Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers (5 page)

THAT SAME AFTERNOON, CHUCK “CALL
me Chip” Weitzel sat in his office at the bank crunching numbers.

Last weekend's trip to Las Vegas had been the best ever. According to the little ledger he kept locked in his desk, he was currently up fifty thousand dollars for the first five months of the year. His revolutionary investment scheme was working. He could buy a new car. Heck, he could buy a couple new cars.

But he wouldn't.

New cars would make people start asking questions.

So instead of tooling around town in a flashy two-seater Corvette convertible, Chuck kept his cash wrapped in neat bundles, locked up tight inside his
FireKing Executive Safe, currently nestled in the bottom drawer (also locked) of his big mahogany desk. As advertised, its handy-dandy mounting system “allowed the compact but incredibly tough safe to be easily moved from desk drawer to car trunk to airplane” headed for Bermuda. Or Jamaica. Maybe Mexico. Someplace where it never snowed and you could drink umbrella drinks all day long and never pay taxes.

Of course, the two thousand dollars Mrs. Rollison had wanted deposited in her passbook savings account last Friday was properly credited to her account first thing Monday morning. For the checks in Mrs. Mack's teller drawer, he just took a “cash advance” from the vault, knowing the money would be returned before the start of the business week (he usually swung by the bank on his way home from the airport on the Sunday night of his Vegas weekends).

Mr. Weitzel leaned back in his padded leather chair and put his feet up on the wooden deck of his boat-sized desk. He wished he could suspend the bank's no-smoking policy and fire up a big fat cigar; then he'd look just like Uncle Pennybags from Monopoly—the guy on the old Chance card that said, “Bank Pays You Dividend of $50.”

Yep, when you were the banker, life was a winning game. You took your Chance cards. You made your money.

Chuck Weitzel didn't have a care in the world.

His eyes drifted over to the computer screen on top of his desk. All the bank's security cameras fed into his office, where the digital images were recorded and stored on the hard drive of his computer. Through the matrix of windows on his screen, he could keep his eyes on the ATMs, the lobby, the vault room, the drive-up window, the tellers in their brass cages. Everything.

Including a shaggy-haired, redheaded boy walking across the lobby.

Apparently, Mrs. Mack thought today was “bring your troublemaker son to work” day.

RILEY SKIPPED THE PIZZA PALACE
after school.

The rest of his gang had gone over to Mongo's house to check out Noodle, the goldendoodle, which Riley thought sounded like a new kind of cheese curl.

“It's a man-made dog,” Jake had explained. “Part golden retriever, part poodle.”

“So why didn't they call it a golden poodle?” asked Briana.

“Probably because it would sound too much like a Chinese restaurant,” said Riley. “And trust me—you do not want to know what the Golden Poodle puts in its secret recipes.”

Jake did a quick Google search on his smartphone
and let everybody know that “goldendoodles were first bred in North America as a larger version of the popular cockapoo. Their nonshedding coats make them very appealing for families with allergies.”

Mongo's little sister was allergic to everything. Cats. Dogs. Peanuts. Her big brother's socks. Well, those things made everybody gag and sneeze.

So while the Gnat Pack headed over to the Montgomery house on their bikes to meet the fifteen-hundred-dollar dog, Riley pedaled to the bank to see his mom. He was hoping he could convince her to lift the ban on all actions against Gavin Brown because Riley really wanted to do what Jamal had suggested: he wanted to retrieve all the merchandise the bully had stolen from all those fifth graders.

First, it was the right thing to do.

And second, Riley did not enjoy feeling the way his chat with Jamal Wilson had left him feeling. He didn't like letting people down. “Protect your country, protect your family, protect your friends, and defend those who cannot defend themselves” was what his dad always told him. Well, right now, Riley wasn't doing any of those things. He was lying low and keeping his nose clean. It just wasn't who he was. He was a doer, not a lying-lower.

Riley Mack didn't feel like
Riley Mack
anymore.

In fact, he hadn't felt like such a big-time disappoint
ment since he turned nine and stuffed an ice-cream cake into his underpants.

Since Friday was payday for a lot of people in Fairview, the bank lobby was extremely crowded. Long lines snaked across the marble floor as Riley rolled through the revolving brass door. He went to the back of the line for teller window three, figuring he had to wait his turn to see his mom, which would also give him time to perfect his pitch.

But, being a mom, Riley's mother sixth-sensed his presence the instant he entered the building and motioned for Riley to come up to her window right away.

Riley ducked his head, mumbled, “Excuse me” about a hundred times, and, basically, cut to the front of the line. He heard a bunch of grumbling from the grown-ups he passed, the people he was making wait even longer than they already knew they'd have to wait.

“Riley?” his mom asked when he made it to her window. “Is everything okay, hon?”

“Yeah. I just needed to talk to you.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Kind of.”

“Can it wait?”

Riley heard a soft whirr come from somewhere up near the ceiling. He glanced to his right and saw a spy camera aimed straight at his mother's teller window.
The lens rotated as it zoomed in for a tighter shot.

Great. Now he was getting his mom in trouble. What a day. He was disappointing everybody, especially himself.

“Riley? I don't have a whole lot of time. I really need to take care of my customers. What's wrong?”

“It's nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yeah. I just, you know, thought I'd drop by.”

“On Friday? During rush hour?”

“Yeah.”

His mom did not look pleased.

Neither did the man who suddenly appeared behind her in the teller cage. It was her boss, the bank manager, Mr. Weitzel, the guy named Chuck who, for some bizarro reason, wanted everybody, even Riley, to call him Chip. Mr. Weitzel was glaring at Riley.

“Riley?” his mother said again. “We're kind of busy right now.”

“Riiight. Never mind. I needed some money for pizza but I just remembered that Mongo owes me five bucks so I'll get it from him. See you at home.” He waved at the scowling man looming behind his mom. “So long, Mr. Weitzel—I mean, Chip.”

He pivoted, bolted across the lobby, and spun through the revolving door like he was riding a playground merry-go-round. He came flying out the other
side and slid across a pile of dog mess somebody forgot to pooper-scoop off the sidewalk.

Yep, just when Riley didn't think he could feel any lamer, he did. He was a total lame-o. The lame-inator.

He swiped his sneaker clean on the curb, unlocked his bike from a streetlamp, and was about to ride home so he could stick his head inside a brown paper bag and hide his lameosity, when his cell phone started buzzing.

It was Jake.

“Riley, we have an emergency.”

“What's up?”

“Noodle is gone.”

“The goldendoodle?”

“Yeah. Somebody stole her. Mongo's little sister says it was a Martian.”

MONGO HUGGED HIS MOM AND
patted her on the back.

She was about a foot shorter than him.

“C'mon, Mom. Don't cry.”

Mongo's mom kept crying, burrowing her face in her enormous son's equally enormous armpit, which muffled her sobs and must've smelled pretty bad, too.

Riley was hanging out with Mongo's sister, six-year-old Emma, who was rocking in a wicker chair up on the porch while her mother and big brother hugged it out on the steps. Briana and Jake were down on the lawn, looking up at Riley. Riley gave them the “hang on a second” hand signal.

“So, Emma,” he said, “what's this about a Martian?”

“A space alien hopped over the fence and grabbed Noodle and put her in his rocket ship and blasted off.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. It sounded like this!” Emma puckered up her lips and blew. Riley got a faceful of spittle. Emma's sound effects were the same as the motorboat noises one might accidentally make in the bathtub after eating too many baked beans.

“This space creature,” Riley asked next. “What'd it look like?”

“He had Ping-Pong ball eyes the size of hard-boiled eggs!” said Emma.

“Uh-huh.”

“His skin was green.”

“Huh.”

“His head was this tall!”

She held her hand higher than Abe Lincoln's top hat.

“And, and, and—he had two stumps where someone cut off his antlers.”

“Oh-kay. Big eyes. Big head. Antlers.”

“But the antlers were chopped off!”

“Right. Thanks, Emma.”

Riley turned to his friends on the lawn. Rolled his eyes. Mongo's little sister seemed just a wee bit wacked.

“Come inside, Emma!” said Mongo's mom. “I need to call the police. You need to tell them what happened.”

“You mean the Martian?”

“No—how you forgot to close the gate in the backyard and Noodle ran away.”

“But that's not what happened! The spaceman took Noodle to his spaceship.”

She started in with the lip-fart noises again.

Mrs. Montgomery scooted Emma into the house. Mongo and Riley came down the steps to join Briana and Jake in the yard.

“We need to check out the backyard,” said Riley. “See what's what.”

Mongo led the way around the house.

“What'd your mom say?” Riley asked him.

“Emma was in the back having a tea party with the puppy and a couple of my teddy bears. She left the gate open. Noodle made a break for it.”

“When'd this happen?”

“Right before we got here,” said Jake. “Maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

They reached the backyard. Saw the plastic teakettle and cups. The open gate in the fence.

“Okay,” said Riley. “We need to make a poster. Flyers. I want Noodle's face on every telephone pole and parking meter in town.”

“We should offer a reward,” said Jake.

Briana gasped. “Wait, you guys! What if some sicko
stole
the puppy precisely because they knew there'd be a reward!”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Riley. “Emma's alien could've been a dognapper in a Halloween Martian mask.”

“I'll kill him!” said Mongo, his whole body seizing up with rage, the way it used to back in fifth grade when kids made fun of his backpack bears.

“I imagine you will,” said Riley. “But, first, let's get your dog back.”

“Then can I kill the creep?”

Riley patted his friend's ribs. He couldn't reach his shoulder. “We'll talk.”

“Should I close the gate?” asked Jake.

“Let's leave it open,” said Riley. “There's always a chance Noodle will sniff her way home.”

They returned to the front of the house. Mrs. Montgomery was on the porch, screaming at the telephone clenched in her fist.

“Too busy? Well, you tell Chief Brown that maybe next time he is raising money for the Fairview Police Benevolence Fund we'll be too busy to contribute!” She yanked the phone away from her ear as if it had stung her. “They hung up on me!”

“Mrs. Montgomery?” said Riley. “Jake here is going to put together some flyers. We need to know: Is there a reward?”

“Yes.”

“How much, Mom?” asked Mongo.

“I don't know. What do you think, Riley?”

“Well, I don't think we need to name a number. A big one might motivate the wrong sort of people, if you catch my drift.”

“Riley's right!” said Briana—very dramatically, of course. “Dognappers! Pooch pinchers! Beagle burglars!”

Now Riley gave Briana the “cut” sign and smiled up at Mrs. Montgomery. “We'll just say ‘reward' and list your phone number.”

“Check,” said Jake, who was taking notes.

“And Jake? No names. Just Mrs. M's phone number.”

“Gotcha!”

“Mrs. Montgomery,” said Riley, “can you give us any distinguishing characteristics for Noodle? Something that might make her easier to spot?”

“Well, she has golden, curly hair. Big soft eyes.”

“And a wet teddy bear nose,” added Mongo.

“Anything more specific?” asked Riley.

“Does she have any tattoos?” said Jake, who watched way too many
CSI
shows on TV.

“No, but she was wearing her pink collar,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “The one in the photograph I showed you kids.”

“The one with all the bling?” asked Briana.

“The what?”

“Sparkly things,” said Riley.

“You know,” said Briana. “
Bling-bling.
That's the sound a sparkle makes in a toothpaste commercial.”

“I see,” said Mongo's mom. “Yes, she was wearing her jeweled collar.”

“Make that
fake
jeweled collar,” Riley said to Jake. “Real jewels might also draw the interest of the wrong individuals.”

“Got it,” said Jake.

“Okay, people,” said Riley. “We need to move quickly if we want to stay ahead of the dog. Alert your parental units. Could be a long night. I recommend we cover a three-mile radius moving out from this point. We don't get any hits, we call up more troops, cover a wider area. Tomorrow morning, we go door to door if we have to. Mrs. Montgomery?”

“Yes, Riley?”

“Before you take off in your car and search for Noodle…”

“How did you know…”

“It's your next logical move, ma'am. But, before you do, I suggest you call the folks at the Fairview Humane Society's animal shelter. It's possible somebody found Noodle and took her to the shelter. I'm guessing she doesn't have her tags yet?”

“That's right. I only picked her up last week. I haven't had time….”

“Understandable,” said Riley calmly, because he
didn't want Mrs. Montgomery to feel as bad as
he
had when Jamal Wilson pointed out how he was letting everybody down.

“We called her Noodle,” said Mongo, “because it rhymes. With
doodle
.”

Riley nodded. It was pretty clear that even though Noodle had only been with the Montgomery family for a little over a week, she had already stolen their hearts.

Mrs. Montgomery called the animal shelter, and then she and Emma took off in the car.

Riley and his crew went to Jake's house, put together the poster, and printed it up.

Then they spread out. Canvassed the town.

When Riley's mom got off work, she helped, too. So did Jake's and Briana's parents.

By eleven p.m., every utility pole, parking meter, and shop window in Fairview was covered.

At midnight, Riley finally went to bed, totally frustrated.

Noodle was still missing. Not one person had seen the puppy or her flashy pink collar.

That all changed first thing Saturday morning.