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.