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!”

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.