Read Online The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) by Phillip Quinn Morris - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Phillip Quinn Morris
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tour of living on other rivers. Katfish King ran all these advertisements on the local TV. See, it was this catfish and it jumped out of the water and then onto this plate and this guy with a smiling face starts eating it…”
“A raw catfish?” Rusty asked.
“Naw. Hell, naw. It’s a real catfish, jumps out of the water. Next shot it lands on this plate of a man sitting at a restaurant. But now the fish is all cooked. It’s supposed to be funny and show how fresh the fish is.”
“I see.”
“And this owner has his fat ass in all the commercials. Everybody knows who he is. Especially, after they found out he just stole that jumping catfish part of his commercial from a fish commercial somewhere out in Nebraska or somewhere. Had his fat ass in court.”
“I still don’t know who you talking about.”
“You know. He has a whole chain of catfish restaurants in Alabama, Mississippi and Tennessee. There’s twenty-eight of them according to the article here.”
“And your point is?”
Ray looked up from the paper. “This Katfish King must have had him a Cousin Ray. And that Cousin Ray must have caught him wearing one of those hearing aid looking cell phones.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember the other morning.” Ray lay the paper down. “You gave me a .45 round and told me if you ever started wearing one of those little hearing aid cell phone pieces of shit in your ear to shoot your between the eyes.”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“Well, they found Elmore King yesterday shot between the eyes with a .45, and cold. Been dead for a couple, three days.”
“Who the hell is Elmore King?”
“Elmore “Katfish” King. Owned the Katfish King restaurants. They were going to open one up in Dolopia pretty soon.”
Only then did it hit Rusty. “Let me see that.”
Rusty didn’t have to turn the paper around. He recognized the picture upside down. Elmore King. The man who gave Rusty five thousand dollars to find his stolen two hundred fourteen pound catfish.
Rusty did his best to act bored, like he had no more interest in Elmore King. But in reality Rusty felt like he was about to be caught in some conspiracy, that he might be the last person to see Elmore King alive, that he had found himself in a very dangerous position, that he was a slow-moving target and he didn’t even know who the enemy was.
His body was trembling. He could feel it. He just hoped Ray didn’t notice it. Rusty put his hands down in his lap, in case they were noticeable shaking.
Cousin Ray was about to say something—Rusty was sure it was something about Elmore King, but something changed in the café. People were saying “hey” in a very enthusiastic way to someone. Ray looked over. Rusty turned around in the booth.
Here came Duane Pylant. Rusty was saved by a Pylant. Duane was an old classmate, fellow riverman, and for the last five years national professional bass tournament treasure. He stopped to shake a couple hands, sign a couple caps, then walked on back.
“Hey, Duane,” Rusty and Ray said to him. They all shook hands. Rusty scooted over and Duane slid in beside him. Rusty pulled the paper over toward himself.
The new girl, Leslie—Betty’s neice, Rusty thought—came over to take Duane’s order and started kissing his ass. Rusty hated that. Uptown in Dolopia, that was fine. But down here at the river it seemed unappropriate. Like Rusty, he
“A raw catfish?” Rusty asked.
“Naw. Hell, naw. It’s a real catfish, jumps out of the water. Next shot it lands on this plate of a man sitting at a restaurant. But now the fish is all cooked. It’s supposed to be funny and show how fresh the fish is.”
“I see.”
“And this owner has his fat ass in all the commercials. Everybody knows who he is. Especially, after they found out he just stole that jumping catfish part of his commercial from a fish commercial somewhere out in Nebraska or somewhere. Had his fat ass in court.”
“I still don’t know who you talking about.”
“You know. He has a whole chain of catfish restaurants in Alabama, Mississippi and Tennessee. There’s twenty-eight of them according to the article here.”
“And your point is?”
Ray looked up from the paper. “This Katfish King must have had him a Cousin Ray. And that Cousin Ray must have caught him wearing one of those hearing aid looking cell phones.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember the other morning.” Ray lay the paper down. “You gave me a .45 round and told me if you ever started wearing one of those little hearing aid cell phone pieces of shit in your ear to shoot your between the eyes.”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“Well, they found Elmore King yesterday shot between the eyes with a .45, and cold. Been dead for a couple, three days.”
“Who the hell is Elmore King?”
“Elmore “Katfish” King. Owned the Katfish King restaurants. They were going to open one up in Dolopia pretty soon.”
Only then did it hit Rusty. “Let me see that.”
Rusty didn’t have to turn the paper around. He recognized the picture upside down. Elmore King. The man who gave Rusty five thousand dollars to find his stolen two hundred fourteen pound catfish.
Rusty did his best to act bored, like he had no more interest in Elmore King. But in reality Rusty felt like he was about to be caught in some conspiracy, that he might be the last person to see Elmore King alive, that he had found himself in a very dangerous position, that he was a slow-moving target and he didn’t even know who the enemy was.
His body was trembling. He could feel it. He just hoped Ray didn’t notice it. Rusty put his hands down in his lap, in case they were noticeable shaking.
Cousin Ray was about to say something—Rusty was sure it was something about Elmore King, but something changed in the café. People were saying “hey” in a very enthusiastic way to someone. Ray looked over. Rusty turned around in the booth.
Here came Duane Pylant. Rusty was saved by a Pylant. Duane was an old classmate, fellow riverman, and for the last five years national professional bass tournament treasure. He stopped to shake a couple hands, sign a couple caps, then walked on back.
“Hey, Duane,” Rusty and Ray said to him. They all shook hands. Rusty scooted over and Duane slid in beside him. Rusty pulled the paper over toward himself.
The new girl, Leslie—Betty’s neice, Rusty thought—came over to take Duane’s order and started kissing his ass. Rusty hated that. Uptown in Dolopia, that was fine. But down here at the river it seemed unappropriate. Like Rusty, he
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