The Norphlet Mafia, Chapters 17 & 18 Post 22

When we met the next morning, Mrs. Graves was out in the yard feeding those stinking Chihuahuas. When I took a good look at her yard and house, I nearly choked. Shoot, it had been dark when I came up with the idea of fixing and cleaning up her house and yard. But in bright daylight I noticed that the danged grass was about halfway up to my knees, the flowerbeds were so full of weeds you couldn’t see the flowers, and there was so much dirt on her windows it was hard for the sun to get through. But we didn’t have a choice, so I walked up to Mrs. Graves who was feeding her little “friends” and said, “Mrs. Graves we’re Boy Scouts, and we here to do our good deed for the day. We’re going to mow your yard, clean out your flowerbeds, and clean all the windows in your house.” Yeah, the Boy Scouts’ good-deed thing was a lie, but I couldn’t think of any other reason that I could tell her. You know like, “We’re trying to look good so the Marshal won’t send us to reform school.” But what I didn’t expect was how she acted. It took a few minutes for it to sink in, but when she saw my lawn mower, she really lit up. “Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Boys, last night after I shot a couple of holes in my front door thinking I was shooting at burglar. I prayed the Lord would send me some help to fix up my door, mow my yard, and clean up my house! You boys are an answer to prayer!” Well, I have been called a lot of things, but being an answer to prayer ain’t one of ’em. “And, boys, while you’re at it, I have another door out in the shed behind the house. You wouldn’t mind hanging it for me would you?” “No, ma’am; we’ll get it,” I said as Ears and John Clayton just shot a hole through me with their eyes. ’Course I was wondering where Mr. Paul was so I asked, “Mrs. Graves where’s the man who was staying with you?” “Well, boys, after he got drunk last night and made up all those tales about manure and a animal’s head in his bed, Marshal Wing put him in jail to sober up. He got out of jail at daylight, and he was down at Fred Smith’s garage when Fred opened up at seven. Wanted him to clean his car; said it smelled. He was back here at nine, but he was still all upset. It seemed Fred cleaned his car and found two animal ears in it, but it still smelled to high heaven.” Yeah, it crossed my mind that they didn’t find the goat’s head under the backseat. Mrs. Graves kept talking, “And he was so upset. Finally, he put on one of those masks that painters wear to keep from breathing fumes, and just took off heading back to Little Rock.” The Norphlet Mafia had run the private eye out of town! Chapter 18 Trying to Look Good Okay, now I know I have done some stupid things, but agreeing to do all that yard and housework was right up there with kicking a wasp’s nest. Heck, it was mid-August and this is Arkansas not Alaska, and talk about hot… The weatherman said it was gonna be a record-setter, and that record was hot, not cold. But we were trapped like a rat in a barrel of cats. Either whip 10 cats, work like dogs, or get sent to reform school. Well, it wasn’t that bad early on, but it was a cloudless day, and my noon we were nearly just plain out of it. Mrs. Graves saved the day by bringing us a big, cold glasses of lemonade. As she handed up the lemonade she said, “Boys, I wish I could pay you, but I only get a small check from my late husband’s Social Security to get by on. Y’all know I raise Chihuahuas to help, but this has been a bad year, and I still have a whole litter that I haven’t sold yet because someone sprayed bleach on them. Sometimes I have to wait a week to buy groceries, but I am frying chicken for lunch, so you boys just wash up in about thirty minutes, and come sit to the table.” Yeah, I felt especially bad, ’cause I figured shooting the puppies with bleach had probably caused them not to get sold. And then to top it off, I had caused my two good friends to get all tangled up with everything, and all of us still might still get arrested. But, as I finished up the side part of the yard, I heard my stomach growling like some old bear, and I knew feeling bad was gonna get shoved to the back of my mind while I devoured that fried chicken. We had just finished lunch, and were about to start back to work when I saw Marshal Wing coming up the sidewalk. You bet I stopped breathing, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck just stick straight up. Well, the Marshal kinda slowed down and Mrs. Graves went out to talk with him. “Marshal, I sure hate it that my nephew caused so much trouble last night.” “Mrs. Graves, don’t you worry about that. I think he might have had a couple of beers too many down at Peg’s place. Anyway, I understand, he’s headed back to Little Rock.” “Well, maybe that’s for the best—oh, Marshal, look at my yard and house! I have had a prayer answered. These wonderful boys just showed up this morning, and they have been working all day. They’re little angels.” Well, I was watching Marshal Wing real closely, and he kinda frowned at “wonderful,” but as Mrs. Graves kept going on and on about all the stuff we had done, he kinda nodded. Well, we acted like we couldn’t wait to get back to work, especially with the Marshal standing right there. We had finished eating, and you bet it was good—the lemonade and fried chicken really pepped us up. But, you know, I really don’t think it was the lemonade and fried chicken. It was knowing that what we were doing was really helping a little old lady, who was just dirt poor, even if we were doing it for the wrong reasons. It was about 5 o’clock when we hung that new door—after we had to take it down to Boynton’s Hardware Store to get it cut down. Yeah, we were all just standing out in the front yard with Mrs. Graves, and she was telling us how good of a job we’d done when I saw a shadow on the grass, and it crossed my mind that it must be a big bird flying low. And then I heard a dog’s wild yelp, and we all turned and looked at the back yard where the 10 little Chihuahuas were scampering around, except now there were only nine. The biggest chicken hawk you have ever seen was taking off with one of the Chihuahuas in its claws. “Oh! Oh! The hawk has Prince Charming! Ahaaaaaaaaaaa!” You bet that scream from Mrs. Graves would easily have broken glass. “Richard do something! Save Prince Charming!” “Huh?” Yeah how am I supposed to save Prince Charming? That dang hawk was flying out of the back yard with little Prince Charming in its claws, and I didn’t have a clue what to do. But after Mrs. Graves let out another shriek, I figured I had better act like I was trying to do something, so I took off running after the hawk. Well, Prince Charming must have been a little heavy ’cause the hawk was flying low and it looked as if it was going to light. Oh my gosh, I thought. The hawk is going to light in that big tree ahead, and it’ll start eating Prince Charming! I turned on the speed, and I was nearly to the tree when the danged hawk lit. The hawk was about 30 feet up, and I yelled at the top of my lungs, but the hawk just ignored me. I guess that bird was tired of carrying a fat, little Chihuahua so it didn’t move. In fact it kinda glared down at me and then took a good look at supper. I’ve got to do something, I thought. Then I remembered my slingshot. Shoot, I grabbed it out of my back pocket just as the hawk plucked the first hair from Prince Charming and the little dog let out a yelp, I put a rock in the pouch and drew the rubber straps back. If I didn’t do something quickly it would be too late. I sent the first rock at the hawk, but I missed and it sailed right past it. Heck, I can get a second rock off real quick, though, and I did. When I let it go I knew it was gonna be real close and might even hit the hawk. It did. The second rock was right on target. Whap! It caught that hawk right below his neck, and although I knew a rock from a slingshot wasn’t gonna kill a big chicken hawk, it might upset it enough to drop Prince Charming. And it did! With a big screech, the danged chicken hawk jumped straight up, turned little Prince Charming loose, and flew off. I looked up to see a flying Chihuahua headed for the ground about 10 feet away. Heck, I play junior football for the Norphlet Leopards, and that brown ball of fur looked just like a football, so I made a dog-saving catch. ’Course I figured the dog would be kinda cut up from being clawed by a supersize chicken hawk, but outside of a couple of scratches, it was fine. Yeah, coming back up to Mrs. Graves’ house after saving one of her favorite dogs was really something. She was just going on and on about how wonderful I was when Marsha Wing walked back up. After about 10 minutes of telling Marshal Wing how great we were, she said there should be some kinda of a medal for saving Prince Charming. I figured it couldn’t get any better than that so we gathered up our tools and started back down the sidewalk toward town. Marshal Wing was right behind us, and when we turned the corner, he said kinda softly, “Boys, if I was y’all I’d forget I ever heard of the Norphlet Mafia.” He kinda smiled as he walked away, and I knew right then—no reform school. We were almost back downtown when Ears said something, “Y’all know what I’ve been thinking?” “Naw, what Ears?” I replied. “I think we should come back next week to Mrs. Graves’s house and do the same thing.” Then John Clayton piped up. “Yeah, and then the next week and the week after that…” “Hold it right there,” I said. “Let’s don’t get carried away.” The End

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 17, post 22

“Great idea, but wait a minute.” I pulled out my pocketknife and cut off one of the goat’s ears and put it in the glove compartment, and then whacked off the other one and put it in the ash tray. “That’ll throw ’em off for a while.” We had just finished when I spotted headlights down at the end of the block. Yeah, it was the Marshal and Mr. Paul. The Marshal stopped his car right by the front gate, and I heard Mr. Paul say, “Watch out Marshal, there is some kind of manure on everything.” Yeah, they kinda eased along, and I saw the Marshal shake his head ’cause there wasn’t a thing on the steps or anywhere else. They eased up to the front door, and Mr. Paul opened it. Surprise! Ten Chihuahuas dashed out barking and snarling like crazy. “Oh my gosh. Mrs. Graves is up!” Boooommmm! It was a shotgun blast that blew a hole in the wooden door as big as my head and sent the screen door flying out into the yard. The blast had just missed both men, and, wow, you should have seen them run, cause Mrs. Graves had just rattled another shell into the chamber. Booooooomm! This time, the birdshot ripped another big hole in the door and sent wood splinters flying. Gosh, Mrs. Graves must have had an old pump shotgun ’cause you could sure hear it rattle when she threw a shell in the chamber. Well, she had missed again ’cause Mr. Paul and the Marshal had run through (or jumped) the fence and had flattened out on the road where 10 Chihuahuas were just giving them fits. Heck, they were about to be nibbled to death. “Auntie! Auntie! It’s me! Paul!” Boooommmm! Well, Marshal Wing probably needed a new windshield, but with both men yelling, Mrs. Graves stopped shooting, and hollered, ”Is that you, Paul?” ”Yes, Auntie, I’m here with Marshal Wing. Someone has broken into our house.” ”Yes, I heard ’em. I must have scared ’em away with my shotgun.” ”Put your gun down, Auntie. We need to come in and check out my room.” “Okay, Paul, come on in. But I think a scared ’em off.” I heard Marshal Wing say something, but I can’t repeat it. Well, Mr. Paul and the Marshal headed for Mr. Paul’s room, and we took off and headed for the side window. We’d just made it to the window when I heard Mr. Paul say, “Auntie don’t come in the room until we remove something that is just so horrible that you shouldn't see it. Marshal you’re not going to believe this.” When he said that, Marshal Wing opened the door, took a look around, and said, “What in the hell are you talking about?” “Right there on the pillow... uh, what? It’s gone! Marshal I swear it was there just a few minutes ago.” “What was there?” asked Marshal Wing. “It was the head of some animal. I don’t know what exactly, but maybe it was a sheep. I couldn’t tell, it was so gross. I just ran out of here.” “Paul it’s nearly midnight! You got me out of bed telling me some horrible crime had been committed, and you ran down Main Street, Norphlet, barefooted, drunk, and telling me about manure all over everything—and now you tell me a sheep’s head or some other animal was on your pillow?” “Marshal, I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles there was a stinking animal head on my pillow, and…” “You’re under arrest! I’m gonna charge you with everything I can think of! You came down here from Little Rock trying to act like a big-shot private eye, and you have caused nothing but trouble!” Wow, I was smiling all over when I heard that. Yeah, I figure when the private eye got out of jail the next morning, he’d be on the road to Little Rock for sure. But then I thought about Marshal Wing, and how close he was getting to figuring us out, and I knew unless we did something pretty good, we could still be in big trouble, and the Norphlet Mafia would end up in reform school. I kinda thought that the Marshal knew somebody had really put one over on the private eye, and since he couldn’t stand the guy, he was using the absence of any evidence as an excuse to run him out of town. Then I had one of them light bulb ideas, and I whispered to the guys; “Y’all come here. We need to talk, ’cause we’re not out of the woods yet. This is what we need to do. Tomorrow morning we’re gonna meet right here at Mrs. Graves’s house, and I’m going to bring my lawnmower. John Clayton, you bring some tools to work in the flowerbeds, and Ears, bring some rags and stuff to clean windows.” “Huh? What for,” ask John Clayton. “To keep out of reform school, you dummies!” “What in the world are you talking about?” “Well, I think the Marshal knows we’re the Norphlet Mafia, and he just used what we did so he would have an excuse to run that sorry private eye out of town. And I saw him wipe his hands on his pants after he got manure on it from the gate latch. So he has to know Mr. Paul wasn’t making all of that stuff up. If we don’t really do something good real soon, he’s gonna grab us.” Well that got their attention and we made plans to meet the next morning. Heck, I really didn’t want to work like some sorry yard dog all morning on Mrs. Graves’ yard, but I couldn’t think of anything else that would help us look good.

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 17, Post 21

We spent most of the afternoon getting fresh chicken manure, and by late that afternoon, we had mixed up enough to coat half of Norphlet. I walked into my house about 8 o’clock and lied to my folks, for about the 100th time: “Momma, we’re going frog-gigging, so we’ll be late getting back.” That was met with a nod. Yeah, Momma and Daddy were under the impression that if we were prowling around Flat Creek Swamp trying to gig frogs, we wouldn’t be into anything bad. Actually, we hadn’t been frog-gigging all summer. I was downtown a little after 8 carrying the tow sack with the stinking goat head, and I walked by Peg’s Pool Hall and, sure enough, there was Mr. Paul sitting at the bar having a beer or two and he didn’t look like he was going anywhere for a few hours. It was a short walk to Mrs. Graves’ house and by the time I got there John Clayton and Ears had walked up carry two water pistols loaded with watery chicken manure, along with a quart jar full. Heck, Mrs. Graves’ bedroom lights were already out, and all the Chihuahuas were in the bedroom with her. After the dognapping, she wouldn’t leave her “little friends” outside. It was time to set up our smelly, little trick. Ears was whining as usual. “Okay, Ears, we know this is a little over the top, but it’s the best chance we have to escape reform school. So just shut up, and start squirting that chicken manure on everything Mr. Paul might touch. He walked downtown, so be sure you hit his car a good lick, and stuff some chicken manure up the air intake of that pile of junk he’s driving.” Yeah, of course Ears tried to back out, but then John Clayton told him it didn’t matter what he did ’cause he was already in for enough stuff that he’d spend the next 10 years in reform school. Well, Ears whined about us getting him involved, but finally he took his manure-filled water pistol and started squirting anything and everything Mr. Paul might touch while I headed quietly, for Mr. Paul’s bedroom. John Clayton was the lookout boy. The front door was unlocked, just as I thought it would be, and it a few minutes I had the smelly goat head out of the tow sack and unwrapped. I was just about to prop it up on a clean, white pillow when I thought about messing up a good pillowcase. Well, I had plenty of newspaper in the sack so I just put some newspaper down before I placed the goat head on the pillow, and then I took a good look at the goat head. Yuck, it looked awful, so I put a big sheet of newspaper over it, and left the room. Yeah, I was smiling when I thought about Mr. Paul pulling that newspaper back. And when I got back outside John Clayton and Ears had squirted manure water on everything that wasn’t moving. That was about the time I started getting cold feet. As I thought about what could happen, and how Mr. Paul was gonna try and cause us trouble, I was real tempted to go back in the house and get the goat’s head. I figure the chicken water manure would be enough. But then I heard John Clayton hiss, “Somebody’s coming!” Chapter 17 Uhaaaaaa! Ahaaaaaa! Shoot, the three of us hightailed it over across the street and hid behind some Azalea bushes. In a few minutes, we saw someone coming up the sidewalk, and sure enough it was Mr. Paul. Heck, I took a deep breath, as I realized it was too late to change anything, and in less than five minutes a man was going to walk into his bedroom and pull the newspaper off a stinking goat head, that is after he’d gotten chicken manure on his hands from opening the fence gate and the doorknob plus the doorknob to his bedroom. Would he be upset? Would he call Marshal Wing? He was about to the front gate when I noticed he was really wobbly, you know, kinda drunk walking. He grabbed the latch on the gate, and I heard him say a cussword, and then when he smelled his hand, he said several more, and went over and wiped his hands off on the grass. He took a step up on the concrete steps leading up to the front porch, slipped about 3 feet down the step, and fell off in the boxwood; more really bad cussing. Yeah, Ears and really soaked the porch steps with chicken manure, and the steps were as slick as frog guts. One-step on that slick mess sent him sprawling into the flowerbed. Finally, he managed to crawl up the steps and make it across the porch to the front door and grasp the chicken manure-coated doorknob—more cussing. As soon as he got in the house, we slipped around to the side of the house to his bedroom window. Well, I heard him open his bedroom door, let out a few cusswords, and then start running water in the bathroom sink to wash his hands. In a few minutes, he walked out of the bathroom in his pajamas, sniffing the air like some old hound dog. You bet that goat head stunk. We could smell it even though we were outside of the window. Well, when he turned toward the bed, he kinda cocked his head like, “What’s that paper on the bed,” and then he walked over to the bed and pulled it off. Well, ever since I came up with the Mafia trick, I had wondered if it would upset him, but I never in my wildest dreams thought it would be as bad as it was. There was a shocked look on his face and then a muffled yell… uh, he was gagging and yelling at the same time. “Uhaaaaaaaa! Ohoooooooo!” and on and on until he turned and ran straight into the bedroom door trying to get out of the room. Well, that slowed him down, but only for a couple of seconds. Heck, he was out of that room like a shot, and he burst out the front door and headed for the street. However, he forgot about the slick porch stairs, and when he hit that first step he flipped and ended up about 3 feet out in the yard—on his back. Yeah, we were pretty upset, too. Ears started shaking so badly I had to grab him, and all John Clayton could say was, “Oh, my God! Oh my God! Oh…” “Shut up, or he’s gonna hear you,” I hissed. Well, that was about the time we noticed Mr. Paul was still just wearing pajamas. Gosh, for a fairly drunk guy, he was really moving, heading for his car. Yeah, it did cross my mind that what we had already done with the goat’s head was probably enough to run him out of the entire state, and we didn’t need to do anything else, but we had, and all we could do was crouch down in the bushes and watch. Of course, his car door handle had enough soft chicken manure on it to launch a battleship, and when he grabbed it, the chicken poop squeezed out between his fingers. Yeah, that slowed him down, and sent him into a screaming cussing fit, but he went on and jumped in the front seat, or I might say slid in the front seat on manure. He let out a yell that could have broken glass, and then he grabbed the steering wheel. Yes, of course, it was so slick that his hands slipped off the wheel and he took out the mailbox before he could get the car under control. Well, I’m just guessing, but evidently all the chicken manure we put on the air intake and on the engine fogged up the interior of the car so bad he couldn’t or wouldn’t breathe. I guess soft chicken droppings on a hot motor would kinda stink up a car. Yeah, wasn't’ even to the end of the block until the car came to a screeching stop, and Mr. Paul jumped out and started to throw up. Well, since I’m always up early delivering papers, I’ve seen quite a few drunks come home late and throw up in their front yard, but I’m not kidding, I have never seen anybody come even close to the scene Mr. Paul made. There would be a string of terrible cusswords, which would go on until he went “Uhaaaaaaa! Uhaaaaaaa!” usually about five times. Finally, he stopped cussing and throwing up, and I thought maybe he was gonna get back in his car, but when he stuck his head in, he just jumped back. Then he just took off running down the block, and since the Marshal’s office is only about three blocks away, we figured that was where he was going. Well, it was kinda funny to see a grown man wobbling down Main Street wearing pink, striped pajamas. Then I had a thought, “Hey, I’m going to sneak back in his room and get the goat’s head. No goat head means no evidence. And while I’m doing that, y’all wipe off all the chicken manure off his car, the porch steps, and anything else you put it on." I figured we had about 15 minutes, and we took off like a rocket. You would never believe how much stuff we cleaned up. I ran out with the goat head wrapped in newspaper just as John Clayton finished cleaning Mr. Paul’s car. “What am I gonna do with this stinking goat head?” I kinda whispered under my breath. “I know,” John Clayton answered, and so quick you wouldn’t believe it, he popped up the backseat of Mr. Paul’s car. “Quick, put it under here.” “How’d you get that seat to pop up?” I asked. “I’ve been working for my Uncle Roy down at his body shop. Most people don’t have a clue how easy these backseats will pop up. Stick the goat head under the seat. It’ll take ’em days to figure out where the smell’s coming from.”

The Norphlet Mafia, Chapter 15 & 16, post 20

“Dang, Ears, Richard has come up with a great plan. That guy will be out of town just as soon as he wakes up—from passing out when he sees that goat head on his pillow. He’ll take off like a rocket for Little Rock, and we’ll be home free. And Ears, you are in this mess ’cause all the stuff you have already done is enough to lock you up for life!” Yeah, John Clayton was ready to go, and after he yelled all that at Ears, we were unanimous. “We’re going to the picture shows at the Ritz on Saturday, and Rabbit, my cousin, is always there. I’ll just call him and tell him when Uncle Catfish butchers a goat to bring the head all wrapped up when he comes to the Ritz next Saturday. Until then, let’s just stay out of sight.” Chapter 16 A Goat’s Head for Mr. Paul Well, I made a long-distance telephone call to my cousin Rabbit, who lives down in Huttig near the Ouachita River, and told him what we needed. And then after I told him about all the trouble we were in, Rabbit understood our problem and why we needed a goat’s head. Our Uncle Catfish lives right on the river in a little shack set up on stilts where the river water won’t get in it when it floods. There sure isn’t much to Catfish’s place, and when you visit you had better to be prepared to rough it. You know like sleep on the floor and eat cold, fried catfish every meal. Shoot, the place is just crawling with goats, and Catfish is always butchering one to sell. Well, the next day Rabbit called me back saying his Uncle Catfish had killed a goat last Friday, and the head was still lying there where he had butchered the goat. Did I want him to bring that goat’s head with him when he came to the Ritz on Saturday, or wait until Catfish butchered another goat? Well, we were getting desperate so I told him to bring it. Big mistake. That next Saturday, Daddy took me to downtown El Dorado, and as I walked up to the theater, I spotted Rabbit standing there by the ticket booth carrying a tow sack. “Hey, Richard, I got your goat head,” said Rabbit. Yeah, I was real surprised and happy, that is until Rabbit handed me the bag. It smelled. It smelled really bad. “Dang, Rabbit! This goat head smells to high heaven! How long has that goat been dead?” “Oh, just about a week, I think. Maybe longer.” “Well, I can’t go home with Daddy driving and a stinking goat head in the backseat.” “Yes, you can. I ain’t about to drag that stinking head back to Huttig. Some of the newspaper has come off is why it stinks. All you hafta do is pack some more paper around the head, and you won’t smell a thing.” And with that, Rabbit handed me the sack with the goat’s head in it and walked into the theater. Well, have you ever stood in front of a theater with folks coming up to buy tickets and when they walked by you they stuck up their noses, gave a good whiff, and then detoured around you in a big circle? You bet I was in a panic, but about that time John Clayton walked up and you might know the first thing he said was, “What’s that smell?” “It’s the goat head! The stupid goat has been dead for over a week and this is August. That’s why it smells. Listen, John Clayton, go find me some newspaper where we can pack it around this goat head. Rabbit said that’ll keep it from smelling.” “Okay, I’ll be right back.” Well, John Clayton finally made it back with an armload of old papers, and we spent the next 30 minutes packing newspapers around the smelly goat’s head. It helped, but not very much. “Dang, Richard, we can’t take this stinking sack into the theater.” “Naw, we can’t. Let’s hide it out back, and when Daddy comes to pick us up I’ll tell him we have a sack of old, musty funny books that’ll smell up the car and that we can’t put the sack in the backseat; we need to put it in the trunk.” So that was the plan, and even though Daddy caught a whiff of the stinking goat’s head, he just nodded when I asked him to put the sack in the trunk. We made it back to Norphlet, and I jumped out and grabbed the sack and took off before Daddy could check it out. Now we had our Mafia goat’s head and we were read to plant it. We met down at the breadbox that afternoon, and of course all the talk was about when to plant the goat’s head, and who was gonna do the planting. Well, you might know, since I had come up with the plan, I had to put the goat’s head on Mr. Paul’s pillow. Then as we talked and John Clayton mentioned how that goat head stunk, I thought of something. “Hey, when Mr. Paul was down at the City Café and Bubba served him the smelly possum for lunch, he nearly lost it, and I heard him tell Marshal Wing that he couldn’t stand to smell bad stuff, so the stinking goat’s head will be doing double duty. Grossing him out and smelling so bad like nothing you have smelled.” “Yeah, Richard,” said John Clayton. “Say why don’t we add some other smelly stuff, and really tick him off?” “Wait a minute, y’all. Don’t you think the goat’s head is enough?” said Ears. Well, my brain was just clicking when John Clayton said that, and I shook my head at Ears. Naw, Ears, that ain’t enough, not if we can really move this little trick up to a new level. I want to do enough to run him clear out of Arkansas. Say, John Clayton, what’s the worst- smelling thing you can think of?” “Humm… well I guess manure.” “Yeah, and what’s the worst-smelling manure?” “Chicken.” “Okay, now let’s think how we can put chicken manure and Mr. Paul together.” Well, I don’t know how it came up, but after I mentioned that our chicken house has plenty of manure, and when it’s fresh, it’s almost like liquid, that’s when John Clayton had a really good idea. “I’ve got it!” he yelled. “We’ll get a jar full of the softest, freshest chicken manure we can come up with and then we’ll add water until it’s mushy enough to squirt from a water pistol.” “That’s stupid, John Clayton,” said Ears. “A water pistol will only squirt about six feet, and he’ll see you.” “We’re not gonna squirt Mr. Paul, Ears. But we are gonna squirt everything he touches. You know just a little chicken manure will smell really bad, and when we squirt his car door handle, the door knob of his room, the gate he open to leave the house, and maybe pack some in the fresh air flow of his car, he’ll go crazy.” “John Clayton, you are a genius! The water pistol with soft chicken manure is perfect. That sorry private eye is as good as being back in Little Rock. Let’s go get everything ready.”

The Norphlet Mafia Chapter 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 do y’all know about the real Mafia?” “Nothing, not a danged thing,” said Ears, and John Clayton nodded. “Well, about all I remember from reading in the newspaper is them knocking off each other, and if you think we’re gonna help you knock off that Mr. Paul, you’re crazy,” said John Clayton. “Reform school’s bad enough, but murder could put us in the electric chair.” Ears just yelled, “Murder! Murder?!? Count me out! And I mean it! Count me out!” “Ears, I didn’t say murder; John Clayton did. And we’re not gonna murder him, just scare the bejesus out of him,” I stated calmly. “Okay, what’ve you got in mind?” asked John Clayton. “I remember reading that in Sicily the Mafia would do stuff to shock folks, which would upset them so much they would do what the Mafia wanted them to do. Sometimes they put an animal’s head in a man’s bed…” “Oh, my God!, No! Richard, you are out of your ever-loving mind!” screamed Ears. “Count me out!” John Clayton could see where I was going, and he asked, kinda with a grin, “Whose horse or cow are we gonna kill?” Yeah, Ears started to break and run, so I grabbed him and yelled in his ear, “John Clayton was just kidding, Ears. We’re not gonna kill a horse or a cow---it’s gonna be a goat.” Well there was two of the biggest question marks on their faces you have ever seen, and then I said, “Y’all just listen to me for a minute. I have a plan.” Well, after Ears stopped shaking, I started telling them my plan. “This is how it will work. You know my Uncle Catfish that lives down on the river?” There was a couple of “Yeahs” and I continued. “Well, he raises goats that he butchers and sells for people to barbeque, and he just throws the goat’s heads in the river. All we hafta do is to ask him to save us a head—tell him we’re gonna use it for trout-line bait—and we’ve got a goat head. Okay?” “But, but…” “Let me finish, Ears. You know not one soul in Norphlet ever locks their door at night, and I noticed Mr. Paul sleeps in Mrs. Graves’s front bedroom right by the front door. And he always stays out drinking beer down at Peg’s Pool Hall until at least ten o’clock. Right?” “Yeah, but, but…” “Shut up, Ears. Let me finish. Well, I can guarantee you that Mrs. Graves goes to bed no later than eight o’clock. All we hafta to is slip in about nine and put the goat head on Mr. Paul’s pillow.” Ears’s eyes were big as saucers, but John Clayton was smiling and nodding. “Count me out! If you don’t think that will cause another just really big mess, you’re crazy!” yelled Ears. “Count me out! Out! Out!”