Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble

by Chris Grabenstein

  “There’s double-sided foam tape on the back,” Riley explained. “Just peel off the paper and slap it into place when nobody’s looking.”

  “Okay. But, Riley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When won’t they be looking?”

  Riley grinned. “When they’re busy looking at me and my map or Jake and his underground radar gear.”

  “Gotcha!”

  “Jake?”

  Jake raised up an ear cup. “Yeah?”

  “Let’s roll.”

  “Good luck, you guys,” said Briana, pulling out a pair of binoculars, aiming them at Riley.

  Riley tapped the side of his nose. “Wait for my signal.”

  Briana waggled the binoculars up and down.

  Riley, Mongo, and Jake walked out of the woods, heading for the eighteenth hole.

  “Hunker down, guys,” Riley whispered.

  They all hunched forward and duckwalked across the rough onto the shorter grass behind the eighteenth hole.

  “Radar scan is coming in loud and clear,” Jake whispered.

  Riley peered over Jake’s shoulder. In the small video monitor at the top of the handheld sensor, he saw what was buried under the eighteenth hole rough.

  Nothing unusual.

  “They laid in drainpipes and a layer of gravel,” whispered Jake. “Other than that, the subterranean strata situation is pretty much what you’d expect. Sod, organic material, rock. Sprinkler pipes.”

  “I didn’t think we’d find anything buried back here,” said Riley, as quietly as he could. “The construction guys said they’d wrapped up the landfill project weeks ago. So if this was the last hole they were working on, chances are, they didn’t bury anything under it.”

  Riley led the way as the threesome trudged across a shallow sand trap and started up the steeply sloped side of the small mesa that was the eighteenth hole green. As he neared the crest, Riley reached into his back pocket and pulled out his copy of the official-looking Xylodyne Dynamics treasure map Briana had worked up on her computer.

  “Okay, you guys. It’s showtime.”

  32

  RILEY, MONGO, AND JAKE STEPPED up onto the neatly trimmed grass of the green.

  Riley saw Larry seated in the elevated cab of the backhoe, about to dump another load of sugary white sand.

  Larry saw Riley, too.

  “Curly?” he shouted as he shut down his growling machinery. “Curly?”

  Curly toddled up over the lip of the ridge holding a menacing sand rake.

  Riley didn’t flinch. “Oh,” he said, quite casually. “It’s you two.”

  Mongo straightened his back and linked his hands together to crack a couple knuckles. At six two and 250 pounds, he towered over stout Curly and itty-bitty Larry.

  “You’re the hippy freak’s nephew,” said Larry, climbing out of the backhoe cab backward, like a toddler trying to dismount a merry-go-round.

  “That’s right,” said Riley.

  “Who are these other two?”

  “My friends.”

  “What are youse kids doing out here?” demanded Curly. “This is a restricted-type area back here.”

  “Yeah. We know. And we know why.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” said Riley. “You guys work for him.”

  “Him who?” demanded Larry.

  “Prescott Paxton!” Riley dramatically flapped open his fake map.

  “What’s that?”

  “This? Nothing.” He turned to Jake. “Try right here.”

  “You got it, boss.” Jake swept the radar dish back and forth across the putting green so it hovered inches above the bristly blades.

  “What’s he doing?” shouted Larry.

  As the two construction workers focused on Jake, Mongo made his way down to the backhoe perched on the lip of the sand pit.

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” said Riley.

  “Is that so?” said Curly. He raised his rake.

  “Whoa. Settle down,” said Riley, shooting up both of his hands. “Remember: anger is one letter short of danger.”

  “What’s on that piece of paper?”

  Riley shot a quick look from one thug to the other just in time to see Mongo stick the GPS tracker under the backhoe’s seat.

  “You heard my friend, kid,” said Larry. “What’s on that paper?”

  “What paper?”

  “The one in your freaking hands!” shouted Curly, raising his rake again.

  Mongo hiked back up the hill to grab the tool on the backswing. He plucked it away.

  “Play nice. You could put someone’s eye out with this thing.”

  “Gimme back my rake, you big galoot!”

  “Not until you prove to me that you know how to use it.”

  “That’s it,” squealed Larry. “We’re callin’ the cops. Youse kids are trespassing here.”

  “Hey, take it easy,” said Riley. “We’re willing to share.”

  “Share?”

  “Sure. From what Sara says, there’s enough buried out here for everybody.”

  “Not here though,” reported Jake as he flicked a switch to make his radar gear beep and blip like an incoming UFO.

  “What’s that nerd doin’ with that metal detector?” insisted Larry.

  “It’s not a metal detector,” explained Jake. “It’s underground radar gear.” He turned to Riley. “There’s nothing here worth digging up.”

  Riley consulted his map. “You think this intel is bad?”

  “Might be.”

  “Give me that map!” Larry snatched the paper out of Riley’s hands. “Hey, Curly—check it out. There’s a Xylodyne logo on this thing.”

  Curly shuffled over and read the title printed across the top: “Retrievables Recovery Plan.”

  “Darn it!” Riley said to Jake. “Sara promised us.”

  “Who’s Sara?” asked Larry.

  “Mr. Paxton’s daughter.”

  “The bratty blond?”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “She dropped by the construction site once or twice to poke fun at us,” said Curly, making a face like he was remembering the time he accidentally ate dog poop.

  “Called us Munchkins,” said Larry.

  “Garden gnomes,” added Curly.

  “Shorty McShorts’ Shorts.”

  Riley pretended to be shocked. “No! How come?”

  “We’re short, kid. Vertically challenged.”

  “But that don’t mean we like hearing about it,” said Curly.

  “Of course not,” said Riley. “Well, anyway, Sara is mad at her father. She wanted a flock of doves to fly in and land on her arms when she sings her big number at the talent show tomorrow night.”

  Curly nodded. “Sure. Like in Vegas.”

  “I guess. But, Mr. Paxton, he’s all worried about the health code, so he won’t let her rent the trained birds. To get back at him, Sara stole this treasure map out of his briefcase.”

  “Treasure?”

  “Yeah. Her father buried a ton of gold coins underneath the ninth hole. But now . . .” Riley flapped a hand toward Jake. “The radar says there’s nothing here.”

  “The ninth hole?” said Larry.

  “Yeah.”

  “Kid? You know how to read?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s that flag say?”

  “Nine.”

  “Try again, Einstein.”

  “Nine,” said Riley. “Because one plus eight equals nine.”

  “That’s an eighteen!”

  “Huh?”

  “A one next to an eight? That’s eighteen! No wonder Korea’s beating America on all them math scores.”

  “We’re on the wrong hole?” said Jake.

  “I guess,” said Riley.

  “This ‘Retrievables Recovery Plan,’” Curly said to Larry as they both studied Briana’s topographical masterpiece, “means Mr. Paxton was planning on coming back to retrieve all them sacks we bu
ried in the so-called landfill for him!”

  Score, thought Riley. We have confirmation.

  Mr. Paxton had definitely buried something underneath the golf course.

  Riley touched the side of his nose. His cue to Briana.

  “That no-good weasel,” said Larry. “If we knew what was inside them black trash bags we was burying . . .”

  Riley’s cell phone started chirping.

  “That’s Sara’s ringtone,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello? What? No way! Jamal Wilson? Thanks for the heads up!” He thumbed the off button and slid the phone back into his pocket. “Come on, you guys. Sara’s up at the country club. She just saw Jamal Wilson heading for the ninth hole!”

  “Whoa,” shouted Larry. “Not so fast. Who’s this Jamal Wilson individual?”

  “Our competition. He’s already out there—stealing our gold!”

  33

  RILEY LED THE MAD DASH back to the golf cart.

  Mongo, Jake, Larry, and Curly were right behind him.

  “We have a cart stashed in the woods!” Riley shouted over his shoulder.

  “Good!” said Larry, who was huffing and puffing ten yards back.

  Curly was having an even harder time running and breathing at the same time. Both construction workers were totally out of shape.

  Riley reached the forest first and had a few seconds to check in with Briana.

  “Did you cue Jamal?” he asked.

  “Right after we hung up.”

  “Cool. Okay, we’ll meet you back at Jake’s place in like an hour.”

  “I’ll record that security-guard track you need for later.”

  “Awesome. And Bree?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks!”

  She shot Riley a wink and took off through the trees.

  Riley hopped into the golf cart and turned the key. He figured he’d drive down and pick up the adults.

  It’d be faster than waiting for them to run up the hill or have a heart attack—whichever came first.

  “You see,” said Jake, “gold is the one sure investment.”

  “I know,” said Larry, who had squeezed into the backseat of the golf cart with Jake and Curly. “I seen ads on TV.”

  “So,” asked Curly, “how’d this Jamal character get his hands on Mr. Paxton’s treasure map?”

  “He stole it!” blurted Mongo, riding up front in the passenger seat. Mongo sounded nervous because he hated it when a plan included him having to memorize lines.

  “Jamal,” Mongo said, taking it from the top a second time. “The map. He stole it. From Sara.”

  “At the copy shop,” prompted Riley.

  “At the coffee shop!” said Mongo. “I will pound him.”

  “Not if I get my hands on him first!” said Larry.

  “Yeah, we’re the ones who buried the gold,” added Curly. “Diggers keepers, losers weepers!”

  Oh-kay. Riley had never heard that particular spin on the phrase before.

  He nudged Mongo with his knee.

  “No! Jamal. Is. Mine!” Mongo turned to glare at the two construction workers.

  Larry and Curly held up their hands.

  “Whoa. Take it easy, big fellow,” said Larry.

  “We don’t mean no disrespect here,” echoed Curly.

  Riley patted Mongo on the knee to let his friend know he could relax. His scripted lines were over.

  “Hang on to your hardhats, everybody,” said Riley, steering the cart off the path and into the forest fringing the ninth hole. “I’m ditching the cart. We don’t want anybody up at the club sticking their noses into our business.”

  As the cart careened across the rough, Larry and Curly held on to their jouncing yellow helmets. Riley glanced to the right and saw Jamal using his plastic sand bucket and shovel to send up a cloud of gritty dust. His actions in the sand trap were hidden from the clubhouse by the grassy knoll of the elevated hole.

  Riley slammed on the brakes. Mongo bounded out of the cart.

  “I’m gonna lay down the hurt!” Arms flailing, he raced toward the sand trap.

  “Let’s go cream this Jamal kid,” said Larry after he and Curly had crawled out of the cart.

  Riley placed a hand on the short man’s shoulder. “Give Mongo a minute.” He head-gestured toward the ninth hole.

  Larry and Curly looked over. All they could see were puffs of sand being flung up from the sunken pit.

  “Where’s Mongo?”

  “My guess?” said Riley. “On top of Jamal. Pummeling him.”

  In truth, Riley knew that both Mongo and Jamal were currently lying on their backs, tossing fistfuls of sand into the air to make it look like they were furiously fighting.

  “Your friend Mongo. He has anger issues. Am I right?”

  “Big-time. Jake? Grab your gear. It’s time to check out the mother lode.”

  When they reached the sand trap, Mongo had Jamal pinned flat on his back.

  “Get off me, you boorish bruiser!” said Jamal, kicking and squirming.

  “Hello, Wilson,” said Riley, straddling the edge of the sand trap with his arms akimbo.

  “Riley Mack?” said Jamal, pretending to be terrified.

  “In the flesh. I understand you took something that didn’t belong to you.”

  “Ha! Says who?”

  “Sara Paxton.”

  Larry strutted forward to sneer down at Jamal. “We hear you stole her daddy’s treasure map outta the coffee shop.”

  Jamal glanced at Riley.

  Riley made a face to say, Go with it.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I boosted it while she was enjoying a grande mocha latte with double whip.” Jamal stood and dusted himself off.

  A shiny gold coin fell out of his hand.

  “What’s that?” said Curly.

  Mongo snatched the gold piece off the ground. “An American Eagle Gold coin!”

  “Where’d you find it, Jamal?” said Riley.

  “Down that hole.” He flexed out the fingers on both his hands, the way a magician does to prove he has nothing up his sleeve. Then he reached into the two-foot deep pit. “Here’s another one.”

  Yep. Instead of pulling a coin out of an ear, he pulled it out of the sand.

  “Jake?” said Riley. “Scan the sand trap. Record the visual on digital.”

  “On it,” said Jake.

  “So, Wilson—any more gold down in that hole?” asked Riley.

  “Probably,” said Jamal. “See, my father, Ahab, he’s in the treasure-reclamation business. He always says, ‘Son, where you find one gold coin, you’ll find another.’ Why, I remember deep-sea diving in the Bermuda Triangle, searching for sunken treasure near the wreckage of a Spanish galleon, the HMS Pinafore. The shark-infested waters were murky . . .”

  Riley glanced at his watch. He knew Jamal could go on for hours.

  “How about this hole? Any more gold in this hole?”

  “Hand me my sand bucket and I’ll show you.”

  Riley tossed the bright-red bucket over to Jamal, who proceeded to reach down into the hole a dozen more times and plunk a dozen gold coins in the plastic bucket.

  “That’s it,” said Jamal. “That’s all the coins that floated up to the surface after we had all those heavy rains.”

  Riley waited for just a second.

  He wanted to make sure that Larry and Curly were dumb enough to believe gold could float.

  Yep. They were.

  Neither one of them said a word. They just stood there nodding like Bob the Builder bobblehead dolls.

  But Riley could tell: their mental wheels were spinning. The two construction workers were trying to figure out how they could dig up the ninth hole and steal all the gold—for themselves!

  34

  “LOOKS LIKE XYLODYNE BURIED A bunch of stuff right here,” said Jake, as he held the radar disc over the sand trap.

  Riley glanced over at Larry and Curly. The two men were keeping mum. Pouting out their lower lips.
Sniffing. Twitching.

  Yep. Another confirmation. They knew exactly where they had buried a big stack of whatever toxic chemicals Mr. Paxton and Xylodyne didn’t want anybody to know about.

  Jake’s radar gear was blipping and blooping. “It almost looks like a pile of plastic garbage bags stacked on top of one another, maybe six feet below the surface.”

  “I bet all those garbage bags are stuffed with gold coins!” said Jamal.

  Larry turned to Curly. “That’s why those sacks were so freaking heavy!”

  “Shhh!” said Curly. Shaking his head. Miming for Larry to dummy up.

  “This is fantastic!” said Riley. “We should come back, late at night, when it’s too dark for the country-club security cameras to see what we’re doing!”

  Larry and Curly probably didn’t realize it, but they were both nodding.

  “You guys could do the digging with your backhoe,” Riley said. “But you’ll need short people to crawl down into the hole to retrieve the gold.”

  Now Larry and Curly were nodding and smiling.

  They had both just realized that, for the first time in their lives, being small would be a big advantage.

  “That’s where we come in,” said Riley. “You dig. We climb down and mine for gold. We split everything, fifty-fifty.”

  “You’re clever, kid,” said Larry.

  “Thanks. So do we have a deal?”

  “What about all them gold coins in the sand bucket?” said Curly.

  “Those are mine!” said Mongo.

  “My friend is correct,” said Riley. “Since you gentlemen were in no way responsible for the retrieval of these particular assets, you are not entitled to that fifty-fifty split, which we were discussing for all future extractions.”

  “Sure, kid,” said Curly. “Seems fair. Right, Larry?”

  “Sure, sure. No problem.”

  Riley knew they were pretending to play along, but secretly itching for the kids to leave.

  Larry cocked a thumb toward Jamal. “Shouldn’t youse three take this Jamal character somewheres quiet and work him over so he don’t blab about our plan to his sidekicks?”

  “You’re right! Mongo? Haul Jamal and that bucket of gold coins back to the golf cart. Jake? Take a reading on top of the green. We may want to dig it up later, too.”