Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers

by Chris Grabenstein

  “All right, Momma. Did you see anything? Maybe it was that bounty hunter. The one Nick told us about—Alligator Hide McBride. Maybe she came back for more, figured you were easy pickings.”

  “They had a truck.”

  “Okay, Momma, that’s good. Did you see the license plate?”

  “No, I did not see the license plate! Your stupid son tripped me up and knocked me down before we were close enough to see a thing.”

  “Well, what about the truck? What did it look like?”

  There was a long pause. “It was white. A big white truck.”

  “That’s it?”

  “It had four tires.”

  It didn’t get much better after that.

  37

  RILEY MADE CURFEW.

  At 10:55 p.m., dressed in his pajamas, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth before going to bed. He brought along a phone so he could call Ms. Grabowski. The gush of water in the sink stopped his mom from hearing his side of the conversation.

  Ms. Grabowski told Riley that she’d take the twelve sickest dogs to her friend Dr. Langston’s veterinary clinic first thing in the morning.

  “So what do we do with the other forty-seven dogs?” she asked. “We can’t take them all to the animal shelter. It’ll raise all sorts of red flags. Especially if Grandma Brown files a formal complaint with her son and he issues some kind of lost dogs bulletin.”

  “Okay,” said Riley, “how about you host a pet-adoption event at your store?”

  “What?”

  “You park the truck out front. Decorate it up with balloons and bunting.”

  “Where am I going to find balloons at this hour?”

  “I’ll send Mongo an email. His dad is a used car dealer. He’ll probably let you borrow his big inflatable gorilla, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Ms. Grabowski?”

  “Yes, Riley?”

  “Call a pet food company you’re tight with. Tell them you want to wrap your whole truck with one of their big vinyl ads. For free. All they have to do is toss in some free samples to send home with each puppy.”

  “Riley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why do I want to do that?”

  “So your truck doesn’t look so white tomorrow. My guess, the only thing the old lady saw before she went belly down in the dirt was a white box van. If you wrap it with a colorful ad…”

  “It won’t match her description! Wow, Riley, you’re good at this.”

  “It’s like billiards, Ms. Grabowski. You gotta play all the angles all the time. Meanwhile, tomorrow at school, Briana and I are going to borrow the video-editing suite from FMS-TV.”

  “Okay. I won’t ask why.”

  “You don’t have to. We do a good job, you’ll see it for yourself tomorrow night on the six o’clock news.”

  “What are you guys going to do?”

  “Disincentivize the chief. Take him off our trail.”

  “What?”

  “We’re gonna make him want to forget he ever heard about the fifty-nine dogs who ran away from his mommy’s puppy mill.”

  On Thursday at noon, Chief Brown’s mother was ruining his lunch with her sixth phone call of the day.

  “We need more money! Shake down your banker friend. We need twenty, thirty thousand dollars to start over from scratch.”

  “I’ll try, Momma.”

  “Don’t try, Butterball! Do it!”

  The chief sighed and let his gaze drift through the diner’s window to Mr. Guy’s Pet Supplies across the street. A truck, all decorated up with colorful balloons and banners, pulled up in front of the store. It had a huge ad for puppy food plastered on its side.

  “Momma, I gotta go.”

  Jake Lowenstein saw Chief Brown hike up his belt and cross the street in the middle of the block.

  Jake had taken the day off from school to earn “community service credits” by helping Ms. Grabowski set up the truck for the animal-adoption day.

  “Uh-oh,” said Ms. Grabowski when she saw the police chief jaywalking across the street. “What do we do, now? Where’s Riley?”

  “School,” said Jake, trying to sound as calm and cool as Riley always did. Too bad his voice cracked on the oo of school.

  He noted there was a municipal trash can standing at the curb, pretty close to the folding card table Ms. G. had just set up for her adoption papers and pamphlets. Since Riley was busy with Briana editing video, Jake was on his own. It was his turn to hatch a plan. Fortunately, he had studied with the master: Riley Mack!

  “Um, Ms. Grabowski,” said Jake, “lure Chief Brown over to the table. I have an idea.”

  While Ms. Grabowski sat down behind the card table, Jake slunk over to the cab of the truck, where he had stowed his backpack filled with electronic gadgets. Riffling through the wires and remotes and black boxes, he found what he was looking for. He popped open its back and slipped in four double-A batteries before pocketing its slim remote in the front pocket of his hoodie.

  “What goes on here, ma’am?” he heard Chief Brown say to Ms. Grabowski.

  “Haven’t you heard?” said Ms. Grabowski. “Today’s our first annual doggy-adoption day!”

  Jake strolled up behind Chief Brown and dropped the black plastic box into the trash barrel. The remote control had a range of fifty feet but he didn’t want to chance it. So, fighting his nerves, he strolled up to the table and stood right next to Chief Brown, who, he figured, wouldn’t recognize Jake as one of Riley Mack’s “known troublemakers” because Jake usually worked behind the scenes.

  “Where’d you get the dogs?” the chief asked Ms. Grabowski.

  “They’re all rescues.”

  “Really?” said Brown, eyeballing the side of the truck hard. It was covered with a big, bright ad for something called Barkley’s Organic Puppy Chow. “I’m interested in adopting a dog.”

  “How wonderful,” said Ms. Grabowski.

  “Me, too,” said Jake.

  “Wait your turn, kid. I was here first.”

  “Yes, sir, officer.”

  “You don’t happen to have a big standard poodle?” the chief asked, leaning on the table. “Maybe one that weighs, oh, sixty, seventy pounds?”

  Jake pushed the button on his remote.

  The fart machine hidden in the trash can did its thing.

  Braaap!

  “Whoa,” said Jake, waving the air in front of his nose. “Eat beans much, officer?”

  “That wasn’t me, kid.”

  Jake stuffed his hands back into the front pocket of his hoodie and bopped the button on the remote. The fart machine ripped off another butt buster. The thing had like fifteen different prerecorded versions of flatulence, each one juicier than the last.

  “Whoo,” said Ms. Grabowski. “Would you like some Beano, officer? Maybe a little Gas-X?”

  “I told you—that wasn’t me!”

  Jake tapped the hidden button again. The sound effects box sent up a very long-winded trombone solo.

  Ms. Grabowski giggled. Chief Brown’s face went red.

  Another tap, and out came a wet and sloppy rumbler.

  “Who’s doing that?” the chief demanded.

  Jake shrugged—and simultaneously hit the fart button.

  This one sounded like it came with a question mark at the end.

  “You know, chief,” said Ms. Grabowski, using her pet-adoption literature to fan away the imaginary stench, “we don’t really open till two, so if you’d like to go find a restroom…”

  “I don’t need a…”

  Jake saw a slow-moving black sedan pull up in front of the bank. Chief Brown saw it, too.

  There was a swirling red light on its dashboard.

  Two men in suits and sunglasses climbed out. They adjusted and smoothed their jackets so no one would see what Jake already knew because he watched a lot of movies about spies and secret agents: the two men were carrying sidearms in shoulder holsters.

  A third man, also in
a suit, but looking more like a shoe salesman than an FBI guy, scampered around the rear of the vehicle to open up a door and help a little old lady climb out of the car.

  Chief Brown hiked up his pants again.

  “I’ll be back later,” he said. “Need to see what’s going on at the bank.”

  But first, he turned to Jake and jabbed a pudgy finger at his chest.

  “I know what’s going on here, kid.”

  Jake swallowed hard. “You do?”

  “Yep. He who smelt it dealt it!”

  38

  ACROSS THE STREET, RILEY’S MOM was finishing up lunch in the break room at the bank.

  She’d packed a tuna fish sandwich and an apple. Her friend and coworker Diane was using a napkin to blot grease off the cheese on a slice of pizza she’d picked up at the Pizza Palace. Neither one was interested in the box of doughnuts left over from the morning.

  “Oh, Maddie,” said Diane, “I meant to ask you: Is Riley going on the field trip this Saturday?”

  “I don’t think so. What is it?”

  Diane found her purse and handed Mrs. Mack a flyer. “It looks pretty interesting. We’re supposed to meet all the other kids and parents at the Sherman Green Flea Market this Saturday at eleven a.m. for a ‘History Through Trash and Treasures’ lecture at someplace called Grandma’s Antiques.”

  “Oh,” said Riley’s mom, reading the details at the bottom, “this is for fifth graders. Riley’s in seventh.”

  “Jeff and I are going with Timothy. Sounds like fun.”

  “Excuse me, ladies.” It was Mr. Weitzel, poking his head through the doorway. “Maddie? Do you have a minute?”

  “I was just finishing up my lunch.”

  He beamed his smile. Blinked. “This is important.”

  “I’ll put your sandwich in the fridge for you,” said Diane.

  “Thanks,” said Riley’s mom, standing up. “Is everything okay, Chip?”

  The smile tightened. “Probably best if you called me Mr. Weitzel today.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He gestured sideways. “Let’s talk about this in my office.”

  “Is Riley okay?”

  “Your son? Yes. I mean, as far as I know.” He gestured again. “My office?”

  “Okay. Sure.” She followed him up the hall.

  “You have visitors.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Rada Rollison, her son Roger, and two gentlemen from the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Bank Fraud Division. I didn’t catch their names.”

  He pushed open the door.

  Two beefy men in dark-blue suits and sunglasses were standing behind chairs occupied by Mrs. Rollison and a middle-aged man. Mrs. Mack figured the man to be Mrs. Rollison’s son. He had her eyes but none of her smile.

  One of the suits whipped off his shades.

  “Are you Mrs. Madiera Mack?” he asked.

  Mrs. Rollison craned her neck like a bird. “Is Maddie here?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Where?”

  The son pointed. “Right in front of you.”

  “Oh. Hello, dearie!”

  “Hello, Mrs. Rollison.”

  “Mrs. Mack?” said the suit.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you regularly work teller window number three here at the First National Bank of Fairview?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you working window three on Monday of this week?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is Mrs. Rollison, the elderly woman seated here, a regular customer?”

  “I always go to Maddie’s window,” said Mrs. Rollison with grandmotherly pride. “She’s the sweetest, the nicest—”

  “Ha,” grunted her son.

  “Sir?” said the second suit. “We talked about this in the car. You need to stay calm.”

  “Calm? She robbed my mother! If you think I’m going to sit here and say nothing…”

  Riley’s mom was in shock. “I did what?”

  The first suit addressed Mrs. Rollison. “Ma’am, did you bring four thousand dollars in cash to this bank on Monday afternoon?”

  “Yes. I already told you that. In a cigar box. Remember, Maddie?”

  “No.”

  “Really, dear? You kept the box.”

  “You also kept three thousand dollars!” added her son.

  “What?”

  “You’re a chintzy, two-bit embezzler is what you are!”

  “Mr. Rollison?” Suit two put a hand on the seated man’s shoulder. “One more outburst and I will be escorting you out of this room.”

  While Mr. Rollison fumed in his chair, the FBI agent who was apparently in charge showed Riley’s mom a plastic evidence bag. Inside the Baggie, she saw a canary-yellow slip of paper.

  “This, Mrs. Mack, is the deposit slip for Mrs. Rollison’s four thousand dollars. It is dated this past Monday and time-stamped five twenty p.m. Were you working at five twenty on Monday?”

  “Bank hours are ten to six Monday through Friday,” offered Mr. Weitzel. “Ten to three on Saturdays.”

  “I was here,” said Riley’s mom. “But honestly, I don’t remember seeing you, Mrs. Rollison. And if you gave me a deposit in a cigar box instead of an envelope, well, I think I’d remember that.”

  “There, there,” said Mrs. Rollison. “Maybe it just slipped your mind, dearie. I know I’m always forgetting things. This morning, I couldn’t find my glasses and, wouldn’t you know it, I was already wearing them.”

  “Mom?” sighed her son. “Let the FBI people handle this.”

  The agent in charge dangled the evidence bag under Mrs. Mack’s nose.

  “Is that your handwriting?”

  “No.”

  “Did you change Mrs. Rollison’s four to a one?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well, somebody sure did,” huffed the son.

  “It wasn’t me!”

  “Tell it to the judge!”

  “Mr. Rollison?” said agent number two. “Let’s step outside.”

  “Let me get the door,” said Mr. Weitzel, eager to help.

  “Mrs. Mack?” said the agent in charge. “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “No, I…”

  “You should find one. You are under arrest.”

  “What?”

  “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  The room was spinning.

  “You have a right to have a lawyer present while you are questioned.”

  She glanced over to the door. Mr. Weitzel looked so disappointed in her. What about Riley? What would he think?

  “I need to call my son….”

  “If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you.”

  “I need to call my son!”

  “We’ll let you do that from jail,” boomed a familiar voice.

  There, standing in the corridor outside Mr. Weitzel’s office door, was Chief John Brown.

  “I figure you boys need to borrow a cell to hold her, am I right?”

  “Thank you, chief,” said the agent in charge. “Always helpful to have the full cooperation of local law enforcement authorities.”

  The chief smiled widely. “Happy to help, gentlemen. Happy to help.”

  39

  OTTO AND FRED, THE SUBURBAN bank robbers, were sitting in a booth near the front windows of the diner on Main Street.

  “You see what’s going on across the street?” said Fred. “All of a sudden, Thursday is Doggy Adoption Day?”

  “You want to go look at the dogs after lunch?” asked Otto.

  “Are you kidding?” said Fred. “I hate dogs.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. That one time I went to prison? German shepherd sent me there. I was working a warehouse job. The security guard was sound asleep, per usual. The guard dog, however, was not. Fritz the fleabag clamps on to my ankle as I’m attemp
ting to boost a giant-screen TV off a storage rack. Dog locks its jaw. Crunches down hard on my fibula like he’s munching on a Milk-Bone.”

  “For me, it was Winky,” said Fred.

  “Who?”

  “Winky. The chow chow that lived next door when I was a kid.”

  “Chow chow? That the pickled relish?”

  “No, it’s a Chinese-Mongolian dog breed. Looks like a little puffy lion. Anyways, one summer, I’m maybe five years old. We’re in the backyard; my dad’s grilling hamburgers. All of a sudden, Winky comes barreling through the bushes, snatches my burger right out of my hand.” Fred held up his right hand. “You ever notice my pinkie finger don’t have no fingertip? I call it my Winky pinkie.”

  “Man,” said Otto. “I hate dogs.”

  “Me, too,” said Fred.

  They were both feeling kind of blue, when they saw an armored car rumble up Main Street, headed for the bank.

  “Cheer up,” said Otto. “Here comes our money!”

  Both men watched the boxy truck pull to a stop in front of the bank.

  Two security guards wearing holstered pistols and bulletproof vests came around to the rear of the steel-plated truck, their heads pivoting side to side as they checked the area for any signs of trouble. Satisfied that all was as it should be, the armed goons tapped on the rear door, which quickly swung open. A third goon with a gun hopped out toting several pillow-case-sized sacks of cash.

  Otto and Fred were beaming.

  It was the weekly shipment of cash in advance of Friday’s payday rush at the bank.

  And tonight? It would all be theirs!

  40

  RILEY MARCHED STRAIGHT UP TO Chief Brown’s desk.

  “Where’s my mother?” he asked, very politely, which was remarkable given his current mood.

  “Right where the FBI wants her,” the chief answered smugly, leaning back in his chair. “In my most secure jail cell.”

  “Can I see her?”

  The chief grinned maliciously. “What’s the magic word?”

  “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Please may I see my mother, Chief Brown?”

  “Well, now—at least your bank-robbing momma taught you a few manners. Or maybe that was your daddy. Where is he anyway? Oh, right. He’s way off in Afghanistan, playing soldier with his army buddies. What a shame. Maybe you two should’ve moved out of town like I suggested.”