Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers (3 page)

RILEY USED A CUP OF
warm water from the coffee and tea bar to help Jamal Wilson loosen his tongue from the icy grip of the metal freezer racks.

Even though Jamal's fingers were nearly frozen into french fries, he kept fidgeting with some kind of tiny screwdriver gizmo sticking out of his miniature Swiss Army knife.

“That was awesome!” howled Mongo, wiping his face clean with a napkin from the hot dog counter. “I thought Gavin was going to pee his pants!” Mongo was laughing so hard that he snorted fake blood up his nose.

Jake hopped over the counter with his handheld
radio. “Excellently played, Riley! You okay, kid?”

“Y-y-yeah,” said Jamal, his teeth chattering. “N-n-n-now.”

“Here you go,” said Jake, peeling off his insulated hoodie, a garment he rarely removed because he had cowlick issues—a bad case of kindergarten-nap hair. “I believe, right now, you need this even more than me.”

“Th-th-thanks.”

Jake draped the sweatshirt over Jamal's shoulders, while the kid kept working on something where the freezer door met the side of the case.

“You guys are good,” added Mr. Karpinski.

“Thank you, Mr. K.,” said Riley. He was feeling good.

“Y-y-yo, Mr. K.?” stammered Jamal. “While I was spending f-f-face time in your f-f-freezer, I noticed the door h-hinges were a little loose so I m-m-made some adjustments. Loose hinges could s-s-seriously throw off the t-t-toggle switch contacts and make your evaporator f-f-fan run even w-w-when the door is open.”

And then he shivered some more. His teeth chattered.

Riley, Jake, and Mongo stared at the little dude in surprise. Mr. Karpinski nodded, impressed.

“Thank you, Jamal.”

“My p-p-pleasure.”

“So, Riley,” said Mr. Karpinski, “is this how you guys rescued Alex Junior?”

“Same basic principle, sir,” said Riley. “Bullies are cowards. They just need to be reminded of that fact from time to time.”

Briana burst into the store. “That was so incredibly fabtastic! Did you like my second cop? That's the first time I ever did that voice. Was it okay?”

“It was ‘fabtastic,'” said Riley.

“You're sure?”

“You were great, Briana,” said Jake.

“I thought you were really two people,” said Mongo, his mouth full of hot dog. The three pepperoni slices he'd had at the Pizza Palace weren't enough to hold him over till dinner. “Oh, I think I forgot to pay for this,” he said to Mr. Karpinski, examining the half of the hot dog he hadn't chomped off with his first bite.

Mr. Karpinski waved it away. “Today, Mongo, the hot dogs are on me!”

Riley took back the wad of cash he had stuffed into Jamal's hand. “You did good, kid.”

“W-w-who exactly are you?” asked Jamal.

“Riley Mack.”

“Why'd you rescue me from that boofnut?”

“Because we heard you needed rescuing.” They shook hands. To Riley, Jamal's fist felt colder than a frozen corn dog. “Mr. Karpinski? How much for hot cocoa?”

“Oh, I don't know, Riley. How about two hundred dollars?”

Riley handed the shopkeeper back his stack of money. “Deal.”

Jake pumped Jamal a steaming cup of hot chocolate from a canister dispenser and handed it to him. Still shivering, Jamal took it gratefully.

“Sorry about the collateral damage, Mr. K.,” said Riley, surveying the knocked-down candy bar display. “We won't leave until we clean up our mess.” He began picking up the less damaged bars, stuffing them into his pockets so he could tote them back to their crunkled rack.

“I really was good, wasn't I?” Briana said to Mongo as they helped Riley tidy up. Like most actresses, Briana needed a ton of praise. Constantly. Standing ovations whenever possible.

“You were incredible,” said Mongo. “When I heard you on the radio, I thought you really were the police.”

“That's because I, like, so totally believed it! Acting is believing, Mongo. Remember that.” She pulled a fluttering hand down in front of her face, closed her eyes, and bowed.

“Okay,” said Mongo, who always looked a little spooked whenever Briana flew into cornflake mode.

“How we doing over there?” Riley asked Jake, who was pumping the semifrozen fifth grader a second cup of cocoa.

“Better,” said Jake. “I think he's almost thawed.”

“You want I should call an ambulance?” asked Mr. Karpinski.

“No need,” said Jamal. “I feel fine. And my face is still symmetrical even though my nose was completely crushed against the freezer rack. You know what that word
symmetrical
means?”

“No,” said Mongo.

“Means both sides look the same. I memorized that word. I memorized a whole mess of
S
words out of the dictionary last night.
Symmetrical. Symphonic. Symbiotic.
That's two dissimilar organisms living together.”

Riley smiled. The new kid had spunk. He was also kind of chatty once his tongue wasn't frozen.

A bell dinged. Somebody had just pulled up to the self-serve gas pumps out in the parking lot.

“Thanks again for the use of your store, Mr. K.,” said Riley.

“Hey, you kids did a good thing.” Mr. Karpinksi gestured toward Jamal, who was so tiny that the waist of Jake's hooded sweatshirt was hanging below his knees. “Somebody's gotta look out for the little guys, you know what I'm saying?”

“I am not little,” said Jamal. “I am diminutive. Do you know what
diminutive
means?”

“Yeah,” said Riley. “Little.”

The front doors slid open.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't Riley Mack and his annoying little gnat pack.”

It was Gavin Brown's father.

“Afternoon, chief,” said Mr. Karpinski.

Yep. Gavin Brown's father was the chief of police in Fairview Township. That's why Gavin never worried when anybody threatened to call the cops on him. It just meant his dad would come pick him up and give him a ride home.

Chief Brown tucked his cop hat under his arm and waded into the store. He was a big root beer barrel of a man, filled with nearly as much gas.

“Karpy? Where's my coffee?” the chief called to Mr. Karpinski, never taking his beady eyes off Riley. Coolly, Riley continued picking up candy bars and stuffing them into his pockets.

“Coming right up, chief.”

“Two creams and four sugars. And toss in a couple of those doughnuts I like.”

The whole time he barked out his order, the chief kept his rat eyes glued on Riley.

Riley stood up. Dusted off his jeans.

“You shoplifting again, Mr. Mack?”

“Nope.”

“What's with all those candy bars stuffed in your pockets?”

“He's helping me clean up,” said Mr. Karpinski.

“That's my job,” said the police chief. “Cleaning up this town's trash.”

“Do you, by any chance, mean me, sir?” said Riley. On the inside he felt himself beginning to get mad, but another of his many mottoes was to never let his anger show. He smiled in a friendly way at the chief.

“If the shoe fits, wear it.”

“You're mixing your metaphors.”

“What?”

“Trash, shoes. You should dance with the horse you rode in on.”

The chief fumed. “Karpy, is my coffee ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And gimme
four
of those doughnuts.”

“Right away, chief.”

The chief swaggered toward Riley.

Riley kept smiling. He wasn't afraid of the big blowhard just because he had a badge pinned to the chest of his shirt—a shirt that was straining at the buttons. His dad always told Riley, “Fear gives a small thing a big shadow.” It would give a blob like Chief Brown a shadow the size of a blimp.

“Who vandalized this store, Mr. Karpinski?” Chief Brown asked, gesturing toward the broken cardboard display. “Was it Riley Mack?”

“Nobody ‘vandalized' the store,” said the manager as he plunked four doughnuts into a white paper bag.
“Somebody accidentally knocked over a candy bar display.”

Now the chief glared over at Jamal Wilson. “Was it the black boy?”

“No,” said Karpinski.

“You sure? Black boy looks kind of shifty to me.”

“I told you—”

“What about the big drooling idiot? The one they call Mongoose.”

“Mongo.”

“What?”

“My nickname is Mongo, sir.”

“Your name will be whatever I tell you it is, son.”

Mongo hung his head. “Yes, sir.”

Riley had heard enough. “It was me, okay? I bumped into the cardboard thingy and knocked it over. It was an accident.”

Happiness filled Chief Brown's face. He looked like he had just eaten six meatball hoagies and seven bags of chips. “Son, there is no such thing as an accident when a known troublemaker such as yourself is on the loose. Let's go. You're coming with me.”

“What?”

The chief laid his big whopping hand on Riley's shoulder and squeezed hard. “Congratulations, Riley Mack. You just won yourself a free ride in the backseat of my police car.”

JENNY GRABOWSKI WATCHED THE POLICE
car cruise up Main Street with its roof lights swirling.

Judging by the silhouettes she saw inside the car, the driver was a bloated beach ball of a man, his stomach seemingly attached at the belly button to the steering wheel. The criminal, seated calmly in the backseat, appeared to be very short, with a crown of shaggy hair. Jenny shook her head and hoped the big man hadn't hurt the little one, the way big humans so often hurt smaller creatures.

Jenny Grabowski had just turned twenty-two and had a soft spot for weak and innocent creatures. That's why she loved her new job at Mr. Guy's Pet Supplies, the
shop directly across the street from the First National Bank of Fairview. Truth be told, she thought cats and dogs, guinea pigs and parakeets were sometimes better company than people.

Before she started working at Mr. Guy's, Jenny had volunteered at the Humane Society's animal shelter, where the veterinarians had encouraged Jenny to apply for vet school in the fall. Jenny already had three cats at home, walked her neighbors' dogs for them whenever they went on vacation, and always carried bread crumbs in her pockets to feed the pigeons over in Sherman Green Park. And she never stepped on ants.

Her boyfriend, Andrew, was an even bigger animal nut. He'd once strapped himself to a supermarket lobster tank with bicycle chains, demanding that the fish department “Free the crustaceans!” Now Andrew worked as an airport limousine driver to pay off his legal bills.

Mr. Guy's Pet Supplies didn't sell pets. No puppies, kittens, bunnies, birdies, or turtles. Just supplies. But Jenny had arranged for the animal shelter to showcase almost a half dozen of the Humane Society's adoptable dogs in the store.

The bell harness hanging over the front door jingled and all the rescues up for adoption started barking and yapping.

“Hello!” Jenny called out to the squat woman who trundled into the store. “May I help you?”

“Who are you?”

“Jenny.”

“You're new.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Jenny, barely able to contain her joy. “This is my first week!”

“Need dog food,” the woman said brusquely. “Big bag.”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Cheapest you got. None of that fancy-schmancy stuff with carrots and crap.” The woman's scowling face was wrapped up tight in a red-checkered scarf tied snugly under her chin. She appeared to be sixty, maybe seventy. She also smelled like poop.

Yes! The heavenly, yet earthy, aroma of animal dung, Jenny's favorite scent. She wished they made barnyard poop perfume! She'd wear it every day. So would Andrew.

Jenny glanced down at the woman's rubber work boots peeking out under the hem of her ankle-length skirt. They were speckled with mud and muck.

“Do you live on a farm, ma'am?” Jenny asked, her voice filled with admiration.

“Get out of my way, missy.” The old woman plowed up the aisle toward the brightly colored sacks of kibble. “Need a seventy-pound bag and someone to
haul it out to my truck.”

“Well, we have many fine brands to choose from.”

“I told you—I want the cheap chow.”

One of the adoptable dogs in the nearby crates grumbled.

“Ah, shut up!” The old woman smacked the side of its cage. Hard. The dog tucked in its tail and whimpered.

“Um, I take it you're more of a cat person?”

The old woman ignored Jenny and glowered at a tiny puppy in a newspaper-lined cage. The skinny dog, a Chihuahua-terrier mix, trembled in fear. Then it peed—a big wet lake that slowly spread out across the sports page.

“What kind of dog is that?” the old woman asked.

“A bitzer.”

“Bitzer? What's a bitzer?”

“A mutt,” Jenny said with a smile. “You know, a bit of this, a bit of that. A bitzer?”

“That supposed to be funny?”

“Um…”

“Mr. Guy never sold dogs in here before.”

“Oh, they're not for sale. They're up for adoption.”

“Adoption? That's un-American.”

“They're from the Humane Society's animal shelter.”

“So? You people trying to put dog breeders out of business?”

“No, we're just trying to help these poor, defenseless creatures find homes.”

“Defenseless? You ever have a dog bite you in the butt, missy?”

“No…”

“That's why these dogs were kicked out of their homes. They're all butt biters. That fanny snapper in the bottom cage is starin' at your derriere right now! So grab that feed sack and be quick about it!”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Jenny dragged the seventy-pound bag over to the cash register.

“Will there be anything else today?” she asked, because Mr. Guy, her boss, had trained her to say that every time she checked out a customer, even one as sour as this angry old grump.

“What do you mean, ‘anything else'?”

“Well, um, we have a wide selection of dog toys.”

“Toys? Ha! Next, you'll be trying to sell me little doggy jackets and doggy sweaters.”

Jenny hoped the crabby old prune didn't see the nearby display racks filled with doggy jackets, doggy sweaters, and, yes, doggy boots.

“That'll be twenty dollars,” she said nervously. “For the dog food.”

“I know what I bought, little Miss Missy Miss.” The old lady paid with nineteen wrinkled one-dollar bills,
three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel, muttering, “Twenty dollars. Stupid dogs. Eating me out of house and home.”

Yes, Jenny liked dogs and cats better than most humans.

This lady?

Jenny liked lizards, snakes, and slugs better than her.