Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble Read online

  “What?” said Briana. “You think they used the Brookhaven golf course as a garbage dump?”

  “Totally.”

  It was crazy, but it might make sense. It would also explain why Curly and Larry had mentioned a “landfill” project.

  “So,” said Riley, “you think Mr. Paxton had the landscaping guys from Ace Construction, a Xylodyne company, rip up this golf course and turn it into a dumping ground for, I don’t know, toxic chemicals from one of their plastic plants or something?”

  Mr. Sowicky nodded. “That’s what’s killing the fish, little dudes. It’s why Paxton pushed for the total golf course makeover the minute he became club president. Xylodyne Dynamics needed a top-secret landfill, a place where they could dump some of their seriously evil garbage!”

  29

  “IN SHORT,” SAID RILEY, “SINCE we can’t dig up the golf course, we need Curly and Larry to dig it up for us.”

  “Who?” said Mongo.

  “These two teeny-tiny construction workers we met,” said Briana.

  “They’re not tiny,” said Riley.

  “Um, the tubby one is like four feet tall. And the other one, the one who never learned to breathe through his nose, he might be pushing four and a half, but only because his work boots have heels that are like three inches tall.”

  Riley could not dispute Briana’s observations.

  The two of them had just returned from the country club to join up with Jake, Mongo, and Jamal down in Jake’s basement.

  “You really think they buried something bad under the golf course?” said Mongo.

  “Bad?” said Briana. “Try torrific!”

  “Torrific?” said Jamal. “I’m afraid I am not familiar with that expression, Briana.”

  “It means terrible and horrific. Look it up.”

  “Oh, I will,” said Jamal. “I will.”

  “You guys?” said Riley. “I need your undivided attention. The new plan I’ve worked out is extremely complex. If just one piece is out of place, the whole house of cards comes tumbling down.”

  “What’s it called?” asked Mongo eagerly.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s the name of the new plan?”

  Okay. That was the one thing Riley hadn’t thought about.

  “Um, Operation Whack-A-Mole.”

  “Really?” said Jamal. “Does this new plan involve rodents with uncanny burrowing ability?”

  “No. Just a lot of holes.”

  “We could call it Operation Swiss Cheese,” suggested Mongo. “That has lots of holes, too!”

  “Fine. Operation Swiss Cheese.”

  “How about Operation Mulligan?” said Jamal. “See, in golf, a Mulligan is a do-over; a shot that isn’t counted against your score. And since our first shot, Operation Stink Bomb, was so lousy, I believe we are in serious need of a Mulligan.”

  “Fine,” said Riley. “The new plan is called Operation Mulligan. Now, then—”

  “Stew,” said Mongo. “I like mulligan stew.”

  “I liked Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel when I was little,” said Jake.

  “The book?” gushed Briana. “Me! Too! Remember when the steam shovel had to become the furnace because it forgot to build a ramp when it dug—”

  “Guys?” said Riley. “Seriously. We need to pull together on this caper or, I guarantee, it will not work. Worse, Mr. Sowicky will stay fired while Mr. Paxton and his Xylodyne pals keep on polluting that creek and our swimming hole.”

  Nobody said anything for a very long thirty seconds.

  “So,” said Briana, finally, “how does Operation Mulligan work?”

  “Yeah,” said Jake. “I’m in, whatever it is.”

  “Me, too,” said Mongo.

  “I’ve been in,” pouted Jamal. “It’s why I came up with the name in the first place.”

  “Okay,” said Riley, “first things first. We need to make sure Mr. Paxton won’t be snooping around the golf course tomorrow. Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you find his phone number?”

  “Home or office?”

  “Office. Xylodyne Dynamics. We know Mr. Paxton is still at the country club, dealing with the fallout from Operation Stink Bomb.”

  Jake clacked his keyboard. “Got it. His direct line. And his executive assistant is Ms. Ginger J. Bowes.”

  “Briana?”

  “Nyes?” She was already in character.

  “Let’s find out what Mr. Paxton has on his calendar tomorrow.”

  Jake handed Briana a headset patched into the pitch filter and then passed around wireless earbuds so the rest of the gang could eavesdrop on the call.

  The phone made two soft, purring rings and was snatched up.

  “Mr. Paxton’s office, this is Ms. Bowes speaking. How may I direct your call?”

  “Ginger?”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Paxton. How are things at the country club?”

  “Fine. Dandy.”

  “Were you able to take care of that . . . issue?”

  “Nyes. The lad from the EPA lent a hand. We fired the head groundskeeper.”

  “Good for you, sir.”

  “Nyes. Firing people is what I do best. Remember that, Ginger.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  “So, tell me: What does my calendar look like tomorrow?”

  “The same as it looked this morning when we went over it.”

  “And you expect me to remember what we discussed this morning? I’m a busy man, Ginger. I need an executive assistant who can answer my questions when I need them answered or reanswered!”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. You will be with General Joseph C. Clarke, from the Pentagon, all day tomorrow.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “You two are touring the food processing plant from nine a.m. to noon.”

  “Nyes.”

  “Returning here for lunch in the executive dining room.”

  “And after lunch?”

  “You’re in the board room with General Clarke and the team from marketing.”

  “Hmmm. Busy day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Guess the general and I won’t be able to sneak away for a quick eighteen holes at the club, eh?”

  “Not until Saturday, sir. You and the general will be in the first foursome to hit the links when the course officially reopens at eleven a.m.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Ginger. Keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you, sir. And, if I may . . .”

  “Nyes?”

  “Have you been able to consider that cost of living adjustment we discussed?”

  “You mean your raise, Ginger?”

  “Yes, sir,” the secretary said meekly.

  “Very well, put yourself down for twenty percent. No. Wait a minute. Make that thirty percent.”

  “Thank you sir!”

  “Can you do my signature?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Then kindly put through the papers. Affix my signature. Buy yourself a new hat.”

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

  “And, Ginger?”

  “Sir?”

  “A word to the wise: If later today I should happen to ask you, once again, about my schedule, please do not remind me that we have already discussed it twice.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Good. And, that raise?”

  “Sir?”

  “Let’s make it easy on the boys down in accounting: just double whatever you’re making now.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Riley made the cut sign. Jake disconnected the call.

  Then the whole crew applauded, whistled, and hooted as Briana took a well-deserved bow.

  30

  “OKAY,” SAID RILEY, PACING AROUND the basement, “we know that Mr. Paxton won’t be anywhere near the country club again until Saturday morning.”

  “That’s good,” said Mongo. “Right?”

  “It’s be
tter than good. It’s perfect. Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Does your dad still have that Underground Surveyor Apparatus he brought to the beach last summer to look for buried treasure?”

  “It’s in the garage.”

  “Did he find any treasure?” asked Mongo.

  “Some bottle caps, a couple quarters, and a high school class ring from 1983.”

  “Awesome!”

  “Remind me of the USA’s capabilities,” said Riley.

  “It’s the best country on earth!” said Mongo.

  “I’m with Mongo,” said Jamal, leaning back in his swivel chair. “There is nothing this country cannot do.”

  “You guys?” said Riley. “I meant the Underground Surveyor Apparatus.”

  “Oh,” said Jamal. “That USA.”

  Riley turned to the head of his own personal Geek Squad. “Jake?”

  “Well, even though it may look like one, the USA is definitely not your typical beachcombing metal detector. In fact, Dad’s lab was testing it for the Army Corps of Engineers because they need to know what’s waiting for them underground before they build a bridge or a dam or whatever.”

  “What is this USA thingamajiggereedoo?” asked Briana.

  “You could call it a portable underground radar unit with Audio Response Targeting for heads-up detection and rapid target and depth estimation.”

  “Oh-kay,” said Briana. “I’ll call it that.”

  “It’s perfect for pinpointing tunnels, treasure, utilities—all sorts of underground anomalies. You can actually see what’s buried under the dirt.”

  “Including whatever Xylodyne may have buried under the ninth hole,” said Riley. “Do you know how to operate the underground radar?”

  “Not yet,” said Jake. “But I can learn. We still have the user’s manual.”

  “Mongo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to borrow that gold coin collection your grandfather gave you.”

  “Again?”

  “You’ll get it back. Just like last time.”

  “Will it help Mr. Sowicky get his job back and save the fish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay!”

  “Thanks, big guy. Jamal?”

  “What do you need, Riley Mack?”

  “A little sleight of hand.”

  Jamal pulled a silver dollar out of Briana’s ear.

  “Would you puh-leeeze stop doing that?” she groaned.

  “Not if the team needs me to do it for Operation Mulligan.”

  “Briana?” said Riley.

  “Yeah?”

  “First, we need some kind of security guard uniform for Mongo.”

  “Easy. We have that police officer Halloween costume he wore in the Unscrupulous-Candy-Store Sting. It’s in storage at my house.”

  “Perfect. Can you give it a shoulder patch with the Xylodyne Dynamics logo?”

  “Done. I’ll download the graphic off their website.”

  “Excellent. Can you also mock up this?” Riley handed her a sheet of paper with scribbles on it.

  “Is this like a treasure map?”

  “Yeah. But make it look more high tech. Work in the topographical map elements and contour lines. Give it the Xylodyne logo, too.”

  “When do you need the finished document?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Now he handed her two more sheets of paper. “These are your scripts. Get familiar with the first one. Record the second.”

  Briana glanced at the first script, studied the second. “You going for an authoritarian voice in script two, right? The kind of guy who won’t take no for an answer?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Easy-peasy. I’ll lay it down on a handheld digital recorder, so we can use it in the field.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Oh, you know what? We should blast this through the bullhorn or my poolside karaoke machine.”

  “Dag, girl,” said Jamal. “How many karaoke contests did you win?”

  “Just one. But the prizes were fantabulous! And guys?”

  “Yeah?” said Riley.

  “I should probably block out a little time before Saturday to rehearse for the big show.”

  “Take whatever you need.”

  “Okay. How about another month?”

  “You don’t need that much rehearsal,” said Riley. “You’re already amazing.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one rapping in a granny getup.”

  “For which,” said Jamal, “we are all glad.”

  Riley turned to Jake. “Can you figure out how to run that underground radar machine by ten tomorrow morning?”

  “I have a high degree of certainty in that regard.”

  “Um, is that a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how are we doing on GPS tracking devices?”

  Jake swiveled in his chair and opened up a steel filing cabinet. “We still have three in storage.”

  “Bring one tomorrow.”

  “Will do.”

  “Mongo? Jamal needs to practice with your gold coins before tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll run home and get them right away. They’re hidden in my secret shoebox. The one on the top shelf of my bedroom closet.”

  Riley turned to Jamal. “Can you do that coin-pulling stunt out of a hole in the ground instead of a hole in somebody’s head?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Mongo, Jake, and Briana—we’ll head up to the eighteenth hole at ten a.m. tomorrow morning.”

  “Why the eighteenth hole?” asked Briana.

  “That’s where Larry and Curly are working, remember?”

  “Ri-i-i-ight.”

  “Am I with you guys, too?” asked Jamal.

  “No. You’ll hang back at the ninth hole. Here’s your script. There’s a fake fight in it.”

  “All right. Fisticuffs!”

  “Be sure you bring your cell. When Briana gives the word, you’ll sneak up the blind side of the hill and start digging in the sand trap with a toy shovel and bucket.”

  “How come?”

  “Because, according to the treasure map Briana’s working up for us, the ninth hole is where Mr. Paxton buried all of his gold!”

  31

  EARLY FRIDAY, RILEY AND HIS whole crew crammed into Mongo’s golf cart and, once again, scooted through the hedges to avoid the country club’s main gate.

  “We’ll swing by the ninth hole and drop off Jamal first,” said Riley, steering the bouncing buggy onto the cart path. “Jamal? You’ve got your backstory down?”

  “Yes. I may, however, embellish it slightly.”

  “Just make it real,” said Briana. “Acting is believing!”

  “Oh, I believe,” said Jamal, “I believe I have heard you say that line before. Several times.”

  Riley took his foot off the accelerator and brought the quiet little cart to a stop.

  Jamal hopped out, pressing his Bluetooth into his ear, powering up his cell phone.

  “Mongo?” said Riley. “Sand bucket and shovel.”

  Mongo, who was really too huge to ride in golf carts, handed Jamal his baby sister’s beach toys. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” said Jamal. “What do I owe you for it?” He plucked a shiny gold coin out of thin air.

  “Careful,” suggested Jake. “That single American Eagle Gold Bullion Coin was worth fifteen hundred dollars this morning.”

  “Your grandfather gave you a coin collection worth thirty-six thousand dollars?” Jamal asked.

  “It’s for my college education,” Mongo said.

  Jamal shook his head. “All my grandfather ever gave me was a couple Butter Rum Life Savers. They had lint on them, man. Pocket lint.”

  “I’ll buy you a whole roll if we pull this thing off,” said Riley.

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. Hang here. We’ll be back in less than thirty minutes with Larry and Curly.”

  “Stik-O-Pep.”
<
br />   “Huh?”

  “I like Stik-O-Pep way more than Butter Rum.”

  “Good to know. Now go hide in the woods until Briana calls.”

  “Right.”

  Jamal jogged to the tree line, gold coins jingling in his cargo shorts the whole way.

  “Next stop, the eighteenth hole.” Riley stomped on the accelerator, cut the steering wheel hard to the right, went off the cart path, and whirred across the fairway, heading for the far forest.

  Fortunately, the Brookhaven Golf Course was still officially closed for renovations. There were no other golfers out on the fairway to yell at Riley for cutting doughnuts in their beautifully manicured grass.

  “Um, wh-wh-where are we g-g-going, Riley?” asked Briana, hanging on for dear life in the bucking backseat.

  “The eighteenth hole is on the far side of those trees. Jake? You ready to rock?”

  “A-a-a-ffirmative,” Jake stammered as the cart jounced across the bumpy grass. He was wearing a pretty heavy backpack loaded down with the underground radar gear and a laptop computer, all of it connected via thick cable to a flat metal dish attached to the end of a four-foot pole. When Jake slipped on his headphones, he looked exactly like the minesweeper in a bag of green army men.

  Riley eased off the power as the cart puttered into a patch of woods.

  “We’ll ditch the cart here for now. Briana? Stand by.”

  “Standing by.”

  Mongo raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mongo?”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Riley nodded toward the flapping flag of the eighteenth hole, barely fifty feet away. Larry and Curly were already on the far side of the green with their backhoe, dumping sand onto a patch of dirt that was about to become the final sand trap on the Brookhaven course. Both men were in their navy blue jumpsuits and yellow hardhats.

  “Your mission, Mongo, should you choose to accept it, is to be much, much bigger than either of those two construction workers.”

  “I accept!” Mongo said eagerly.

  “I hoped you would. Because we also need you to hide this underneath the seat of that backhoe.”

  Riley handed Mongo a real-time GPS tracking device. Since the high-tech gizmo wasn’t much bigger than a paperclip, it practically disappeared in the palm of Mongo’s humongous hand.