Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers Page 3

  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.”

  6

  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 th
e 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.

  7

  RILEY MACK HAD BEEN HAULED down to police headquarters a few times before, so he knew how to find the drink machine and where they hid the cookies.

  Of course Chief Brown had told him to wait “right here in the holding area, son,” which was basically an empty cinderblock room with no windows, a table, a couple chairs, and a stack of wrinkled magazines—not to mention stinky shag carpet, the color of lima beans. Riley wondered if he’d die of mildew poisoning before his mom showed up to spring him free, but he was keeping his cool and would do as he was told.

  He had already bopped down the hall, bought himself a nice cold soda, and snagged a couple chocolate chip cookies out of the secret snack cabinet.

  Drink finished, cookie crumbs dusted off his pants, he checked out the magazine lying on the top of the heap of tired old reading material. The cover showed a U.S. Army Special Forces commando with long hair and a bushy red beard. Goggles up, he was casually corralling a pack of enemy combatants, holding his rifle tight but easy against his chest. The guy looked like a pirate, with a camo bandanna and a daring glint in his eyes.

  It wasn’t Riley’s dad, but it could have been.

  His father, Colonel Richard Mack, who everybody called Mack, was currently stationed with the Special Forces over in Afghanistan, just outside Jalalabad—pretty close to the Pakistan border. Thanks to internet videoconferencing technology, Riley and his dad talked most nights—chatting across several thousand miles and a half day’s worth of time zones.

  They’d definitely be talking tonight.

  Riley’s mom would make sure of that.

  Unless, of course, his dad was off doing something more dangerous than dealing with a high school freshman who liked to pick on fifth graders.

  “All the bad guys aren’t over here, Riley,” his dad once told him. “Protect your country, protect your family, protect your friends, and defend those who cannot defend themselves. And, while you’re doing it, try to enjoy the ride.”

  Yeah. Riley thought his dad was awesome.

  The first time Riley had been hauled to the police building was the only time he’d actually deserved it. A couple days before his ninth birthday, his father received new orders and shipped out to a far-off combat zone. That meant he wouldn’t be around to celebrate Riley’s big day with ice cream and cake.

  First, that made Riley sad. Next, it made him mad. Then, he did something extremely bad.

  On the morning of his ninth birthday, Riley went to the supermarket and stole a whole ice-cream cake, which he stuffed down the front of his pants. Riley had always been clever. Cunning. But that day, he was actually kind of stupid.

  First of all, an ice-cream cake is a pretty huge thing to smuggle out of a store inside your pants. Second, the ice cream melted quickly, so wherever Riley walked, he dribbled an easy-to-follow trail of sticky goo. He was busted before he made it past the baggers.

  He and his dad had a long, long talk on their laptops that night.

  Surprisingly, his father didn’t yell or scream. Didn’t threaten to have Riley’s mom take away all his video games or lock him in his room till he turned eighteen. In fact, his father remained eerily calm.

  “Son,” he said, his voice coming out of the computer speakers strong and firm, “as you know, I cannot be there to babysit you twenty-four seven. Therefore, you have a choice. You can keep acting up, being selfish, causing your mother grief. Or you can use your incredible skills and talents to serve something bigger than yourself. Your choice, son. I suggest you choose wisely.”

>   The door opened.

  His mom came into the holding room.

  “Okay, kiddo. What happened this time?”

  Riley shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Riley, the chief of police said you were shoplifting again.”

  “The chief of police has a very vivid imagination.”

  His mom sank down into a chair with a heavy sigh. “Riley? Come on. This isn’t funny.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. Honest. Just ask Mr. Karpinski. He’s the manager at the Quick Pick.”

  “Did you threaten to send Mongo after his family?”

  “No. Mongo was already with me. Jake and Briana, too.”

  Another sigh. This one shot sideways out of her mouth. It sent her copper curls bouncing.

  “Why were you guys at the Quick Pick instead of the Pizza Palace doing your homework?”

  “The police chief’s son, Gavin Brown, was over there picking on this fifth grader.”

  “Gavin? I thought he graduated from middle school.”

  “He did. And only a year or two later than he was supposed to.”

  “So what’s he doing coming back to pick on fifth graders?”

  “A lot of fifth graders won’t fight back. Most high school kids, on the other hand, will. When we got to the Quick Pick, Gavin had this little dude’s head jammed into the frozen food case at the back of the store. He was giving the kid what they call a ‘freezy wheezy.’ So we ran a little scam that convinced Gavin to act otherwise.”

  “Freezy wheezy? Is that like a wedgie?”

  “No. It’s brand-new. I think Gavin invented it.”

  His mom released sigh number three.

  “Look, hon—Gavin Brown is a big, bullying baby who always goes running to his daddy every time you outfox him. Then the chief trumps up some kind of excuse to haul your butt down here so I have to haul my butt out of work….”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Well, it’s not your fault. Completely. Just promise me you’ll stay away from this boy, okay?”

  “Okay. Unless, of course, Gavin brings the fight to me, my friends, or another innocent kid. I can’t just look the other way.”

  “Maybe you should, Ri.”