Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Now then,” said Briana, tapping the first puppy printout, “tell me about this here poochie. I want to know every little thing about him.”

  “Okay. First off, he’s a female.”

  “Well, feed me nails and call me Rusty.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, that’s just somethin’ we say down in Texas. Go on. Tell me more.”

  It looked like there were at least fifty pages in the dog book. Briana would ask questions about each and every one of them while Jake pumped opera arias out of his boom box.

  They’d keep Grandma Brown busy and unable to hear what Riley and Jamal were doing in the backyard—even when all the caged dogs started barking for joy.

  Gavin Brown was the only one near the dog coops at that moment and he stood transfixed, listening to the seriously loud yet hauntingly beautiful music booming from the other side of the house.

  “Mi struggo e mi tormento!”

  The lady was wailing. It had to be opera. Sometimes, on Saturdays, when no one else was home, Gavin would slip in his earbuds and listen to opera on a stolen iPod he had kept for himself.

  “Babbo, pietà, pietà!”

  Even though he didn’t understand a word, Gavin knew the singer was crazy in love. Opera people always were. And after his phone call from Rebecca Drake, Gavin finally understood how love could make you so crazy you’d do wild things like sing when you could just talk!

  He trudged determinedly through the mud to the crate caging the newly arrived goldendoodle.

  Yes, Gavin had been a bully and a thief most of his young life.

  He had stolen for money. He had stolen for fun.

  But tonight would be different.

  Tonight, he would steal for love!

  34

  RILEY TIED THE NYLON FISHING line around the trunk of a tree, securing it about six inches above the ground.

  Hunkered down and moving backward, he unspooled the clear string across the width of the bumpy dirt road.

  “You always carry fishing line in your backpack?” asked Jamal as Riley looped the nearly invisible string around a second tree.

  “Fishing line and duct tape.”

  Riley snipped the string with the scissors on his Leatherman pocketknife, tied a quick series of knots, and plucked the fishing line like a guitar string. It was so taut, it thrummed.

  “What’s that for?” asked Jamal.

  “Nothing,” said Riley. “Unless, of course, we need it.”

  An opera singer started wailing in the distance.

  “Come on. That’s our cue.” Riley glanced over his shoulder. Mongo, in his Frankenstein mask, was standing on the other side of the gate, holding on to the handles of a portable ice chest, ready to usher dogs up the ramp and into the truck.

  Riley gave him a two-finger salute.

  Mongo sort of hoisted the ice chest up in reply. Meat juice sloshed out from under the lid and splattered all over his pants and shirt.

  They’d deal with the laundry issues later.

  Riley and Jamal hiked briskly up the dark road toward the kennels. They could see the hazy glow of the puppy mill’s outdoor lights rimming the tips of the trees. Riley figured Grandma Brown must’ve rewired her electrical box.

  Now he heard heavy footfalls. Mud splashing. Branches whipping against fabric.

  Riley tapped Jamal on the shoulder. Hand-gestured to the side of the road. Jamal nodded. They both ducked into the underbrush.

  Gavin Brown came trundling around a curve. He was cradling a dog that looked like a bigger version of Noodle in his arms.

  “I love you, Rebecca!” he shouted as he ran past. “I lo-ooo-ooove you!” Now he was singing along with the opera diva, making up his own aria.

  The instant he was gone, Riley activated his Bluetooth device.

  “Mongo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gavin Brown is running toward your location. He is carrying a dog. A goldendoodle.”

  “Did they steal Noodle again?”

  “No. This one isn’t a puppy. But you’ve got to stop him before he sees the truck. We need to roll out of here without anyone ID’ing our vehicle.”

  “Right.”

  “And Mongo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch out for the trip wire.”

  “Is that the clothesline thingy you strung between those two trees?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool. I’ll hop over it.”

  “Works for me.”

  Mongo set the cooler down on the ground and, moving as stealthily as a 250-pound moose can, wormed his way through the hole in the fence.

  The rubber Frankenstein mask was making him sweat something fierce. A salty droplet plunked into his eyeball. He went blind for a second and then remembered he couldn’t close his eyes or else he’d trip over Riley’s invisible fishing line.

  He blinked his eyes to clear them and, seeing just the hint of a glint near the ground, leaped over the booby trap.

  He galloped up the muddy road. His shoes started to squish. His pants, too, because he had sloshed some of the sticky beef juice from the cooler onto his clothes when he waved good-bye to Riley. Mongo smelled like a trotting butcher shop.

  He rounded a curve and saw a hulking silhouette trotting toward him.

  Gavin Brown. With a dog in his arms.

  “I looo-ooove Re-beh-eh-ca!”

  Gavin was huffing and puffing, fighting for breath. His personal opera had lost most of its gusto.

  The dog squirmed in his arms.

  “Hang on, Ginger!” he wheezed. “I’m taking you to Rebecca’s house!”

  The dog started wiggling and jiggling, like it smelled dinner and wanted to go gobble it down.

  That’s when Frankenstein leaped out of the bushes and bopped Gavin in the stomach.

  “Ooowww!” Gavin sank to his knees. The sucker punch knocked out what little wind he had left.

  The dog hit the ground and immediately leaped up into Frankenstein’s arms, where it squiggled itself upside down so it could lick the monster’s pant legs.

  “Rebecca!” Gavin wailed.

  Heartbroken, he slumped face-first into the mud, where he was content to weep like the fat lady in the horned helmet who always sings at the end of an opera because she’s lost everything she ever loved.

  Riley snapped open his fourth combination lock.

  It was easy, once you knew how. Jamal was a good coach.

  He let the five sickly pups trapped inside the cage paw at the coop’s unlocked door until it swung open. They did it, not him. Riley Mack, being a known troublemaker, was simply out in the woods having fun playing safecracker. The dogs, shuffling and stumbling at first, then hungry for freedom, jumped out of their elevated hutch, hit the ground, and remembered how to wag their tails.

  “You’ve been practicing, huh, Riley Mack?” said Jamal, who was cracking his tenth lock to Riley’s fourth. About forty puppies, some fuzzy, some furry, some prancing on their hind legs, others wiggling their butts off, all amazingly happy, had surrounded Jamal. They were yipping and yapping and jumping up and down like kindergarten kids during recess after a cupcake party.

  “Hurry,” said Riley. “I don’t know how much longer the opera music can drown out all this noise.”

  One of the puppies, a brown-and-white hound with droopy ears, sniffed along the ground in a straight line to where Riley and Jamal had stashed their backpacks. It started pawing at the zippers, trying to burrow its way into the bags.

  “There’re only a few more locks left on your side,” said Jamal, who had already cleared the far row of cages. “And that big poodle crate over there. You go free that fancy-lookin’ dude, I’ll crack open the rest of these.”

  “On it,” said Riley as he ran over to the poodle. The dog, a full-grown adult in excellent condition, looked very regal and grand, with tight ringlets of fur on its chest and long, feathery ears. There was a small sign hanging off his cage bars: BARON CHADWICK AMADEUS WELLINGTON APRICOT.
CHAMPION SIRE.

  “Hold on, handsome. Let me help you check out of this fleabag hotel.”

  Riley cracked the combination and took off the lock.

  The big poodle burst triumphantly through the cage door.

  It was so happy to be set free, it howled magnificently at the moon.

  A very loud, werewolf-sized howl.

  35

  BRIANA WAS ONLY UP TO page twelve of Grandma Brown’s fifty-page dog scrapbook.

  “Now you got me smiling like a jackass eating cactus,” she said, slapping her knee. “What’s this-here one’s name?”

  “Calico,” said Grandma Brown, somewhat wearily.

  “Is she a purebred?”

  “Yes. Just like the first eleven you asked me about.”

  “Well, pardon me for being thorough, but Daddy said if I’m gonna spend twelve thousand dollars on a dog—”

  “Twelve thousand?” Grandma Brown was licking her chops again. Well, gumming them.

  “Why, yes, ma’am. Shoot, Daddy says I can go as high as fifteen thousand because he wants me to have the best little doggy money can buy!”

  “Calico is a chinook,” said the revitalized dog dealer. “Very athletic, very—”

  A tremendous wolf howl pierced through the cascading warbles of the opera singer.

  “That’s Apricot!” hissed Grandma Brown.

  “I thought you said this one’s name was Calico?”

  “Wait here.” The old lady marched to a tall cupboard. “Something’s going on out back.”

  She popped open a cabinet.

  Inside, all Briana could see were rifles, including a very shiny double-barreled shotgun, which Grandma Brown yanked out of its rack. She cracked open the barrel from the stock, slid in two plastic-cased shells, spit some tobacco juice on the very stained rug, grabbed a box of ammo, and stomped toward the back door.

  “Hang on, Apricot!” she shouted. “Grandma’s coming!”

  “Someone’s coming!” whispered Jamal.

  About fifty or sixty dogs were running around the empty coops in crazy circles now, even the sickly ones—all energized by their newfound freedom.

  “Grab your meat!” Riley shouted.

  Jamal ran to his backpack.

  Riley was about to do the same when he saw the weary French bulldog, the one with black fur speckled white. It stood shivering in its cage, too weak to leap to the ground.

  The air exploded.

  “I got me a shotgun and a whole heap of shells, Miss Alligator Hide McBride!” shouted Grandma. “I’m gonna pepper your behind with lead, you dadgum dog rustler!”

  The angry old lady was still maybe a hundred yards away, but Riley could hear the sharp snap and clink of metal as she worked open the chamber to reload.

  Riley needed to run but he couldn’t abandon the bulldog.

  “Come on,” he said, “you’re riding with me.” He grabbed the trembling little dog, stuffed it into his shirt, and buttoned it up snug. With a wiggling potbelly, Riley ran over to join Jamal.

  Another explosion boomed in the sky behind them.

  “Dag,” said Jamal. “Grandma’s not a very happy camper.”

  “Yeah.” Riley dropped to his knees and shooed away the hound still sniffing furiously at the front flap of his backpack. He and Jamal quickly pulled out two plastic bags stuffed with foil-wrapped cube steaks. Riley had hoped all the wrapping would seal in the scent of meat until it was time to vacate the premises. It had worked. Except for the hound that had the best sniffer in the class.

  “Stuff it in your pockets!” said Riley as he slid the raw beef into his jeans. The cube steaks looked like flat hamburgers rimmed with white fat.

  The dogs were going crazy now, splitting into two packs, one for Riley, one for Jamal. The big poodle wanted them both.

  “This is so gross, man,” groaned Jamal, squishing the slimy beef into his back pockets. “I am burning these pants as soon as I get home.”

  “What goes on back here?” Grandma shouted in the distance. Riley could barely hear her over the chaotic chorus of barking dogs.

  “Run!” he said.

  And he and Jamal did.

  If the dogs chased after them and escaped from the puppy mill? Well, that was their choice.

  Briana heard the explosion in the backyard as she ran down the front porch steps.

  “Hurry!” cried Jake, who was tossing his boom box into the back of the limousine.

  But Briana saw something she just had to capture on video. She stopped and whipped out her Flip camera.

  “Briana? Come on!” Now it was Andrew, the driver, begging her to hurry up.

  Briana got the shot and dashed to the driveway.

  She tumbled into the back of the limo and slammed the door shut just as another shotgun blast boomed from the backyard.

  “Let’s book!” she shouted.

  “Booking,” said Andrew as he jammed the transmission up into reverse. The limo screeched out of Grandma Brown’s driveway—backward.

  36

  MONGO CHUCKED A SNOWBALL MADE out of ground beef up into the back of the truck.

  The big goldendoodle that had been carried by Gavin Brown scampered up the ramp and into the cargo hold. Over the past two days, Ms. Grabowski, Jake, and the extremely clever Jamal had outfitted the interior with fifteen fully equipped dog crates along each side wall. The Mr. Guy’s Pet Supplies truck had been transformed into a rolling dormitory of triple-decker bunk beds with double-occupancy accommodations for up to sixty dogs.

  The goldendoodle, of its own volition, went into the bottom cage all the way up near the front, which, coincidentally, was where Mongo’s first meatball had splattered.

  For safety reasons only, Ms. Grabowski, who was working the inside of the box van, latched the cage door shut on the goldendoodle. The dog yapped its approval.

  “More meat!” shouted Riley, as he and Jamal skirted into the woods, pursued by a pack of sixty hungry dogs with Apricot, the giant poodle king, in the lead.

  Mongo reached into the ice chest and started flinging molded meatballs up into the truck.

  The dogs, hearing the wet splats and picking up on the beefy scent, streamed past Riley and Jamal, leaped through the hole in the fence, tore up the gangplank, and found their cages for dinner. Ms. Grabowski was toting a smaller cooler over her shoulder and lobbed meat slabs up into the higher cages. She also gave a boost to any dogs that seemed interested in the upper berths, where steak and ribs were waiting in their food bowls, thanks to Mongo’s mom and her jam-packed freezer.

  Riley and Jamal ran through the brambles to the back of the truck.

  “One more passenger,” said Riley, handing off the trembling French bulldog to Ms. Grabowski.

  Yes, Riley had “stolen” this dog. It had not run up the ramp of its own free will because, basically, it could barely walk. But no way was Riley leaving the worn-out mom behind to die in Grandma Brown’s prison camp. He handed it off to Ms. Grabowski.

  “Everybody in?”

  “Yeah!” said Mongo.

  “We are good to go,” added Jamal.

  Riley hesitated for a second. All of a sudden, it was weirdly quiet. No more barks. No more yips or yaps. Just the slurping sound of fifty-some dogs feasting on their first meaty meal since forever.

  Now what? Riley wondered. He had fifty, maybe sixty dogs. They’d need food again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

  Riley Mack needed yet another plan. A new Operation Something-or-Other. He decided he’d worry about tomorrow on tomorrow because he still had tonight to deal with tonight.

  “Let’s roll it in and roll ’er down,” he said as Ms. Grabowski hopped out of the cargo hold. The three guys slid the ramp back into its storage slot above the bumper. Mongo and Riley each pushed a door panel shut. Jamal slapped on the padlock.

  “Andrew just called,” Ms. Grabowski reported. “He’ll take Briana and Jake straight home.”

  “Cool,” said Riley, waiting while
Jamal and then Mongo climbed up into the cab and slid across the bench seat. When his two friends were in, Riley hopped up, grabbed hold of the door, and was about to swing into the seat when he saw something in the truck’s side mirror.

  Grandma and Gavin Brown. Both of them running as fast as they could up the dirt road. Gavin was toting the shotgun, trying to aim it in midtrot.

  “Go!” Riley slapped the roof of the truck. “Go!”

  The truck lurched forward.

  Riley swung sideways and in.

  Mongo reached across both Jamal and Riley to grab the door handle and yanked it shut.

  As the door closed, Riley heard one last shotgun blast.

  He looked in the side mirror.

  Both Browns were sprawled out, facedown in the dirt road.

  Riley grinned. He figured Gavin must’ve squeezed the trigger when he and his grandmother tripped on the invisible fishing line Riley had strung across the road.

  “So,” said Jamal, “that’s why you strung that fishing line, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Riley. “I guess so.”

  Chief Brown received the first enraged phone call from his mother at 10:36 p.m.

  “They stole ’em all, Johnny!”

  “Who did what?”

  “The robbers! They stole every single dog, even Apricot and Ginger!”

  Apricot and Ginger. Eleven, almost twelve thousand dollars’ worth of dog!

  “Did you see who did it?” he asked.

  “No. Neither did your lazy, no-good son. Where was he when these criminals slipped in?”

  “I don’t know, Momma.”

  “I’ll tell you where he was: blubbering in the mud. We could’ve caught those crooks before they got away if he would’ve stopped bawling his eyes out two minutes sooner.”

  “Now, Momma…”

  “And I had me a customer willing to pay fifteen thousand dollars for a single dadgum puppy. But all the commotion scared her off. I don’t think she’ll be coming back, neither.”