Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers (7 page)

BOOK: Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers
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THAT SAME SATURDAY MORNING, TWO
shady men sat hunkered behind the tinted windows of a battered blue van.

The driver had pulled into the perfect parking spot: directly across the street from the First National Bank of Fairview.

“You see what they're calling us?” said the one in the passenger seat, flipping through the back pages of a tabloid newspaper.

“Yeah,” said the driver, who was rolling a toothpick from one side of his lips to the other. “I seen it.”

“‘The Suburban Buckeye Bandits.'” The man in the
passenger seat angrily wadded up the paper. “I am not buckeyed.”

“I know this,” said the driver.

“I just have what they call a slight strabismus, on account of the fact that my two eyeballs are not properly aligned with each other. Got a little lack of coordination going on between the extraocular muscles is all.”

“Fred?” said the driver.

“Yeah, Otto?” said the passenger.

“Your strabismus there means you're cross-eyed, not buckeyed.”

“Oh. That true?”

“Yeah.”

“So why's the newspaper calling me a buckeye bandit?”

“On account of the fact we knocked off that string of banks back in Ohio.”

“So?”

“Ohio is the Buckeye State.”

“They got a lot of cross-eyed people in Ohio?”

“No, Fred. Buckeye is their nickname. On account of the many buckeye trees that once grew there and whatnot.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.”

The two men stared at the bank building some more. The driver took the toothpick out of his mouth and grinned.

“Looks like Chuck ‘call me Chip' Weitzel isn't as good with security as he is with the roulette wheel,” he said.

Now the two shady men both laughed. They had met Mr. Weitzel at a bar in Las Vegas. The banker had extremely minty breath. He had also given Otto and Fred his business card, said he ran “the bestest little bank” in the country. “Stop by sometime when you're back east. We can loan you enough money to get you completely out of debt.”

Otto and Fred had both laughed at the bad banker joke. Then they pocketed Mr. Weitzel's business cards and did their homework.

The First National Bank of Fairview—what bank manager Weitzel called “Fin-boff”—was ripe for the picking. Especially on Thursday nights after the branch received its weekly infusion of cash to handle the Friday-afternoon payday rush.

“We do the usual?” asked Fred, staring across the street at Mr. Weitzel's bank.

Otto nodded. “We case the joint for a couple days. Learn how to disarm the alarm.”

“Thursday night,” said Fred, picking up on Otto's
thread, “when the safe is loaded, we slip on our masks, go in the back door.”

“Once we're in the bank, you crack open the safe, I take out the security cameras.”

“We load up a few gym bags with moola-boola.”

“We waltz out the door.”

“We move on to the next sleepy little burb.”

Both men sank back in their seats and sighed. They were a well-oiled cash machine—an ATM that only made withdrawals.

AT NOON ON SATURDAY, RILEY
Mack's Operation Blind Date was in full swing.

Jake Lowenstein went home to set things up on his computer. Jamal Wilson would join him there in about an hour.

Riley, Briana, and Mongo headed downtown on their bikes.

“We need to buy Mongo a baseball hat,” said Briana, who was in charge of everybody's disguises, or costumes as she always called them, even though Riley and Mongo begged her not to. “His buzz cut is a total giveaway. The cap will cover it up.”

“I already have a baseball hat,” said Mongo, teetering
on his two-wheeler. He was so big and his bike so small, he looked like a clown at the circus. “Man, I wish I had a moped like that busboy Nick. I see him riding his motor scooter around town all the time, delivering pizzas. Looks like fun.”

“Totally,” said Riley.

“You guys?” said Briana. “We were talking baseball caps?”

“I told you,” said Mongo, his knees pumping up toward his nose, “I got one.”

“Yankees or Mets?”

“Yankees.”

“Well, the Fairview High School team is called the Furriers so you need a Furriers cap. You should have one, too, Riley, since you're playing the high school newspaper photographer. Ooh—you should wear yours backward!”

“Good point,” said Riley, as they cruised around the corner onto Main Street. “We'll go to Sports Town. They have all sorts of Furriers junk.”

The mascot for the Fairview High Furriers was a buck-toothed beaver wearing a puffy mink coat because the original settlers of Fairview had been fur trappers and traders.

Sports Town was one of a cluster of shops in the commercial blocks of Main Street across the street from the bank where Riley's mom worked. As they started
locking up their bikes, they saw the busboy from the Pizza Palace, Nick, come walking out of the local pet supply store toting two birdcages, one pink, and the other baby blue.

“How's it going, Nick?” said Riley.

“Great.”

“Cool,” said Riley. “You got birds?”

“Huh?”

Riley nodded toward the two portable parakeet palaces.

“Oh. Yeah. Boy and girl.”

“I get it,” said Mongo. “Blue and pink!”

“Yeah. Hey, Mongo, sorry about your mom's dog, man.” Nick gestured to one of the Lost Dog posters stapled to a nearby utility pole. “Bummer, dude. Totally.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, gotta book.”

“You workin' today, Nick?” asked Riley.

“Yeah. But not at the PP until later.” (Yes, the Pizza Palace had a very unfortunate nickname.)

Riley arched an eyebrow. “You've got a second job?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Here and there.”

“What kind of work?”

“This and that.”

In the distance, Riley heard a yappy dog bark.

“Later, dudes,” said Nick. He bustled up the sidewalk, holding his arms out wide so the bouncing birdcages didn't ding him in the hips.

“Let's go, you guys,” said Briana, leading the way up the sidewalk to Sports Town.

The front door of the pet supplies store swung open. A customer came out hugging a fifty-pound sack of dog food. Five dogs bolted out with him.

“Holy crappola!” a woman shouted inside the store.

The guy with the feed sack spun around and nearly tripped himself up as two dogs darted between his legs and dashed out into the street. One was a big, galumphing guy; the other a little white fur ball.

Two bug-eyed Chihuahuas with wildly curly hair sproinking up on top of their heads ran straight toward Briana.

“Grab the Speedy Gonzaleses,” Riley shouted over his shoulder as he and Mongo bounded into the street after the two dogs in the most immediate danger of being mowed down by a minivan. A fifth dog—a black Lab puppy with big floppy feet and long flappy ears—merrily loped down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

A college-aged girl sprinted out of the pet store.

“Help!” she shouted.

“Go after flopsy-wopsy,” said Riley as he corralled the white fluff ball in the middle of the street. “We've
got these other guys!” Mongo raised his hands to stop traffic as Riley scooped up the yappy lapdog.

The second escapee had gray fur on his muzzle, a shallow tummy, and bony ribs. He was frantically turning around and around in the middle of the road. He seemed pretty old so Riley crept up slow behind him. A car honked.

Yappy yipped.

The dog squatting in the middle of the road pooped.

The car horn blared again.

“Shut up!” Mongo shouted at the driver. “He needs a moment!”

“Easy, easy,” Riley said to the creaky dog finishing up its business on the solid yellow line. Poor guy. He wasn't trying to escape. He was just looking for the bathroom.

“You better clean up after your dog!” huffed a mom behind the wheel of her SUV. She, apparently, didn't like any traffic tie-up caused by unexpected doggy doo. Neither did her daughter. They were both scrunching up their noses and making poopy faces at Riley.

Smiling, still clutching the mop-haired pooch against his chest while bending down to escort the old guy by the collar, Riley gave the mom and daughter his sunniest smile. “I'll be back to clean it up. Just need to go get my pooper-scooper.”

“I got these guys!” shouted Briana, who was on the
sidewalk doing some kind of loose-limbed chicken dance, struggling to carry one squirming Chihuahua under each arm.

The girl from the pet store came up the sidewalk cuddling the floppy-eared Lab. The dog was manically licking her face like it was a pork-flavored lollipop. “Thank you, guys, so much!” she said, using her foot to open the door. “Can you help me put them back in their cages?”

“Sure,” said Riley.

“How'd they escape?” asked Briana, giggling because the two crazy-eyed Chihuahuas were nuzzling under her arms with their noses.

“I don't know,” said the girl. She was wearing a green polo shirt with
Mr. Guy's Pet Supplies
embroidered over the pocket. “I think somebody undid the latches on their cages. Two boys were in the store earlier. They said they wanted to look at hamster tunnels. I think they wanted to monkey around.”

“Where do you want these guys?” asked Briana.

“Their crates are all back here. Near the dog food.”

“Are they for sale?” asked Riley.

“No. They're free—to a loving home.” She slid her frisky puppy into its crate and latched the door shut. “Of course, there's a small adoption fee. A donation to the animal shelter.”

“Works for me,” said Riley.

“Could these two little guys ride in my purse like they do in Beverly Hills?” asked Briana. “I saw what's-her-name, the movie star, in
People
magazine and she went shopping with two Chihuahuas in her handbag!”

“Would you like to adopt them and find out?” asked the pet shop lady.

“Maybe. I'll have to check with my mom and dad.”

“Great. Oh, by the way, I'm Jenny Grabowski. If your folks say yes, just let the store know. Even if I'm not working that day, I'll come in and set up the adoption papers.”

“Cool,” said Briana, somewhat reluctantly handing off her two wiggly tail waggers.

“I'm Riley Mack,” said Riley. “That's Briana Bloomfield and Hubert ‘Mongo' Montgomery.”

Jenny shook their hands after the last cage was closed. “I can't thank you guys enough for jumping in like that.”

Riley shrugged off the compliment. “We see a job that needs doing, we do it.”

“And,” added Mongo, “we all like dogs.”

“Yeah,” said Briana. “Especially Amigo and Pepe.”

Everybody else looked confused.

“I gave mine names,” she explained.

Ms. Grabowski smiled. “You talk it over with your parents, Briana. I'll call my friend Dr. Langston at the
Humane Society, tell her we're holding Amigo and Pepe for you.”

“Thanks!”

“Well, we gotta run,” said Riley.

“Yeah,” said Mongo. “I gotta buy a baseball hat. We need it to find
my
lost dog.”

Ms. Grabowski nodded, even though she probably had no idea what Mongo was talking about.

“Thanks again,” she said. “And if you ever need anything, let me know. I owe you, guys—big-time.”

“Thanks,” said Riley. “We'll make a mental note.”

In fact, as soon as he hit the sidewalk, Riley jotted an entry in the little spiral book he carried to record “favors owed.”

He didn't realize how soon he'd be cashing this one in.

ACROSS THE STREET, CHIEF JOHN
Brown strode into the First National Bank of Fairview like he owned the place.

Heck, he strode into every place that way. This was his town. He was the law. When he said jump, people said, “How high?” and “Off what bridge, sir?”

Riley Mack's mother was working teller window three. No wonder the boy was such a troublemaker. It was a Saturday, school was out, and here she was at work instead of at home looking after her troublemaking son while her husband was off playing soldier boy over in Afghanistan.

The chief shook his head. Idle hands were the devil's
tools. Kids with nothing to do got into nothing but trouble. That's why John Brown made his boy, Gavin, earn his keep, gave him a monthly quota of “second-hand treasures” to be obtained for his grandmother's antiques tent at the flea market. Kept the boy busy and, at the same time, kept the chief's mom in food and chewing tobacco, which meant Chief Brown didn't have to worry about buying those things for her.

Money, of course, was what brought him to the bank on a Saturday when he was supposed to be out writing up fire code violations for shopkeepers who didn't contribute enough money to his special Police Morale Booster Fund.

“Is Mr. Weitzel available?” he said with a smile to the young woman seated at the customer service desk.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No. But he's going to be very glad to see me. Just tell Chipper that Chief John Brown is here.”

“Just a minute, sir.” She pressed a button on her phone while the chief hitched up his pants importantly.

“And rustle us up some doughnuts and a fresh pot of coffee.” He winked at her before she even answered. “Thanks, doll.”

 

As expected, Chip Weitzel saw Chief Brown right away.

“John! Good to see you!”

They pumped hands.

“You got a good grip, Chip.”

“Thanks! Please have a seat.”

As instructed, the customer service gal brought in a plate of doughnuts and a pot of fresh coffee.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

The chief didn't answer right away. He wanted to toy with Chip a little. Make him sweat. See him squirm.

“That Mrs. Mack out there working window three?”

“Yes, sir, it sure is.”

“Pretty gal.”

“Uhm-hmm,” said the banker. “Pretty as a peach. If, you know, you find seasonal summer fruits attractive.”

The chief leaned back in the leather chair. Listened to its rich crinkle. “I didn't know you worked Saturdays, Chip.”

“Oh, yes, indeedy. We're open ten to three. Makes it easier for working folks to do their banking, and the ones with jobs are the ones who actually have money. Heh, heh, heh.”

When Weitzel laughed, the chief got a whiff of something minty and fresh.

“You weren't here last Saturday,” said the police chief.

“Pardon?”

“I came in last weekend. You weren't here.”

“Riiiiight,” said Weitzel, flipping backward through his desk calendar. “Last Saturday. Right. Almost forgot.
Big bank management symposium. I was out of town. Business trip. Now, what can I do you for, chief?”

“Need a loan.”

“All righty. Home improvements?”

“Nope.”

“New car?”

“Nope.”

“College tuition for your boy?”

“Nope. I need a small business loan.”

“And what sort of business are we talking about?”

“A surefire moneymaker.”

“Well, we like those. What exactly does this business do?”

“Sorry. That's confidential.”

“Well, how much money were you looking for?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Mr. Weitzel pushed a stack of forms across the desk.

“All righty. I just need you to fill in this loan application.”

“No you don't, Chip.”

“Uh, yes. Sorry. We do. The bank always needs paperwork to process—”

“Not for this. This is a very unique, very lucrative business opportunity that more or less fell into my lap. You in or out?”

“Well, John, I'm not sure. This is very out of the ordinary. To come and ask the bank to loan you—”

“I don't want the bank's money, Chip. I want yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“You got ten thousand dollars to spare, don't you? Shoot, you probably got that much tucked away somewhere in your desk drawer.”

Got him. The chief could see Weitzel's Adam's apple bob up and down as he gulped.

“Suppose I was interested in your, uh, proposition?” The banker's voice sounded squeaky. “What would you offer as collateral to guarantee the loan?”

The chief reached into his back pants pocket. Pulled out a folded-over, crumpled envelope.

“These.”

He turned the envelope upside down. A dozen grainy security camera photos tumbled out.

“What are they?” said Weitzel, pretending not to know what he was looking at.

“Pictures of you. Last weekend. In Las Vegas. Gambling with a whole mess of cash that may not have been yours. You see, Chip, I may spend
my
weekends in Fairview, but I have friends everywhere.”

BOOK: Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers
7.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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