look and saw Chihuahuas, with tiny white spots on them, little drops of sweat popped out on my forehead, and I nearly swallowed my tongue. Not only that, but folks from all over the state had commented in a little side section of the paper. And then to top it off in big black letters the Governor had said, “I’m sure the attack was made by someone just traveling through. None of our citizens would do such a dastardly thing.” Yeah, and while I was swallowing my tongue Doc was just going on and on. “And Richard, Marshal Wing stopped by here earlier, and said the weapon had been found, and he expects he'll be arresting someone soon. He said the attempted murder weapon was a water pistol, and it still had some of the bleach water in it.” Okay, I couldn’t just scream “No! No!” but my first thoughts were to hightail it out of town, and live in the woods eating crawfish and berries for about 10 years... you know, until the whole thing blew over. But then I thought, No, just say something like “good”. They can’t prove it’s your water pistol. Dodge the dang bullet! Lie, lie lie! “That's wonderful, Doc. I hope they put that guy… Uh, wait a minute, Doc, it might be a woman or girl.” Yeah, that’s real good. Throw a log in the road. “What?” “Yeah, Doc, they really don’t know if it was a boy, girl, or an adult. Shoot, some of those eighth-grade girls are means as snakes.” “Richard, it was a damned water pistol! Only a boy would have a water pistol.” “I'm not so sure about that, Doc. I know a lot of girls who have water pistols, and they’re always squirting boys in the Ritz.” “It was some punk kid, Richard… a boy! And in this little town, where everybody knows everybody, that kid ain’t got a chance!” Yeah, now I know how one of the old Roman fighters felt standing there holding pointed sticks just as they pulled open a gate and let out about 20 lions. Maybe I ain’t got a chance, but by gollee, I’m gonna go down lying, crossed my mind.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 3, post 4

Chapter 3 Big Trouble Well, the next day I got a shocker-roo. I was about my 20 minutes late to start my paper route, and I was trying to think up a good excuse for being late. No excuse equals a 50-cent deduction from my route money. Yeah, I had about decided to go with our two mules getting out, and I had to help daddy catch them. I stepped in the newsstand, and was just about to start my little white lie when Doc held up an El Dorado Daily News. I took one glance and just gasped. Oh, my God!, I thought. There was a picture of all 10 little dogs on the front page, and there was poor Mrs. Graves looking like the saddest person in the world. I would have screamed if I hadn’t been standing there in front of Doc. “Look at this newspaper, Richard! My God, some crazy person sprayed Mrs. Graves’s little show dog Chihuahuas with bleach! Look at these poor little dogs! I’d sure hate to be the person who did this. Those dogs were worth several hundred dollars, and now they ain’t worth a dime. And whoever sprayed those dogs with bleach committed a felony. A felony will get you put in jail.” I know I must have turned white as a ghost, because I wasn’t breathing, and when I took a second glance at the paper, and saw all those brown dogs that were now white-spotted, I almost dropped over into a duck-dying fit. Of course, Doc wasn’t paying me much attention. He was just mouthing on and on about what sorry person would do that to poor little dogs, and according to Doc, just break old Mrs. Graves’ heart. Yeah, I felt really bad until I thought about one of those dang dogs’ teeth digging into my ankle. Did I think about confessing? Naw. That was the very last thing on my mind, and if I was honest, it wasn’t even on the list. My list was one thing: Dodge the bullet. So I just started rattling a lie. “Doc, that is just about the worse thing I have ever heard of. I sure hope they catch the sorry person who did that to those poor little dogs” “Well, Richard, Marshal Wing came by here late yesterday, and he said the best he could make out the person who sprayed bleach on those poor dogs must have used something that squirted the bleach. That’s the best clue he has, and he’s interviewing everybody who could have seen anything.” Well, while Doc was talking I had put my paper bag on, and when he said “squirted” I nearly crushed my water pistol, which was in the bag. Gotta get rid of this danged water pistol! I thought. And right then I knew that water pistol wasn’t long for this world. Shoot, as soon as I got out of the newsstand, I headed north across Front Street, and when I came to the railroad tracks, I placed the water pistol right on one of the rails. “The MoPac will take care of that danged water pistol in about 20 minutes,” I kinda mumbled. Heck, I was so nervous, I started running the paper route, and when I burst through the newsstand door Doc was shocked. “Richard, you couldn’t have finished the route. What did you do with the papers?” “I didn’t miss a house, Doc. For some reason I had a lot of energy.” “Well, boy, if you can run the route that fast, I’m paying you too much.” “Naw, Doc. Remember the Sunday papers are so heavy they take twice as long. Maybe I should get paid double for Sundays.” “Get outta here, Richard.” Well, I felt a lot better knowing the MoPac had taken care of that water pistol. Then I had a thought: Go look at the pieces. Shoot, I took off running and in a couple of minutes, I was standing beside the rail where I had placed the gun. “Hummmm, where are the pieces?” I muttered. Yeah, at first, I thought the train had just crushed the pistol to dust, but then I thought, no, that couldn't happen, but there wasn’t a trace of the pistol. “Oh, my gosh! Where’s that danged, red water pistol?” I yelled

The Norphlet Mafia post 3 chapter 2

Chapter 2 More Barks, Woofs, and Little Sharp Teeth I still can’t believe I was nearly killed and eaten alive by a pack of wild dogs, and Rosalie got upset about me whacking that crazy bunch. And later it didn’t help any when I told her I wanted to send that sorry momma dog to the electric chair. Well, I wish that had been all of the Chihuahua problem, but it wasn’t near over. No sir-ree bobtail. You see that was only the little rascals’ first attack. The little dogs may have looked like worthless, stupid rats, but they’re really smart. Heck, after they found out the bottom rail of the gate was high enough for them to get under, doing my paper route was like running through one of the minefields you see at the movies. Yeah, they figured out exactly when I would be by their house every morning, and look out! After a couple of mornings, I tried to sneak by, but they had a Scout Dog who just went crazy when it saw me, and in seconds they were dogs everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Instead of coming straight at me, they circled right out of paper-swatting range, and as soon as my back was turned, one of the little devils would dash in and nip my ankle. Un huh, Chihuahuas might be smart, but I’m a top, smart Norphlet paperboy... Uh, well, yeah, I know I am the only Norphlet paperboy, but I’ve got some smarts, too. Well, the first thing I did was stop by Mrs. Graves’ house to tell her to fix her gate where her dogs couldn’t get out. I waited until I saw her outside working in her flowerbed. I figured she would be able to call off her dogs if they attacked, so I walked up to the fence where she was working and started talking. “Mrs. Graves?” “Oh, hi Richard. Is it time to pay my paper bill?” “Uh, well no ma’am. I just wanted to tell you your dogs can get out by going under the gate. I wouldn’t want one of them to get runned over,” I lied. “Well thank you, Richard, but I don’t think my sweet little darlings would ever leave my yard.” “Yes, ma’am, they can. The other morning they all got out and chased me down the street.” “Oh, Richard, I can’t believe my precious little pets would ever do such a thing. Come around to the gate. I want you to meet my family.” Yeah, the last thing on earth I wanted to do was to meet those vicious mutts, so I kinda hesitated, and said, “Well, I don’t want to upset them. They don’t know me.” “Richard, they are the friendliest dogs you’ll ever see. Come here and let me introduce you.” I figured, when I opened that gate, dogs would be all over me, so I just eased in ready to zip out when they attacked... but they didn’t. And then Mrs. Graves went into this long introduction: Princess Leah was the momma dog, and the rest were Snow White and the seven dwarfs plus an older dog named Prince Charming. Well, that bunch of dogs was really showing off. Shoot, they came up to me like I was their long-lost friend, and Mrs. Graves was just beaming about how sweet they were. She walked out of the yard and closed the gate behind her, and started calling her “little friends.” Yeah, I figured the whole bunch would run under the gate, and I could say, “That's what happened, Mrs. Graves.” But they didn’t. In fact the mutts kinda faked it like they couldn’t get out, and old Mrs. Graves nodded like I had just accused one of her children of murder, and the judge had said, “Not guilty.” But just as I was about to leave, the momma dog gave a little woof, and when I looked at her, she bared her teeth. Right then and there I knew those dogs might be ugly and mean, but they were smart, too, and the next day it was gonna be “Katy bar the door.” I had to come up with an anti-dog plan, or those mutts were gonna be all over me every morning. Yeah, I always carry my slingshot, but I knew that one rock would kill one of those little, rat dogs dead as a sack of hammers. I just couldn't do that to Mrs. Graves. However, something else came to mind, and the next morning I was ready. Sure enough, the Scout Dog sounded the alarm, and a small herd of Chihuahuas charged me. Well, I just calmly reached in my paper bag and pulled out my pistol—my water pistol. But it wasn't just a plain water pistol. I had loaded it with water and a little bit of Momma’s bleach—just enough to kinda smell and make the danged dogs back off. I just stood there until that sorry momma dog was about 5 feet from me, and then... zap. A stream of watery bleach hit that sorry dog, and the next several squirts nailed the rest of the worthless mutts. Heck, I was having so much fun, I just poured it on until every whining dog had made it back under the gate. No kidding, I’ve seen some really funny things, but when that bleach water hit them it was like they’d run into a stone wall. Shoot, they were spinning those little dog paws like nothing you have ever seen trying to get themselves in reverse. Yeah, that took care of the Chihuahua problem. Or at least I thought it did until the next morning when I noticed something: Everywhere the bleach had hit one of those brown dogs, it had turned the fur white. Those little dogs now looked like baby Dalmatians with white spots all over them. And that was big trouble, ’cause Mrs. Graves’s Chihuahuas are show dogs. I also had found out that she sells the puppies, and white-spotted brown fur probably would get counted off a bunch of points, and lower the price. Heck, I put it in high gear, and took off. My lips were sealed ’cause I knew just trying to keep from getting eaten alive by those danged worthless dogs was really gonna cause a big stink in Norphlet. I was in really big trouble... if the bleach job got pinned on me.

The Norphlet Mafia post # 2 Chapter one

They were snapping at my ankles, and then it got real serious-you know, like when two rows of little teeth clamp down on my bare foot. I yelled like bloody murder, and then I thought maybe those danged dogs were like a bunch of them fish from South America, which are about the size of a big sunfish but have sharp teeth just like Chihuahuas. And those fish will plum eat you up. I guess right about then was when it got serious as I felt two more sets of little teeth clamp down on my leg. Wow, I hollered like a stuck pig and kicked one of those danged dogs like a football. That was a stupid thing to do ’cause it was like blood in the water. Heck, it was the momma dog, and she howled like she was dying—’course she wasn’t, ’cause she just rolled a few times—and then all 10- of them worthless dogs came after me with blood in their eyes. (Guess they didn’t like me kicking their momma.) Wow, suddenly those danged little dogs were everywhere, and little teeth were snapping at my ankles. And about that time one of them tied onto my bare big toe. Those worthless, little rat dogs were howling like a pack of super, tiny wolves, and that’s when I started doing what I later called my Chihuahua Dance. It goes jump, kick, jump. Shoot, it was getting real serious and I started thinking, What if I fell down and the whole pack jumped right on top of me and cleaned my bones like those South American fish do? Heck, the headlines in the newspaper would be terrible: Norphlet Paperboy Killed and Eaten by Chihuahuas. That would really upset my momma and daddy, and Rosalie would probably never speak to me again, Uh, yeah, that’s right, since I'd just be a pile of white bones. So right then and there, I decided to hightail on down the street, skipping and jumping and doing the Chihuahua Dance to keep from being nipped to death. But it wasn’t all that easy. You see, if a dog gets after you, the worst thing you can do is take off running. That’s right; ’cause the dog, or in this case dogs, will think they’ve got you whipped, and when they catch you, you’ll be dog meat. Anyway, after a couple of hops and a rabbit like jump, I broke out of the circle and started to hightail it out of there. But, look out, the momma dog made a leap at me, grabbed my paper bag and hung on. Well, I could still run pretty good even with a Chihuahua hanging on my paper bag, but before I could really get going another one grabbed my pants leg, and a second one latched onto my paper bag. Yeah, right then, I remembered seeing a Tarzan picture show down at the Ritz Theatre where a whole pack of lions jumped this huge water buffalo, and the lions kept piling on until that water buffalo went down in a pile of hungry lions. Naw, I wasn’t about to be a buffalo, so I went to really loud screaming and hop-kicking. “Ahaaaaaaa! Get! Get! Yhaaaaaa! Get!” Naw, I wasn't just yelling, I was kicking and jumping like a wild boy, and I managed to push the two sorry dogs that were hanging onto my paper bag into a mailbox pole.“Hope that broke y’all’s sorry necks!” I yelled, slapping the other dog who was hanging on my pants leg until it turned loose. Shoot, I really turned it on then, but they had me on the run, and I jumped and skipped down the street with that pack of little dogs nipping at my heels. It wouldn’t have been so bad, I guess, if that was all there was to it. But, no, not on your life. Right down the street from the Chihuahuas’ house lives Rosalie, and you might know, her daddy had just sent her out to get the paper when I came skipping by chased by 10 snapping, snarling little dogs. Plus, I was still trying to throw papers, which was danged hard to do, since I had to throw on one foot and slap off dogs with the other hand. Yeah, she laughed. Uh, huh, so hard she had to hang onto the gate. ’Course, I stopped ’cause I looked like such a idiot—and wouldn’t you know it, one of them danged dogs latched on to my foot, and I now I was hopping around swinging a little dumb dog and yelling like a panther had a-holt of me. Shoot, I finally got that dog to turn loose, and then suddenly I remembered something: Dogs are scared of a rolled-up paper. Boy, I grabbed one of the papers out of my bag, rolled it up, and scattered dogs like nothing you’ve ever seen. “Ahaaa! Take that that you sorry little dogs! Whoooo! Get ’em!" I swung that rolled-up paper around and then finally I chased the whole lot back down the street, swatting at dogs right and left. Well, evidently, that was another dumb move ’cause Rosalie started yelling at me for beating up on a bunch of poor little dogs. “Richard, you made that tiny little dog whine! You should be ashamed of yourself!” “ Rosalie, those dogs bit me four times and nearly brought blood.” “A 13-year-old boy picking on little dogs! You are a bad person!” And with that Rosalie turned up her nose and walked back into her house. And you know something? She actually really did turn up her nose. See, I told y’all that paperboys have some bad stuff happen, but that wasn’t near all of the Chihuahua problem. After those sorry dogs figured out how to get under the gate, they were there every morning, and it was like running down a nipping, biting sidewalk. And the more I got after them the more they went after me. I had to do something, but outside of murder, I couldn’t think of a thing.

Novel--The Norphlet Mafia---post 1

Note: post one---subsequent posts with continue at three a week to the end of the book. Chapter one I’ve just gotten back from working like some sorry yard dog—for free! And get this: I was so glad to do it, I couldn’t wait to get started. Well, I’m sitting here on my back porch just shaking, and it’s not from doing all that work. Yeah, I’ve just come through the worst summer anybody could ever have, and I’m not even sure I’m through with all the mess I got into. Anyway, it didn’t have nothing to do with the big War between us and the sorry Germans and Japs. Naw, it was just me, my best friend, John Clayton Reed, and Leroy, who everybody calls Ears, against a snoopy Marshal and—get this—a private investigator who came all the way down to Norphlet from Little Rock. I’m just a 13-year-old skinny, black-haired paperboy, and I started the summer figuring it would be real slow around Norphlet. Heck, everything is slow around Norphlet, even when we had those war maneuvers and the Army troops marched through town. And things in the summer are always slow as molasses in January. I live on a little farm in South Arkansas about a mile down the road from the little town of Norphlet, and ’bout all I know is who gets what paper. Yeah, I’m the durn paperboy. I deliver the El Dorado News-Times, the Arkansas Gazette, and the Shreveport Times. So, while it doesn’t take a genius to throw a paper, you durn sure don’t want to throw someone an El Dorado paper, when they’re supposed to be getting a Little Rock one, ’cause messing up on one throw can make all the next throws wrong. And if you don’t think that’s big trouble, you don’t know Doc, the newsstand owner, who rides around in a wheelchair like the Lone Ranger, or sometimes when he has that cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, and has his old felt hat on, he looks like President Roosevelt. Hey, I just said how slow Norphlet is, and it sounds boring doesn’t it? But let me tell you something right now. Life in Norphlet may be slow, but it sure ain’t boring. I think you’ll believe me when I tell you a few things that happened over the last weeks, and then you’ll get just a hint how exciting living in Norphlet can be. Uh, well, maybe it wasn’t all that exciting for everybody, but it was durn sure exciting for me and my friends. It all started one morning in mid-June as I was running my paper route—Uh, well, I usually don’t run unless I have to... you know, dogs and such—anyway, I passed Rosalie’s house (she’s the school beauty), and she walked out to pick up the paper, and said “Hello, Richard.” And get this: She smiled at me! ’Course, she’s just the prettiest girl in the whole danged school. And, well, after that, the next 22 papers went to the wrong houses, and, oh my gosh, by the time I got back to the newsstand Doc was all wound up. He had the phone off the hook and he almost threw at me when I walked in the door. “Richard!” he yelled, before I was even in the newsstand, “have you lost your ever-loving mind! You threw the wrong paper to every house on Front Street! This damn phone has been ringing off the wall! You know what that means?” Yeah, I knew: a 5-cent deduction for every wrong throw. I’m no math genius, but I figured, I was gonna come out in the hole that day, and I sure did. Doc handed me a slip of paper that had some numbers on it, and, sure enough, I owed Doc a danged dollar and 10 cents. Heck, I only make a few dollars a week, and I have to work 365 days a year. I’ll just bet I’m the only danged person in town who has to work on Christmas Day. Yeah, getting mixed up and chunking the wrong papers was a stupid thing to do, but you know something? I really didn’t think the route was a bust, not after Rosalie said hello and smiled at me. But I wasn’t finished with that mess. Heck, old Doc yelled again, “Take these papers and get your skinny butt back down Front Street, and don’t miss another house or you’re fired!” “Yes, sir.” I grabbed the extra papers and was out the door before Doc could yell at me again. Heck, I knew old Doc wasn’t gonna fire me, but, dang, when he gets riled up the best thing to do is hightail it out of the newsstand. Doc has been known to throw a rolled-up newspaper at me when I have a bad day, and a rolled-up paper whacking the side of your head ain’t the best way to start your morning. I know Doc sounds like a mean old man—and he is, sometimes—but really, me and Doc are good friends, and I’ll tell Doc stuff I won’t even tell Momma and Daddy. Anyway, I headed back down Front Street to toss the right papers at the right houses, and wouldn’t you know... it started raining. Yeah, another really bad day for the Norphlet paperboy—me! You know, it’s a fact that paperboys have just about the worst job in the whole world. Yeah, you’re durn tootin’ they do, and let me tell you why. Heck, it’s okay when it’s kinda nice out, and they aren’t any dogs around. But it’s the dang dogs and the weather that gives us paperboys fits. Let me tell you just the rest of this really true story about when I was jumped by a pack of wild, flesh-eating Chihuahuas. Naw, I’m not kidding. I was attacked by a whole bunch of’em, and it was just horrible, and it kicked off a real wing-ding for yours truly. Yep, it sure did and before it was over two of my friends were all mixed up in the whole mess, and it looked like we were on a one-way trip to the Arkansas Reform School over in Texarkana. Now the whole thing about mean Chihuahuas might sound a little strange ’cause, as you know, Chihuahuas are really little. Heck, when they attacked I just started laughing, but I didn’t laugh very long. This is just how it went. I’d just drawed back to chunk an El Dorado Daily News, when I heard this high-sounding, squeaky barking and, shoot, here comes about 10 of them little dogs—a whole litter, and their momma—and you wouldn’t believe it, they ran right under the gate. Well, I started laughing again. You know it really did seem funny to see a whole pack coming at me snarling and barking like they was gonna eat me alive, when they’re about the size of a big rat. But, shoot, they just kept running straight for me, and before I knew it, I was surrounded.