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!”