Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers (6 page)

AT 9:01 A.M. ON SATURDAY,
Jamal Wilson sent Riley Mack an urgent text message with a photo attached.

Riley called Jamal back at 9:02 a.m.

“Where are you?”

“The flea market in Sherman Green,” Jamal whispered back. “Near the gazebo.”

“Which booth?”

“The sign says Grandma's Antiques. You see that Lava Lamp in the picture I sent you, Riley Mack?”

“Yeah.”

“She's got my iPods, too, man! Only she messed with the engraving on the back. Says, ‘This is mini Jam son' because she scratched out a bunch of the letters
in ‘This is mine, Jamal Wilson' and changed the
e
in
mine
to an
i
!”

“Hang tight, Jamal. Don't say anything to anybody. This is a whole lot bigger than you think.”

“Oh, is that so? Because I think it's colossal, enormous, elephantine!”

“Jamal?”

“Yeah?”

“Chill. I'm on my way.”

 

Riley's mom had to work Saturdays at the bank. That meant he was on his own.

He grabbed his bike—a fire-engine-red Frantic with twenty-inch wheels, aluminum rims, mud flap fenders, and BMX pads—and headed over to Sherman Green, a small park about a half mile from his house on Maple Lane. Every weekend, the town hosted a farmer's market and flea fair. Vendors set up canopied booths and sold everything from goat cheese and apple cider to embroidered blouses and grandfather clocks. The tents on stilts, some with flapping banners and fluttering flags, surrounded a small gazebo in the center of the park, making Sherman Green look like a pop-up Renaissance festival.

Riley chained his bike to a rack and headed into the open-air flea fair. He passed a guy selling sand candles,
a lady hawking perfume, and what seemed like a million jewelry tents. As he neared the gazebo, he saw a weedy patch cluttered with crap. Mirrors, baskets, chairs, garden statuary, floor lamps with beaded shades. Behind the price-tagged trash, he saw a sign in frilly froufrou letters:

 

Grandma's Antiques

One Man's Trash

Is Another Man's Treasure

 

Make that, “One kid's stolen iPod is another kid's bargain,”
thought Riley.

Grandma, or whoever was moving the merchandise, had three white tents linked together to cover at least ten cafeteria-sized tables piled high with junk: old tin signs, musty magazines, chipped crockery, an avocado-green coffeemaker, discarded Christmas decorations—a whole landfill's worth of yesterday's garbage.

As Riley moved closer, he saw a nasty old lady with a red-and-white checkered kerchief covering her head. Her nose was the size and shape of a yam. Her baggy cheeks resembled sagging bags of mud. Her eyes were tight black olive pits and her mouth was furrowed in a frown so deep it made her chin look like the one on a
ventriloquist's dummy.

She had to be Grandma.

“Pssst! Riley Mack! Over here, man!”

It was Jamal. Hiding behind a rack of handbags in the booth directly across from Grandma's Antiques.

“What took you so long?”

“Had to bike it. My mom's working today.”

“My mom dragged me here. She digs the local produce. I ditched her back at the goat yogurt and rutabagas.”

“Where'd you snap the shot you sent?” asked Riley.

“In the back of Grandma's tent, man. Over there on the right.”

Riley nodded. Over at Grandma's, he saw a man hold up an antique glass bowl to examine it. The old woman slugged him in the arm. This, of course, startled the man, who almost fumbled the bowl but caught it before it crashed.

“You break it, you buy it!” snarled the old woman, right before she spit out some brown, stringy saliva.

“How much?” the man asked when he'd regained his balance.

“If you have to ask”—another chocolaty spit—“you can't afford it.”

Gross. She was chewing tobacco.

“I'll give you ten bucks for it.”

“Ten bucks?” She snatched the bowl out of the man's
hands. “Beat it, you piker. I sell serious merchandise to serious collectors. You want something for ten bucks, go buy yourself a loaf of banana bread.”

“Come on,” said Riley. “We need to take a closer look at that table filled with stolen loot.”

“It's all there, man!” said Jamal. “Everything on the list. The iPods, Rodman John's robot, Sarah Clare's kickboard scooter.”

“I'm interested in the jewelry.”

“That's back there, too. Swatch watches, that ten-karat gold cupcake necklace.”

“I'm mostly interested in the diamonds.”

“Huh?”

“In the picture you sent, I saw what looked like a dog collar.”

“Nah. I don't think Gavin Brown stole a fifth grader's dog collar.”

“This one is covered with pink bling.”

Riley and Jamal entered the tents.

“Don't touch anything, you rug rats,” snapped the grumpy old woman. “Where the blazes are your parents?”

“Busy,” said Riley, pulling a fifty-dollar bill out of his pocket, flipping it up between his first two fingers. “I'm looking to buy my dog something special for his birthday. Got any dog collars? Maybe something, oh, I don't know—sparkly?”

“You're in luck, Red,” said the granny, with another syrupy spit. “Something like that just came in. Check it out. On the back table, there.”

“Thanks. Come on, Jimmy.”

Riley led the way. Jamal followed.

“Why you callin' me Jimmy?” he whispered. “My name's Jamal….”

“Shhh. The less she knows about who we really are, the better.”

“Where'd you get that fifty-dollar bill, man?”

“My grandparents. Two Christmases ago.”

“And you haven't spent it yet?”

“Nope. It's my ‘flash cash.' Comes in handy.”

“So how come she called you Red?”

Riley jabbed a quick thumb up at his hair.

“That ain't red, man. That's orange. Maybe auburn or tawny chestnut. You know what those words mean?”

“Yeah. Red.”

They reached the table.

“See? It's all there. What are you gonna do, Riley Mack?”

Riley didn't answer right away. He picked up the pink “diamond” doggy collar and tugged a copy of the Lost Dog flyer out of his jeans.

“Now what're you doing?”

“Making sure.”

“Of what?”

“That Gavin Brown has branched out.” Yep. The collar on the table was the collar in the photo. “Seems he's not just stealing merchandise from fifth graders these days. He's snatching dogs from kids in kindergarten, too.”

“Hey!” shouted the old lady. “Don't play with that. You break it, you bought it.”

Riley smiled. He was ready to go back and have a few choice words with the yam-nosed old hag. Ask her who her supplier was. See if the name Gavin Brown rang a bell.

He took one step forward.

Froze.

Chief Brown strode into the tent. He hugged the old woman and kissed her on her wrinkled cheek.

“Good morning, Mom,” said the chief. “How's business?”

RILEY SAID SO LONG TO
Jamal and called an emergency meeting of his crew—in the parking lot of the middle school because the Pizza Palace didn't open till noon on Saturdays.

Yes, he had promised his mom and his dad that he'd stay away from Gavin Brown. But right was right, and wrong was wrong. Stealing a puppy from one of Riley's best buds? That was definitely wrong and needed a little righting.

“In short,” said Riley, “we can call off the search party. Gavin Brown stole Noodle. He gave her collar to his grandmother to sell in her junk tent.”

“I'm going to hurt Brown so bad!” said Mongo,
slamming his fist into his palm. “His new name will be Black-and-blue!”

“That's the wrong move,” said Riley. “If we push Gavin, he'll just deny it, go running to his daddy. If we push too hard, maybe he hurts the dog.”

Jake, tucked inside his hoodie, nodded. “It would be in keeping with his sociopathic character.”

“But, Riley,” whined Briana, “we
have
to do
something
!”

“Don't worry. We will. The Browns are not getting away with this.”

“Thank you,” said Mongo.

“Now then,” said Riley, “I figure there are two ways we can play this thing. One, we do what we've been doing. We keep the posters up; maybe make some new ones where the word
Reward
is bigger, bolder. In a couple days, when they think Mongo's mom is super desperate and willing to pay whatever they ask, someone, probably not Gavin or the chief, but someone working for the Browns will make the call. When they do…”

Briana gasped. Shot up her arm. She knew this answer. “We call the police!”

The boys all arched their eyebrows. Stared at her.

“Um, Briana?” said Jake. “Chief Brown
is
the police.”

“Oh. Right.
Duh.
My bad.”

“When the caller makes contact,” said Riley, “we
find out where the money drop is set to take place.”

Mongo raised his bicycle up over his head with both hands. Started thrashing it around. “And then we ambush the guy and jump him and kick him and…”

Mongo only stopped because Riley was shaking his head.

“We don't do that?” Mongo said, gently lowering the bike.

“No,” said Riley. “You give him the cash and take your dog home.”

“That's it?”

“Yep. That's all
you
do. Meanwhile, Jake, Briana, and I video the whole transaction. We tail the dognapper. We follow the money all the way back to Brown's house, no matter how many stops it makes along the way or how many couriers relay it back to poppa. When we have proof, we take it to some friends of my father's, former soldiers now employed by the FBI.”

“Why don't we just call those guys right now?” said Jake.

“Right. Dognapping. I believe it is currently at the top of the FBI's priority list, right up there with terrorism and counterfeiting.”

“Got it,” said Jake. “We wait. Till we have solid proof.”

Mongo's eyes widened in anticipation. “So what's the second option?”

Riley smiled and pulled a sheaf of paper out of his jeans jacket. He had another devilish gleam in his eyes. “The second option is a little more complicated. A little more fun. A little more what we do best.”

“Fabtastic!” said Briana. “Spill.”

Riley passed around the stack of papers. “I just worked this up. Ran off a couple copies at the drugstore. I call it Operation Blind Date.”

“Nice,” said Jake.

“I likee, I likee,” added Briana.

“What do we do?” asked Mongo.

“We convince Gavin to give our friend Briana here a certain goldendoodle.”

“We do?” said Briana. “How?”

“Gavin won't know it's
you
he's giving it to. Now, to get this ball rolling, we need to case the high school. This afternoon. There's a big baseball game. Crosstown rivals. Fairview versus Western Prep. Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“We need to get Mongo into the stands.”

“No problem. I'll dummy up a ticket with a legit bar code.”

“Good. Mongo, you're in the cheering section. Up with the freshmen. We give you a little lip fuzz, maybe a dorky Fairview High baseball cap to help you pass as a ninth grader. I want you sitting a
couple rows behind Brown.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Reconnaissance mission. Briana? You'll work the crowd. I'll line you up a gig selling peanuts and Cracker Jack. Roam the stands. Keep one eye on Gavin Brown, the other eye on whoever he has his eye on.”

“Oh-kay,” said Briana. “I have this red-and-white striped apron and a paper hat that'll make me look very concessionairey.”

“Works for me.”

“But how do I get the vendor job?”

“I know this guy who runs the food stand. He owes me a favor ever since I helped him recover his popcorn popper.”

“Where was it?”

“You don't want to know. While you two are in the stands, I'll be down on the field with a camera. Jake?”

“You need a press pass?”

“You read my mind. I'll also need your camera. The one with the really long lens.”

Jake made a note. “No problem. You sure Brown will be at the game?”

“Positive,” said Riley. “Before Jamal and I left the antiques tent, I heard the chief tell Grandma Brown that ‘Gavin has the rest of the day off.' Said he was going to ‘the big baseball game because he has a crush
on one of the cheerleaders.' Granny was cool with that. Said, ‘I can't move half the crap he hauls in, anyway.' She wanted more plasma screen TVs, fewer karaoke microphones.”

“You want me at the game?” asked Jake.

“No. We need you to babysit Jamal Wilson.”

“Come again?”

“He's in on this thing, on account of the stash of fifth-grader swag Grandma's peddling in her pup tent. He can help you on the computer, too.”

“I don't know….”

“He's a good kid. Smart. Very manually dexterous. Worked a Rubik's Cube in under a minute.”

“No. Way!” said Briana.

“Way. He can also crack locks.”

“For real?” said Mongo. “Like in the movies?”

“For real,” said Riley.

“Okay. He can hang at my house,” said Jake.

“Excellent. Once we dig up the intel, we'll need you guys to find her phone number.”

Jake furrowed his brow. “So, um, whose number, exactly, are we looking for again?”

“Whoever this cheerleader is that Gavin Brown has a mad crush on.”

“No problem. You tell me her name, I'll tell you her landline, cell, fax, whatever. I can even fish for her email, Twitter, and Facebook pages, too.”

“No thanks. All we need is her phone number.”

“Um, pardon me for asking, Riley,” said Briana, “but, why, all of a sudden, do you want some high school hottie's phone number?”

He smiled at Briana. “So
you
can call her.”