Riley shrugged off the compliment. “We see a job that needs doing, we do it.”
“And,” added Mongo, “we all like dogs.”
“Yeah,” said Briana. “Especially Amigo and Pepe.”
Everybody else looked confused.
“I gave mine names,” she explained.
Ms. Grabowski smiled. “You talk it over with your parents, Briana. I’ll call my friend Dr. Langston at the Humane Society, tell her we’re holding Amigo and Pepe for you.”
“Thanks!”
“Well, we gotta run,” said Riley.
“Yeah,” said Mongo. “I gotta buy a baseball hat. We need it to find my lost dog.”
Ms. Grabowski nodded, even though she probably had no idea what Mongo was talking about.
“Thanks again,” she said. “And if you ever need anything, let me know. I owe you, guys—big-time.”
“Thanks,” said Riley. “We’ll make a mental note.”
In fact, as soon as he hit the sidewalk, Riley jotted an entry in the little spiral book he carried to record “favors owed.”
He didn’t realize how soon he’d be cashing this one in.
17
ACROSS THE STREET, CHIEF JOHN Brown strode into the First National Bank of Fairview like he owned the place.
Heck, he strode into every place that way. This was his town. He was the law. When he said jump, people said, “How high?” and “Off what bridge, sir?”
Riley Mack’s mother was working teller window three. No wonder the boy was such a troublemaker. It was a Saturday, school was out, and here she was at work instead of at home looking after her troublemaking son while her husband was off playing soldier boy over in Afghanistan.
The chief shook his head. Idle hands were the devil’s tools. Kids with nothing to do got into nothing but trouble. That’s why John Brown made his boy, Gavin, earn his keep, gave him a monthly quota of “second-hand treasures” to be obtained for his grandmother’s antiques tent at the flea market. Kept the boy busy and, at the same time, kept the chief’s mom in food and chewing tobacco, which meant Chief Brown didn’t have to worry about buying those things for her.
Money, of course, was what brought him to the bank on a Saturday when he was supposed to be out writing up fire code violations for shopkeepers who didn’t contribute enough money to his special Police Morale Booster Fund.
“Is Mr. Weitzel available?” he said with a smile to the young woman seated at the customer service desk.
“Is he expecting you?”
“No. But he’s going to be very glad to see me. Just tell Chipper that Chief John Brown is here.”
“Just a minute, sir.” She pressed a button on her phone while the chief hitched up his pants importantly.
“And rustle us up some doughnuts and a fresh pot of coffee.” He winked at her before she even answered. “Thanks, doll.”
As expected, Chip Weitzel saw Chief Brown right away.
“John! Good to see you!”
They pumped hands.
“You got a good grip, Chip.”
“Thanks! Please have a seat.”
As instructed, the customer service gal brought in a plate of doughnuts and a pot of fresh coffee.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
The chief didn’t answer right away. He wanted to toy with Chip a little. Make him sweat. See him squirm.
“That Mrs. Mack out there working window three?”
“Yes, sir, it sure is.”
“Pretty gal.”
“Uhm-hmm,” said the banker. “Pretty as a peach. If, you know, you find seasonal summer fruits attractive.”
The chief leaned back in the leather chair. Listened to its rich crinkle. “I didn’t know you worked Saturdays, Chip.”
“Oh, yes, indeedy. We’re open ten to three. Makes it easier for working folks to do their banking, and the ones with jobs are the ones who actually have money. Heh, heh, heh.”
When Weitzel laughed, the chief got a whiff of something minty and fresh.
“You weren’t here last Saturday,” said the police chief.
“Pardon?”
“I came in last weekend. You weren’t here.”
“Riiiiight,” said Weitzel, flipping backward through his desk calendar. “Last Saturday. Right. Almost forgot. Big bank management symposium. I was out of town. Business trip. Now, what can I do you for, chief?”
“Need a loan.”
“All righty. Home improvements?”
“Nope.”
“New car?”
“Nope.”
“College tuition for your boy?”
“Nope. I need a small business loan.”
“And what sort of business are we talking about?”
“A surefire moneymaker.”
“Well, we like those. What exactly does this business do?”
“Sorry. That’s confidential.”
“Well, how much money were you looking for?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Mr. Weitzel pushed a stack of forms across the desk.
“All righty. I just need you to fill in this loan application.”
“No you don’t, Chip.”
“Uh, yes. Sorry. We do. The bank always needs paperwork to process—”
“Not for this. This is a very unique, very lucrative business opportunity that more or less fell into my lap. You in or out?”
“Well, John, I’m not sure. This is very out of the ordinary. To come and ask the bank to loan you—”
“I don’t want the bank’s money, Chip. I want yours.”
“Excuse me?”
“You got ten thousand dollars to spare, don’t you? Shoot, you probably got that much tucked away somewhere in your desk drawer.”
Got him. The chief could see Weitzel’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he gulped.
“Suppose I was interested in your, uh, proposition?” The banker’s voice sounded squeaky. “What would you offer as collateral to guarantee the loan?”
The chief reached into his back pants pocket. Pulled out a folded-over, crumpled envelope.
“These.”
He turned the envelope upside down. A dozen grainy security camera photos tumbled out.
“What are they?” said Weitzel, pretending not to know what he was looking at.
“Pictures of you. Last weekend. In Las Vegas. Gambling with a whole mess of cash that may not have been yours. You see, Chip, I may spend my weekends in Fairview, but I have friends everywhere.”
18
“POPCORN! PEANUTS! CRACKER JACK!”
That afternoon, Briana played her part with great gusto. It was as if Shakespeare were up in the stands of the high school baseball stadium hawking food.
“Hot, buttery popcorn! Slightly salted peanuts! Crrrr-acker Jackkkkk!” She hit that final consonant so hard, it sounded like someone had just thwacked a home run.
Riley was down on the field in his school photographer disguise: safari vest, backward Furriers baseball cap, big boxy camera to block his face. The camera also had an extremely long lens so he could zoom in on Gavin Brown and see which cheerleader he was zooming in on.
“Do you guys see what I’m seeing?” asked Mongo over Riley’s Bluetooth earpiece. Mongo was seated two rows behind Brown and blending in nicely with the freshmen. “Every time the frizzy-haired blonde in the middle moves, Gavin moves his head.”
“Yeah,” said Riley. “Bree?”
“Talk to me,” Briana whispered back. Earlier, Jake had linked up their three cell phones through a dial-in conference call service so they could remain in constant contact with one another during the game.
“The frizzy-haired blond cheerleader,” said Riley. “The one they tossed up to the top when they made the pyramid.”
“Shorty?”
“Yeah. Who is she?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can you find out?”
“But of course.”
“We just need
a name,” said Riley, pretending to snap a photo of the crowd, actually framing up Gavin Brown. He was wearing a Furriers baseball jersey with the sleeves cut off and had painted half his face brown, the other half white—the team colors. With his flat, round face, he looked like one of those black-and-white cookies—half chocolate, half vanilla.
Briana worked her way down the bleachers to where the rowdy juniors and seniors were chanting and stomping along with the cheerleaders.
“Here we go, Furriers, here we go!”
Stomp, stomp.
“Here we go, Furriers, here we go!”
Stomp, stomp.
Yes, unlike football, basketball, or even lacrosse, baseball basically had one cheer. On the plus side, most fans already had it memorized.
“Excuse me,” Riley heard Briana say to somebody on his earpiece. “I think that girl down there is, like, my second cousin twice removed.”
Riley tilted his lens down. Found Briana, who was schmoozing a hunky high schooler while pointing at the frizzy-haired cheerleader, who was shaking her fake-fur pompoms.
“But, and this is, like, totally embarrassing,” Briana improvised, “I can’t remember her name!” She added a giggle.
“You mean Rebecca? Rebecca Drake?”
“Right. Becca! That’s what we call her at family reunions. Becca Boo. The Beckster. Beck-o-matic. Thanks! Here. On the house.”
She gave the guy a free box of Cracker Jack.
“Way to go, B,” said Riley.
“Now what?”
“Stand by. Mongo?”
“Yeah?”
“Shout, ‘Rebecca Drake stinks,’ then duck.”
“But she doesn’t stink, Riley. In fact, I think she is a very talented cheerleader. Very pretty, too. I can see why Gavin keeps staring at her.”
“Mongo?”
“Yes, Briana?”
“It’s called acting! Act!”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Wait for my cue,” said Riley as he panned up the crowd to Gavin. Unfortunately, at that moment, their mark was stuffing a whole hot dog slathered with mustard into his mouth.
“You watching Gavin, Bree?” Riley asked.
“Yep.”
“Me, too. Okay. Go for it, Mongo.”
Mongo cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Rebecca Drake stinks!” He quickly tucked his head down between his knees.
Gavin whipped around. “Who said that?” Now he stood up. “Which one of you jerks said Rebecca stinks?”
“Shout, ‘Down in front,’” Riley coached Mongo.
“With my head between my knees?”
“Yes! Briana? Pick up on it!”
“Down in front!” shouted Mongo.
“Down in front! Down in front!” chanted Briana, even though she was in the aisle with a food tray strapped around her neck, not sitting behind Gavin Brown.
“Who said it?” Gavin hollered again.
Now he really was blocking people’s view, and the Furriers’ best batter, Samuel Justus, was at the plate looking like he was ready to knock one out of the park, so everybody joined in the refrain:
“Down in front, dork face, down in front!”
Stomp, stomp.
“Down in front, dork face, down in front!”
Stomp, stomp.
Flapping his hand at the whole crowd, Gavin finally sat down.
Riley grinned. Maybe it was a good thing baseball had so few cheers. The fans were always hungry for a new one.
The slugger at the plate hit a home run. The crowd rose to its feet. The bleachers rocked with joy. Everybody, including Gavin Brown, immediately forgot how some loudmouth had insulted the perky blond cheerleader.
“Our work here is done,” said Riley. “Extricate at your earliest convenience. Rendezvous in fifteen minutes at Jake’s place.”
“Riley?” asked Mongo sheepishly.
“Yeah?”
“How do I extricate?”
“It means ‘get out,’” said Briana.
“Oh, okay. But the game isn’t over.”
“You’re right,” said Riley. “It’s just getting started.”
19
AROUND SIX P.M., RILEY’S CREW, joined by Jamal Wilson, reassembled in the basement of Jake Lowenstein’s house.
Riley remembered when he had first met Jake. In fifth grade, Jake Lowenstein was the shy new kid without any friends who always sat in the back of any classroom. Riley, who, like so many military kids, had once moved six times and attended six different schools in a single school year, never forgot what it felt like to be the new kid with zero friends. So, one day in late September, he sat down at the desk next to Jake’s and started peppering the hooded genius with whispered questions while, up at the front of the classroom, the teacher, Mrs. Finkel—who was close to retirement and extremely hard of hearing—tapped a globe with her wooden pointer and droned on about longitude and latitude.
“Hey,” Riley whispered to Jake, “what do people in China call their good plates? Hey, is it true cannibals don’t eat clowns because they taste funny? Hey, you ever wonder what disease cured ham actually had?”
That’s the one that finally made Jake smile. “Hey,” he whispered back, “what do you call a male ladybug?”
That one cracked Riley up, and they’d been friends ever since.
Now Jake’s house was where Riley, Jamal, and Mongo would be spending the night so they could get up bright and early on Sunday morning to finally start the door-to-door search for Noodle.
Or so they had told their parents.
Briana, on the other hand, didn’t have to tell her mom and dad much. They were earthy-crunchies. Aging hippies with severe tree-hugging tendencies. They both wore a lot of beads and clothes made out of hemp and encouraged Briana to “blossom wherever she was planted,” which basically meant she didn’t have a curfew but always had to carry an extra granola bar in her backpack in case she missed dinner.
“Jamal,” said Riley. “Good to see you. Thanks for lending a hand.”
“My pleasure, Riley Mack. We’re gonna bust that old lady for scratchin’ up my iPods, am I right?”
Riley nodded. “We will. Soon as Gavin turns over Noodle.”
“Sure. I understand. You need to prioritize. You know what that word means?”
“Yeah. First things first.” Riley rubbed his hands together and paced around the basement rumpus room, which Jake had tweaked out with maybe six different custom-made computers, all sorts of monitors, blinking routers, cables everywhere, and, of course, Jedi posters on the wood-paneled walls. Jake was extremely nerdly. In the good way.
“You have Rebecca Drake’s number?”
“Check,” said Jake.
“Man, we had that in like two seconds,” boasted Jamal.
Jake arched an eyebrow. “We?”
“I meant Jake. You shoulda seen him clacking that keyboard, tapping into some kind of database that looked like a swimming pool full of glowing green numbers. My man Jake has wicked mad skills, y’all.”
“Yeah,” said Briana. “We know.”
“Okay,” said Riley, still pacing, “what would a high school cheerleader’s favorite radio station be?”
“Easy,” said Jamal. “Z One Hundred. Got that DJ from American Idol. Plays songs by that fifteen-year-old with the curly hair and dimples. Chicks dig the curly hair and dimples, man.”
Jake was glued to the computer screen, scanning the results of his most recent internet search. “Jamal’s right. According to the ratings data, Z One Hundred is top with teens in the metro area. Says so on their website. Good job, kid.”
“That’s because I know my demographics,” said Jamal. “Find them fascinating. Do you know what—”
“Vital or social statistics of the human population,” said Briana before Jamal could finish asking if anybody knew what demographics meant.
Riley barged in: “Briana? Can you do a Z One Hundred DJ voice?”
“Shuuuuuure,” she said, the single word
coming out silky and smooth. “‘I’m playing the hits while you’re spraying your pits.’ That’s for a morning DJ.”
“Jake? Patch a landline phone into your digital recorder. Briana, the Z One Hundred DJ, is going to call Rebecca Drake.”
“This. Is. Zeeeee One Hundred,” said Briana, getting into character.
“Good,” said Riley. “Tell Rebecca she’s about to win the one-hundred dollar jackpot. That’ll get her talking, even if she’s still supposed to be cheering. Maybe ask her a couple trivia questions. Music junk. Get her gabbing.”
Briana nodded.
“You’ll need enough material so you can imitate her voice.”
“So I can call Gavin!”
“Exactly.” Riley powered up the digital camera. “We need Brown’s cell number, too,” he said to Jake.
“Already got it.”
“I told you he had mad skills,” said Jamal.
Riley flipped his camera around so Briana could check out the display screen. He thumbed through a couple of the close-ups he took of Gavin at the game. Briana cringed when Riley flashed her the hot-dog-stuffing shot.
“Faunky.”
“Yeah. Jamal? You get on that other computer. Find the high school sports site, track the game. Thirty minutes after it’s over, when Briana has Rebecca’s voice down cold, she calls Gavin.”
Briana had her eyes closed and was mumbling, “In my circles, in my circles”—something she always mumbled right before she “went on.”
“Now, Briana,” Riley continued, “when you get Gavin on the line, tell him how amazing he looked in his ripped-sleeve jersey and Furriers face paint. How you’d like to go out on a date with him.”
Briana pried open an eye. “Fine. Just make sure somebody has a barf bucket standing by.”
“Lay it on thick. Tell Gavin he’ll make you the happiest girl in the whole wide world if he just does one iddy-biddy thing….”
“Gives you a goldendoodle puppy!” shouted Mongo.
Riley smiled slyly. “Mongo, I like the way you think.”
“Because you already thought it, right?”
Riley shrugged. “Whatever. Jake—initiate the call to Rebecca Drake.”
“On it.” Jake slipped on his headphones and pressed the red button on the digital recorder.
Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers Page 7
