Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers (14 page)

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.

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.”

“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.

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!”