“Hang on,” said Riley as a car appeared down at the front gate and crawled up the long driveway.
Riley squinted. It was a pretty nondescript automobile. White. Standard grille and bumpers. Probably a Ford.
“Ah,” said Mr. Paxton. “Here he comes.”
“Who is it?” Briana whispered to Riley.
“Can’t tell. Not yet.”
Finally a small, bald man in glasses climbed out of the plain white car. He looked like a timid mouse with a driver’s license.
“Hello, Irving,” said Mr. Paxton.
“Prescott.” The two men shook hands. Well, Mr. Paxton pumped while Mr. Kleinman more or less flopped along with every jerk of his arm. “I must say, I was rather surprised to receive your invitation. . . .”
“You’re free Saturday night, I trust?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. I have no conflicts. No plans. Seldom do on a Saturday night . . .”
“Excellent!”
“But, well, truth be told, I’ve never judged a talent contest before.”
“Have you ever seen American Idol?”
“Once. I was visiting my mother and she had it on.”
“Then you know how it’s done. Let’s step inside, shall we? We can discuss the details of your duties with Carol Goans and Kristen Lamoreaux.”
Mr. Kleinman fidgeted with his glasses. “Who are they?”
“Two of the young women on the program committee. Both recently divorced, which gives them more time to volunteer. They’re inside and can’t wait to meet you.”
“Really?” Mr. Kleinman laughed like an asthmatic donkey.
Paxton snapped his fingers. “Boys? Take care of Mr. Kleinman’s car.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Paxton. Right away, sir.”
Both parking attendants trotted over to take the shy guy’s keys.
Kleinman handed off his keys with another wheezy donkey laugh. “Enjoy the ride, fellows. But remember—it’s a government vehicle. If you exceed the posted speed limit, it’s considered a federal offense.”
First clue, thought Riley. Mr. Kleinman works for the federal government.
The second clue came two seconds later.
20
AS MR. PAXTON ESCORTED MR. Kleinman toward the country club doors, the parking guy goosed the little white car and whipped it into a sharp left turn.
Riley and Briana could both clearly see the decal plastered on the passenger-side door: a stylized green flower, with two leaves, its round head filled with wavy blue water, flat green earth, and baby-blue sky.
The flower graphic was encircled by these words: UNITED STATES ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION AGENCY.
“He’s with the EPA,” gasped Briana. She was so shocked, she dropped the golf balls she’d been pretending to sort. They ping-ponged and hopscotched across the asphalt.
One ball bounded to the left and bonked Mr. Paxton in his butt.
He turned around to pick it up.
Riley dropped his eyes. He didn’t want to be recognized.
“Is this your ball, ma’am?” Mr. Paxton called from across the parking lot.
Now Riley heard footsteps.
“Irving,” Riley heard Mr. Paxton say, “why don’t you wait inside with the ladies?”
“Okay,” said Kleinman, snorting out another donkey laugh.
The footsteps drew closer.
In fact, they scuffed to a stop right behind the golf cart.
Riley, his head still bowed, could see the shiny tips of Mr. Paxton’s shoes.
“Here you are, ma’am.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Riley saw Mr. Paxton plop the dimpled white ball into the palm of Briana’s hand.
“You know, Briana, the next time you play dress-up, you should remember to apply wrinkles to your hands as well as your face. And, if you’re going to give yourself a grandson, I suspect you can do better than Riley Mack, who, I recently learned, is a well-known troublemaker around town.”
Briana’s hand started to tremble.
Riley’s did not.
He looked up, smiled his goofiest grin, and said, “Aren’t these amazing costumes, Mr. Paxton? What are Sara and the Starlettes wearing?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is Briana’s costume for the talent show Saturday night!”
Briana mouthed a silent “Wha-huh?”
Mr. Paxton arched a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re in the finals, Briana? Sara informed me that you missed the audition at school.”
“But then Tony Peroni heard her sing,” said Riley, “and—BOOM! She’s his wild-card pick. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Nyes,” said Mr. Paxton.
“She’s thinking about doing that old Beatles song. You know: ‘When I’m Sixty-Four.’”
“I am?” whispered Briana.
“Sure. It’ll be totally hilarious when you sing it dressed up as an old lady dancing with her walker. So, what are Sara and her group doing for the show?”
“Something a bit more patriotic,” Mr. Paxton answered coldly. “In keeping with the evening’s theme.”
“Cool!” said Riley. “I’m sure my mom and the general will love that!”
“Nyes. Does your mother know you’re running around town, stirring up more trouble?”
“Trouble? She’s the one who asked us to swing by and see what kind of dress you think she should buy for Saturday night when that Pentagon general’s in town. You still want the general to meet the local war hero’s wife, right?”
Mr. Paxton blinked. Several times.
“Nothing formal. Whatever she is comfortable wearing I’m certain will be fine.”
“And how about me? Is this a good look for me?”
“You look preposterous.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“No. Lose the ascot and the wig.”
“Gotcha. Less ‘Richie Rich,’ more ‘Peter Preppy.’ Thanks!”
Mr. Paxton turned to Briana. “Congratulations on earning the wild-card slot. However, you should know: We have hired Sara and her chums a choreographer. A Broadway choreographer.”
“Really?” said Riley. “Are they going to be the witches from Wicked?”
“No, Mr. Mack. They are going to win. Therefore, Miss Bloomfield, I suggest you withdraw from the competition and spare yourself any further embarrassment. Good day, children.”
Mr. Paxton tromped triumphantly back into the country club.
“Man,” said Riley when he was gone, “I am so glad we did not contact the EPA. That Kleinman guy is probably on Paxton’s payroll, too.”
“Nyes,” said Briana, mimicking Mr. Paxton perfectly. “I suggest you withdraw from the ichthycide investigation, Mr. Mack, and spare yourself any further embarrassment.”
“Wow,” said Riley. “You nailed him!”
It was Briana’s turn to shrug. “No biggie. He’s such a pompous windbag, his voice is extra easy to imitate.”
Wheels started spinning in Riley’s head. “Could you do it again?”
“Nyes, dear. But of course.”
“Excellent. We might need it.”
“For what?”
“For what we’re gonna do next!”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, I might be busy.”
“Huh?”
“Riley, you just told the president of the country club that I’m singing a Beatles song in old-age makeup on Saturday night.”
“I think it would be cool.”
“Riley? I don’t know any Beatles songs!”
“Okay, skip the Beatles. You could be . . . Fairview’s very own Rapping Granny!”
“You mean that old lady who was on America’s Got Talent?”
“Yep. It’s granny time!”
“Fabtastic!” said Briana. “Granny is in the house!”
Then she popped mouth noises the whole cart ride back to Mongo’s.
21
RILEY HAD AN IDEA OF what he should do next but
he wanted to run it by his father first.
Since bumping into Mr. Paxton and Mr. Kleinman, he had cooked up a scheme to get adults to contact the EPA about the water pollution.
Lots of adults.
It was almost 10 p.m. in Fairview, which meant it was almost 6:30 a.m. tomorrow in Afghanistan. Riley had his laptop fired up and would video-link with his father at 22 hundred hours on the dot, which was military talk for 10:00 p.m.
Outside, it was pouring. Rain pattered on the roof and slashed against the windowpanes. This much rain meant there would be a ton of water racing downhill from the golf course toward Schuyler’s Pond.
And that meant there would, most likely, be a ton more dead fish floating in the creek tomorrow morning.
Riley’s mom stuck her head in his bedroom door.
“You getting ready to call your dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Say hi for me, hon.”
“You want to talk to him first?”
“Nope. I get him all to myself at twenty-three hundred hours.”
Riley gave his mom a two-finger salute. “Roger that, Mom.”
She saluted right back. “Over and out. Have fun.”
She pulled his door shut. His mom and dad both thought it was very important that Riley be able to talk to his father in private on a regular basis. “Just in case there’s any guy stuff you two need to talk about,” his mom always said.
Riley waited until the glowing red digits in his bedside alarm clock flipped from 9:59 to 10:00.
He pushed the return key, placing the call.
The videoconferencing software did its thing. A grainy window opened, the boxy pixels coming together to create the digital image of a soldier in chocolate-chip camo.
“Hey, Da—”
Riley did not finish that thought.
The soldier on the screen wasn’t his father.
“Um, I think I have a wrong number or something,” said Riley.
“Negative,” said the soldier. “Riley, I’m Sergeant Kenny Lorincz. I have the distinct honor of serving in Colonel Mack’s Ranger battalion. Unfortunately, your father will be unable to chat with you today.”
“Is he okay?”
“Roger that. However, several of our troops are not.”
Riley winced a little when the soldier said that. “Did they get hurt in a firefight or something?”
“No, sir. We are currently bivouacked on base. Getting three hot meals a day. Taking showers.”
“Oh. Well, that sounds good. . . .”
“Agreed. It sounds excellent. However, the chow being served in the dining hall isn’t agreeing with some of our men.”
“Too spicy or something?”
“Your father suspects some of the food is tainted. We have several men who need to be evacuated out for non-combat-related illnesses. Nausea, vomiting, fever, chills. Couple guys have developed kidney stones. Extremely painful situation.”
“What happened?” asked Riley. “Did the enemy sneak into the mess hall and put poison in all your food or something?”
“Too early to speculate, Riley. However, your father is determined to uncover the truth, no matter who tries to stop him. He will not rest until this issue is resolved.”
Riley grinned. Like father, like son.
“Is there anything I might be able to help you with tonight?” asked the sergeant. “Do you have homework? I’m quite good with algebra. Very bad with spelling and punctuation.”
“School’s out for the summer.”
“Outstanding.”
“There is one thing.”
“Yes?”
“You ever hear of a General Joseph C. Clarke?” Riley had hoped to ask his father that question.
“Hang on,” said Sergeant Lorincz. He swiveled away from the laptop at his end to tap on a keyboard attached to a second computer. “I’m checking our personnel database via a secure satellite uplink,” he said over his shoulder. “Here we go.” The sergeant swiveled back to face Riley. “Can I ask why you need to know this information, Mr. Mack?”
“It’s for a, um, a project.”
“I thought you said school was out for the summer.”
“Yeah. It is. This is more like a personal project. For my mom. She has to meet this General Clarke at a ‘salute the troops’–type dinner at Brookhaven Country Club this weekend.”
“And you want to help her out, let her know how she can make table talk with the general?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“I see now why your father is always bragging about you.”
“He is?”
“Twenty-four/seven.”
Riley blushed. Just a little.
“Tell your mother that General Joseph C. Clarke serves out of the Pentagon as chief procurement officer for the United States Army’s Near East military operations.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Riley.
“He’s an extremely important pencil pusher. Buys all the stuff we need out here in the field. Blankets, uniforms, tents, food. Everything. If you want to do business with Uncle Sam, you need to do business with General Joseph C. Clarke first.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool. Thanks, Sergeant Lorincz.”
“My pleasure. One more thing, Riley.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I have the unwelcome duty of informing you that your father will be unable to link up with you or your mother for a period of several days; not until, as he put it, he ‘gets to the bottom of this mess hall mess.’”
“I understand. You guys have enough to worry about over there. You shouldn’t have to worry about your food trying to kill you, too!”
“Roger that. Will you pass on word to your mother as to our situation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Appreciate it.”
Riley saluted the computer screen as the soldier’s image faded out of view.
“Poor Dad,” he mumbled.
It sounded like the food over in Afghanistan was even worse than the slop in the school cafeteria.
22
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, RILEY and his crew gathered once again in Jake Lowenstein’s basement.
The heavy rains had stopped around two or three in the morning. Now the sun was out and shining bright.
“I’ve cooked up a little scheme I call Operation Water Hazard,” Riley said to his assembled troops.
“Lay it on us,” said Jamal.
Riley untied the string clasp on an interoffice envelope his mom had brought home from her job at the bank and dumped out its contents on a worktable.
“I wrote down everybody’s assignments on index cards.” He handed one to Briana. “Work on your imitation of Mr. Paxton. Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“I need you and Jamal to help Bree out.” He handed them both cards. “Search the internet. See if you can find voice recordings of Mr. Paxton.”
“Should be easy,” said Jamal. “Big blowhard like that? He’s probably out there all the time, pontificating profusely. Ya’all know what pontificating means?”
“Yes,” said Briana. “‘To speak in a pompous manner.’ Just like you.”
“I am not pompous, Briana. I am precise.”
“You guys?” said Riley. “Fish are dying out there. Our swimming hole is totally polluted. Work with me.”
“Sorry,” said Briana.
“I also express remorse for my pedantic proclivities,” said Jamal.
“Huh?” said Mongo.
“He means he’s sorry,” said Briana.
“I found some intel on Mr. Paxton,” said Jake.
“Already?” said Riley. “Excellent! What can you tell us?”
“He’s not only president of the Brookhaven Country Club, he’s chairman and chief executive officer of Xylodyne Dynamics.”
“Xylodyne is humassive!” said Briana.
“Yes,” said Jake. “They have operations in more than seventy countries, hundreds of subsidiaries, affiliates, branches, divisions. . . .�
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“They’re like their own country,” said Mongo.
“Probably have their own army,” said Briana. “My parents are always going to anti-Xylodyne rallies and protests.”
“And,” said Jake, “Xylodyne does about a bajillion dollars in business with the Pentagon.”
“Well,” said Riley, “that explains why Mr. Paxton is trying to brownnose General Joseph C. Clarke: he’s the guy who signs the bajillion-dollar checks.”
“But why’s he kissing the EPA’s butt?” asked Jamal.
“Probably because he knows his golf course renovations are responsible for what’s happening down in that creek. Mongo?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re with me.” He handed Mongo a card.
Jamal raised his hand. “Um, Riley?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s with the note cards, man?”
“I dunno. Mr. Phelps always had an envelope with junk stuffed in it on Mission Impossible.”
“He did!” gushed Briana. “This is so cool. We’re like our own TV-show-slash-major-motion-picture franchise. Some day, an actress will play me: an actress playing people who aren’t me!”
“But my card is blank,” said Mongo.
“Yeah,” said Riley. “Sorry. My hand kind of cramped up on me after a few cards. Anyway, you’re with me. We’re heading back to the creek to see if we can ID the source of this pollution.”
“Okay,” said Mongo. “I’ll write creek on my card in case we get split up or something.”
“Good idea. Jake?”
“Yes, Mr. Phelps? What is my mission, should I choose to accept it?”
“Lock onto the GPS chip in my cell phone.”
“No problem.”
“Track us.”
“Still no problem.”
“Overlay our position on that topographical map of the creek and country club; let us know if we leave the watershed contours. Jamal?”
“Yo?”
“I need to borrow your lock-picking tools.”
Luckily, Jamal had been an excellent instructor.
Riley inserted a stainless-steel file from his younger friend’s leather kit into the padlock, flicked it a couple times, and popped open the hasp.
“We’re in,” he whispered to Mongo, who had grabbed Jake’s aluminum baseball bat “just in case we run into somebody besides dead fish.”
Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble Page 8