Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble

by Chris Grabenstein

  “No. You get out of mine.”

  “Fine. I will!” Her face burning bright red, Briana stormed out of the ballroom.

  Riley stood on the stage shaking his head.

  “What’s wrong, Riley?” Sara said coyly. “Girl trouble?”

  “Ah, Briana thinks I’m stupid for saying she should go on last.”

  “Oh, ja,” said the choreographer. “Last is always best. Leave them with the big bang.”

  “Plus,” said Riley, “she won’t sing this song!”

  He whipped out the sheet music he had downloaded.

  “What is it?” asked Sara.

  “Only General Joseph C. Clarke’s favorite song in the whole world.” He handed the paper to Sara. “The general is one of the judges.”

  “I know that,” said Sara, studying the song’s lyrics. “‘Mix a pancake, stir a pancake, pop it in the pan?’”

  “It’s a British nursery rhyme from like the eighteen-hundreds.”

  “So?”

  “General Clarke’s mother, who was British, used to sing it to him every night before she tucked him in!”

  “Really?” Sara sounded skeptical.

  “How do you know this?” asked the choreographer.

  “Because my dad’s in the army! Everybody in the army knows General Clarke’s favorite song.”

  “It is a classic,” gushed the accompanist. “And, well, the choreography simply leaps off the page!”

  “Ja,” said the choreographer, miming someone stirring a pot, then flipping a spatula.

  Sara glared at Riley hard. Brooke and Kaylie were right behind her, glowering over her shoulder. “How do we know you’re telling the truth, Riley Mack?”

  “Look, you guys, it’s your call. Jake and I even worked up this awesome video montage for the pancake song. It’s way better than the video Briana put together for her stupid Shrek number.”

  Sara’s jaw dropped. “Briana has a video?”

  “Well, duh. Just about everybody in the competition will be singing to a video!”

  “We’ll sing ‘The Pancake Song,’” said Sara. “And we want your video, too.”

  “But—”

  “You want me to beat Briana, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned on her heel. “Mr. Holtz?” she shouted. “Please tell Tony Peroni that we will be singing ‘The Pancake Song’ instead of ‘God Bless America.’”

  Mr. Holtz looked up from his sound-control board, holding a jumbled tangle of wires. “What?”

  Sara stomped her foot. “‘The Pancake Song’ is ours and we’re going on last and Riley Mack’s running video for us and if you say no I’m calling home right now and telling my daddy to cancel this whole stupid show and don’t think I won’t do it either!”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  Sara, Brooke, and Kaylie—followed by their entire production crew—swept out of the ballroom.

  The speakers buzzed to life.

  “Test, test, test,” said Jake into a cordless microphone, his voice echoing around the room. “We’re good to go, Mr. Holtz.”

  “Let us know if you require further technical assistance,” added Jamal.

  Then the two of them ambled across the ballroom to join Riley.

  “Mr. Holtz asked me to run the sound board tonight,” said Jake. “Tony Peroni makes him nervous.”

  Riley grinned. “Sweet. Our work here is done. Come on, Jamal. We need to go check out Mr. Paxton’s office. See if he still has the groundskeeper’s camera in his drawers.”

  “You mean his desk?” said Jamal.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good because I sure don’t want to go looking for a camera in that stuck-up old fart’s underpants.”

  41

  RILEY LED JAMAL AND JAKE down the wood-paneled corridors.

  “Hang on,” said Jake, putting his hand to the Bluetooth listening device in his ear. “It’s Mongo.”

  “What’s his status?” asked Riley as he scanned the doorways, looking for a plaque that said MR. PAXTON, PRESIDENT, or CHIEF POISON PEDDLER—something like that.

  “The rolling floodlight tower is right where it’s supposed to be. The backhoe, too. No sign of Curly and Larry.”

  “Good,” said Riley.

  “Since there’s no one around, Mongo’s going to haul the floodlight cart closer to the fairway.”

  “Works for me,” said Riley.

  “Now he’s grunting,” reported Jake.

  “Huh?” said Jamal.

  “Diesel-powered generators with collapsible light towers on top of heavy-duty trailer frames weigh as much as a small truck,” said Jake.

  Riley nodded. Larry and Curly probably hauled the lights around the golf course with a bulldozer or a team of mules. Riley and his crew had something even stronger: Mongo.

  “Here it is, Riley Mack,” said Jamal, pointing to a brass sign with COUNTRY CLUB PRESIDENT engraved on it. Jamal’s hand immediately went to the doorknob. “Locked.”

  “Can you get us in?”

  “Does bacon sizzle in a skillet?” Jamal crouched down and examined the doorjamb. “No deadbolt.” He pulled a plastic card out of his wallet.

  “You have a credit card?” said Jake.

  “Nah, man. This was our motel room key at Disney World. They said I could keep it as a souvenir.”

  Jamal slid the key card down the crack between the door and the frame. When it was parallel with the doorknob, he angled it in and pushed until it slid some more.

  “Got it.”

  “Hang on,” said Riley. “No sense all of us risking this.”

  “Risking what?” said Jamal.

  “Getting caught breaking and entering.”

  “Oh. Right. This is illegal.”

  “Well, what about selling poisoned pancake mix to the army?” asked Jake.

  “Oh, that’s illegal, too,” said Jamal. “Just aren’t any cops looking out for it on a daily basis, is all.”

  “We need to move fast,” said Riley. “There could be security cameras back here.”

  “Not to worry,” said Jake. “I’ve been checking for surveillance equipment ever since we left the ballroom. We’re clear.”

  “Good to know,” said Riley. “Okay, Jake—meet us at my house in thirty minutes. If we find any incriminating photographs on Mr. Sowicky’s camera, we’ll work them into Sara’s music video.”

  “About that video,” said Jamal. “How are we gonna pull that off?”

  “Easy,” said Jake. “Head to YouTube. Search for ‘Pancake Song.’ Download a couple clips.”

  “Exactly,” said Riley. “See you in thirty minutes.”

  “Unless, of course, we get busted,” said Jamal. “Then, we’ll see you in like thirty years, if we get time off for good behavior, which, you know, may not happen, seeing as how everybody keeps calling us ‘troublemakers.’”

  Riley arched his eyebrows. “Jamal?”

  “Sorry, man,” said Jamal. “Nerves.”

  “Go,” Riley said to Jake.

  “Right.” Jake stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and shuffled back up the hallway.

  “Let’s do it,” Riley said to Jamal.

  “Doing it,” said Jamal, leaning his small shoulder against the door, pushing it open.

  They stepped into the office.

  Riley eased the door shut. “Check out the top drawer.”

  “It’s locked,” said Jamal as he slipped on a sleek pair of black leather gloves and started checking out the various leather cups and penholders on top of Mr. Paxton’s desk. “Forgot to pack my lock-picking tools.”

  “But you brought your gloves?”

  “These are my batting gloves. In case we decided to, you know, get up a game today.” He rattled the executive desk set’s pencil cup. “Score.”

  “What is it?”

  “Paper clip and paper clamp. I’m gonna improvise a lock pick.”

  While Jamal took apart the clamp and bent the clip, Riley
pressed his ear to the door.

  “Anybody coming?” asked Jamal as he worked the straightened paper clip into the small desk lock and used one V from the clamp for sideways torque.

  “Yeah. I hear footsteps. Whistling.”

  “Whistling isn’t good,” said Jamal, furiously manipulating the tiny levers. “Whistling usually means it’s a security guard.”

  The drawer lock popped open.

  “Got it.”

  Riley moved away from the door, leaned across the desk. “Is there a camera inside?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Power it up. Check out the screen.”

  Jamal did. Unfortunately, the camera came to life with a jolly “ba-ba-bling!” sound.

  “Shhh!” said Riley.

  Jamal thumbed some controls. Flipped the camera around so Riley could check the screen.

  It was a photograph of a dump truck loaded down with black trash bags.

  There was a XYLODYNE DYNAMICS decal on the door.

  “Busted!” said Riley.

  The door flew open.

  Jamal hid the camera behind his back.

  Riley spun around.

  The whistler was a security guard.

  “Riley?”

  “Um, hi, Sergeant Chambliss.”

  Fortunately, it was Godfather #24. Chick Chambliss. The former soldier who used to be in his dad’s army battalion.

  “What’re you boys doing back here? This is the club president’s office.”

  “Yeah,” said Riley, thinking fast. “Mr. Paxton asked us to grab his camera.”

  Jamal smiled and held up the digital camera.

  Mr. Chambliss’s steely-eyed scowl softened. Slightly.

  “His daughter’s in the talent show,” explained Jamal.

  “Mr. Paxton wanted us to get some snapshots of the dress rehearsal for him,” said Riley.

  “Which is just about over,” said Jamal.

  Mr. Chambliss stepped aside and pointed toward the open door. “Then hustle, men. Hustle!”

  Riley shot him a two-finger salute off his eyebrow. “Yes, sir, sir!”

  He and Jamal ran down the hall, around the corner, past the ballroom, through the 19th Hole Lounge, across the outdoor dining deck, onto the fairway, and into the woods. In fact, they didn’t stop running until they reached the shady spot in a clump of trees where they had hidden their bikes.

  Then they pedaled hard and fast, heading for Riley’s house.

  They had photographs to download and edit into a music video all about pancakes smothered with toxic chemicals instead of butter and syrup!

  42

  MORE FOOTAGE FOR THE VIDEO arrived at five p.m. (or one thirty in the morning, Afghanistan time).

  “I was able to rouse a couple of the cooks,” said Sergeant Lorincz, his grainy image flickering inside the videoconference box on Riley’s laptop. “Hauled them out of their bunks. Explained the situation. One guy even took me to his pantry. They still had an unopened sack of Protein-Power Pancake Mix sitting on the shelves.”

  “Is it from Mobile Meal Manufacturing?”

  “Roger that. I zoomed in tight for a close-up on the label. That link working for the footage?”

  “Downloading it now, sir,” reported Jake from over at Riley’s homework table where he was working laptop number two.

  “Good. You’ll hear these cooks say they’ve been serving these Protein-Power Pancakes for more than a year.”

  “Did you confiscate any powder?”

  Sergeant Lorincz grinned. “Roger that, Mr. Mack. I then turned it over to a bomb guy I know who’s an expert in all kinds of chemical analysis. I, of course, assumed that was what you would do.”

  “Outstanding.”

  “We’re good to go on this end,” the sergeant continued. “Your father’s advocate will have the internet connection up and running at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

  Riley did the math in his head one more time: with an eight-and-a-half-hour time difference, Larry and Curly had to be digging up the golf course with their backhoe by ten thirty Fairview time so his dad’s defenders could show it to the judge (or whatever the military had) as soon as the hearing started.

  “Okay, Sergeant,” said Riley. “Thanks for going the extra mile for my dad.”

  “Any of his men would, Riley. Colonel Richard Mack is a rare and remarkable leader.”

  “Just like his son,” said Jamal, leaning in so the laptop camera could capture his smiling face. “Semper Fi, Sergeant. Semper Fi.”

  Sergeant Lorincz chuckled. “That’s the marines’ motto, mister.”

  “I know sir,” said Jamal. “It means ‘always faithful.’ I looked it up.”

  “We’re army, not marines.”

  “Oh. Let me get back to you on that . . .”

  “Okay, Sergeant Lorincz,” said Riley. “We gotta go. Tell my dad we won’t let him down.”

  “Will do, Riley. See you at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

  “Riley?”

  Riley whipped around.

  His mother was standing in the doorway.

  Judging from the horrified look on her face, she’d been standing there for a while.

  “Um, well, I gotta go . . .” Riley said to the computer screen. “See you in school on Monday, Sarge.”

  He slapped down the lid on his laptop.

  “Hey, Mom. You’re home early.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Oh, this guy from school. Scott Sargensky. We all call him ‘Sarge.’”

  “What’s going on, Riley? Is your father in some kind of trouble? Was that Sergeant Lorincz?”

  Riley sighed.

  He could not lie to his mother.

  Especially not about something this huge.

  It was time to add a new member to his crew.

  “Yeah, Mom. It’s bad. And, we’re gonna need your help.”

  Riley quickly brought his mother up to speed.

  He told her everything.

  About the dead fish, and the polluted water, and the high levels of nitrogen in the watershed, and how Mr. Paxton was trying to kiss up to the EPA by asking Mr. Kleinman to be a judge at the talent show, and how they had found poisoned pancake powder buried under a sand trap, packages of a mix meant for the military, which was why Mr. Paxton was also kissing up to General Clarke, and how that was why Paxton needed Riley’s mom, Mrs. Army Hero Mack, at the talent show. But some of this exact same pancake mix may have made soldiers in Afghanistan sick and now somebody over there was trying to blame Colonel Richard Mack, which is why they had tossed him into the brig, and he had a disciplinary hearing about it first thing tomorrow morning, which would be nine thirty tonight in Fairview.

  Next, he told her all about Operation Flapjack and Larry and Curly and the backhoe and the video camera and the linkup with Afghanistan and how great it was that General Clarke and the EPA would be there to verify all the evidence the construction goons dug up.

  His mom didn’t say a word the whole time Riley monologued.

  She just sat there on the edge of his bed, calmly listening, nodding, and waiting until Riley unloaded absolutely everything.

  When he finally said, “And that’s basically it,” she stood up.

  Smoothed out her pants.

  And exploded.

  “Why in blazes didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

  “Because, well, Dad and I didn’t want to ruin your big night at the country club.”

  “Riley?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “The next time something this major is going on? Ruin my night.”

  “Okay. Good to know.”

  His mom took a deep breath. “So, is this what you guys do when you hang out together?”

  “Only when we have to, Mrs. Mack,” said Jamal.

  “Well, you’ve certainly been busy.”

  “Chya!” said Jamal. “And they call it summer ‘vacation’!”

  “All right, Riley. What do you need me to do?”


  “Well, I was kind of thinking it would be awesome if you could coordinate things inside the ballroom at the judge’s table. Make sure none of our heavy hitters leave before they see what we need them to see.”

  His mom nodded. “And then, when Briana starts screaming at the windows, I need to encourage the general and Mr. Kleinman to run outside and investigate, find out what all the fuss is about.”

  “Perfect,” said Riley. “That’ll free me up to head out to the golf course with the remote video cam the instant Mongo blasts the green with the floodlights.”

  “Works for me,” said his mom. “So, do you have a sample of this poison pancake powder?”

  “Yeah. In my backpack.”

  “Can you lend me a cup or two?”

  “It’s pretty toxic stuff, Mom.”

  “Don’t worry, hon, I’ll be careful. I just want to add a little something extra to Operation Flapjack.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, let’s call it dessert.”

  “Um, most people eat pancakes for breakfast,” said Jake.

  “But,” said Jamal, “I believe your mom plans on making Mr. Paxton his ‘just deserts.’ Am I right, Mrs. Mack?”

  Her grin grew wider. “Exactly.”

  43

  RILEY AND HIS WHOLE CREW (which now included his mom) arrived at the Brookhaven Country Club about two minutes before the fancy dinner was supposed to start.

  Riley’s mom parked the van herself—just in case the valet parking attendants got nosy about all the gear being lugged into the country club.

  Riley stepped out first, carrying his backpack with the helmet cam stuffed inside. “Communications check,” he said.

  Mongo, Jake, Briana, and Jamal all crawled out of the van and touched their left ears, where they had each tucked in a miniature Motorola H9 Bluetooth.

  “Coming in four by four,” said Jamal, turning to Riley’s mom, who wasn’t wearing her H9 just yet because she wanted to show off the sparkly earrings her husband had given her on her last birthday. “Four by four is military lingo for ‘loud and clear,’ Mrs. Mack.”

  “Really?” said Riley’s mom, pretending that this was news to her.

  “Roger that,” said Jamal. “That’s military talk, too.”

  “Okay, you guys,” said Briana, tugging a rolling suitcase. “The show starts at nine. I need to head to the ladies’ room and change into my fancy dress.”