Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (12 page)

“No,” said Mongo, from his vantage point behind a pine. “It's a farmer.”

A man dressed in bright green coveralls was circling the ninth hole green on a small lawn tractor. Behind the canopied seat and big rear tires Riley saw what looked like a fertilizer spreader; a mechanical spinner for slinging out chemicals—probably pellets of nitrogen-rich fertilizer and pesticides to make the golf course's new grass look so unbelievably lush and green.

“We've got our guy,” said Riley. “Tell everybody to put on their swim shoes. We need to head back to the creek tonight and pick up a few fish.”

“How come?” asked Mongo.

“Operation Water Hazard is about to become Operation Stink Bomb.”

THAT NIGHT, AROUND 9:30, RILEY
, Mongo, Jamal, and Jake hiked up the dark dirt road to the locked gate.

Briana wasn't with the fish-gathering crew. She was totally panicking about the Saturday night talent finals and needed to rehearse her rapping-granny act.

“Whoo,” said Jamal when he caught his first whiff of dead fish. “I believe we have just discovered the
real
reason Briana could not join us tonight: I suspect Eau de Fishsticks is not her favorite brand of perfume.”

“All right, you guys,” said Riley, as he swung the beam of his flashlight back and forth across the black surface of the water. Bloated white bellies were everywhere. Dead fish were floating downstream like Styrofoam burger boxes on a rafting trip. “Scoop up as many fish as you can. Load them into the ice chests.”

Each member of the crew carried a cooler and his own version of a fishnet; Jake trawled with a tennis racket, Jamal skimmed the water with his mother's spaghetti strainer, Riley used a lacrosse stick, and Mongo trapped dead fish in the webbing of his first-baseman's glove.

They hauled cold, clammy carcasses—many without eyeballs anymore—out of the stream and dumped them into their carriers, where they landed with wet, sloppy slaps.

“This is beyond gross,” said Jamal.

“Try breeding true your mout,” said Jake, breathing through his mouth.

“I did,” said Mongo. “But I sucked down too many mosquitoes.”

“Come on you guys,” said Riley, sloshing through the scummy water. “Just a few more.”

“Ry-wee?” said Jake, still holding his nose.

“Yeah?”

“What exact-wee are we going too doo wiff all dese dead fish?”

“Put them where grown-ups will smell 'em and start asking questions.”

“In their mailboxes?” said Mongo.

“No,” said Riley. “We need adults to confront that golf course gardener for us; the guy puttering around on his tractor, pumping out poison to make the greens look so freakishly
green
.”

“So, what do we do next, Riley Mack?” asked Jamal. “Because I've got about ten pounds of pure stinkitude packed in my dad's cooler here. He's never, ever going to want to have a backyard barbecue again. The dang fish ooze is soaking straight into the plastic walls. That stench isn't ever coming out! What's the plan, man?”

“Simple,” said Riley, squeaking the lid back onto his cooler. “We're going to give these fish a proper funeral in a much more public body of water. Jake? Is the wind still supposed to come out of the south tomorrow?”

“Hang on.” Jake quickly glanced down at his glowing smartphone. “Correct. No change on my WeatherBug app.”

“Then we go with the water hazard below the ninth hole. The wind will blow across it and send the stench straight up to the country club. When people sit down to breakfast on that outdoor sundeck tomorrow morning, they'll be directly upwind of a newly polluted pond.”

Riley and Mongo led the way up through the woods to the fringes of the golf course.

“Douse your lights,” whispered Riley.

The guys all turned off their flashlights.

“Follow me.”

Riley trotted out of the rough, onto the fairway, fishy water sloshing in his ice chest the whole way. Some sludge splashed out when the lid flipped up an inch, permanently odorizing his faded black T-shirt. The whole crew was dressed in black tonight. Black jeans. Black T-shirts. Black sneakers. Mongo had even put some of that black gunk football players use under his eyes, which made him look like an enormous raccoon sporting a buzz cut.

“Hunker down,” said Riley, as they headed up the hill toward the water hazard. “Keep low and keep quiet.”

The gang crept across the shag carpet of clipped grass as quietly as cats wearing fuzzy bunny slippers.

Lights were on over in the country club. Riley could hear laughter. Tinkling music.

“Is there a dance or something tonight?” whispered Jake, moving stealthily at Riley's side.

“I don't think so. Probably just people eating dinner inside at the restaurant.”

“Hope they're enjoying their seafood salads,” said Jamal. “Because, I'm sorry Long John Silver's, I may never eat fish again.”

The foursome reached the lip of a shallow pond.

“Okay. Slip your fish into the water,” said Riley. “Easy. Try not to make too much noise. It's better if they don't discover this mess till morning.”

“How come?” asked Jamal.

“When the sun's up, it'll be way easier for us to see the grossed-out looks on all their faces!”

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER
their parents had all left home for work, Riley's crew piled into Mongo's golf cart and scooted over to the country club.

They entered the asphalt golf cart path via a nontraditional route: Riley drove the electric buggy straight through a four-foot-wide gap in the country club's hedgerow boundary that he and Mongo had scouted out the previous day on their bikes.

“There's the ninth hole,” said Jamal, pointing at a triangular flag flapping in the distance.

“Wind's still blowing the way we want it to,” added Jake, using the fluttering pennant for a windsock. “Out of the south, heading north.”

“Excellent,” said Riley. “Time for a little off-roading. Hang on everybody.”

He swerved sharply, leaving the narrow paved path for the grass.

“Ri-i-i-ley?” stuttered Briana as the cart bounded over roots, ruts, and rocks. “P-p-p-please! I ha-a-a-ad a bi-i-i-ig bre-e-eak-fast!”

“Not m-m-me,” said Jamal. “I had t-t-toast. D-d-dry t-t-toast.”

Riley swung the cart behind a thick stand of trees and eased on the brake.

They were just south of the water hazard, hidden in the shadows of the forest.

“All right,” said Jamal, who had brought along a pair of binoculars, “we already have some interesting action up on the outdoor dining deck.”

“What do you see?” asked Riley.

“Under the second yellow umbrella. Four ladies fanning the air under their noses and examining their plates. Looks like they all went with bagels and lox this morning. I believe they are currently contemplating the freshness of their smoked salmon.”

“Excellent,” said Riley.

“They're calling for their waiter. Okay. Here he comes. He's sniffing their food. Now he's sniffing the air all around him. Looks like he just smelled a skunk fart.”

“Even better,” said Riley, linking his hands behind his head and propping his feet up on the dashboard of the golf cart to savor the moment.

“The elderly couple two umbrellas to the right are sniffing their cereal bowls,” reported Jake, who had brought along his collapsible telescope. “They're calling for the waiter, too.”

“You guys?” said Mongo. “Here come some golfers.”

“Ah,” said Riley. “Our first foursome of the day.”

“I thought the course wasn't open till Saturday,” said Briana.

“Not officially,” said Riley. “But maybe these guys just couldn't wait.”

“Maybe they're chums of mine,” said Briana, slipping into her Paxton impersonation.

“Another distinct possibility,” said Riley with a laugh.

“Facial expressions indicate the gentlemen have picked up the stench,” reported Jake.

“Big time,” added Jamal. “Duffer in the pink plaid pants looks like he wants to hurl. Of course, I would, too, if I ever wore pants that looked like that.”

“This is fabtastic!” said Briana. “Way to go, Riley!”

“Thanks,” said Riley, sighing contentedly. “I love it when a plan works even better than we planned. Briana?”

“Yeah?”

“Please stand by.”

“Will do.” And then she started warming up. “A Tudor who tooted a flute tried to tutor two tooters to toot.”

“Okay,” said Jake, “the gentlemen on the ninth hole are pointing down at the water hazard.”

“They have seen the fish,” said Jamal. “Repeat, they have seen the fish!”

“Awesome,” said Mongo. “This is gonna work, Riley!”

He shrugged casually. “I figured it might.”

“One of the guys is waving his golf club over his head,” reported Jake, “trying to get that waiter's attention.”

“Another gentleman is using his cell phone to call somebody,” added Jamal. “My guess? The country club or the cops. Maybe both.”

“Well, then,” said Riley, “I guess we should make a phone call, too? Briana: you're on!”

“
Nyes
, Riley. But of course.”

Briana switched on the pitch modulator, then pressed the speed dial for Mr. Kleinman's office at the Environmental Protection Agency.

“Irving?” said Briana when Mr. Kleinman answered. “
Nyes
, Prescott Paxton here. Hate to bother you, old chap, but something
fishy
is going on over at my country club.”

Briana broke out the ice-cold juice boxes. Riley tore open a tube of Oreos and passed it around. Jake popped open a bag of popcorn and shared it with Jamal.

Secluded in the shadows of the trees, Riley and his crew had front-row seats for the most entertaining golf-course comedy since
Caddyshack
.

Within an hour, a crowd of twenty, maybe thirty agitated adults stood around the water hazard, pointing at the dead fish, holding their noses, making stinky-cheese faces, looking for someone to blame.

Sheriff Brown showed up and barked a bunch of orders into a squawking walkie-talkie.

Next to arrive, maybe ten minutes later, was Mr. Kleinman from the EPA. He was toting an aluminum briefcase, which he snapped open to extract some glass tubes and rubber gloves.

Finally, Mr. Paxton arrived.

“This. Is. So. Awesome!” said Briana.

“We saw a wrong and righted it,” said Riley.

“It's what we do, man,” said Jamal proudly. “It is what we do.”

Now Mr. Paxton was on his cell phone yelling at someone.

Five minutes later, a lawn tractor came chugging over the rise.

“And we have a winner,” said Jake as the man in the green coveralls climbed off his riding mower.

“Busted!” said Mongo.

“Um, Riley?” said Briana.

“Just a sec. I want to hear this.” He leaned forward and picked up snatches of Mr. Paxton's tirade.

“This is your fault. . . . What kind of head groundskeeper . . . ? How much fertilizer . . . ? Pesticides . . . this is inexcusable . . .”

“Riley?” Briana whispered tensely.

“What?”

“We got the wrong guy!”

“Huh?”

“I know that man in the green coveralls. It's Mr. Sowicky!”

“And?”

“He's the guy who taught my parents all about organic gardening. He's an eco-freak. No way did he kill those fish with chemicals.”

THIS IS ABSOLUTELY, UNBELIEVABLY PERFECT
, thought Prescott Paxton as he stood atop the ninth hole.

He motioned to Chief Brown.

“You want me to arrest Mr. Green Jeans?” the burly police officer asked eagerly. “Slap the hippy-dippy groundskeeper in handcuffs?”

“No. Not yet. Tell me, was it your son Gavin's idea to haul the fish out of the creek and fling them into this water hazard?”

The chief rubbed his cheeks and thought about his answer.

“Well, uh, maybe . . . I'll have to ask.”

“If it was, kindly inform Gavin that he and his friends have earned my respect as well as a hefty bonus.”

Chief Brown beamed when he heard Paxton use the word
bonus
.

“Well, Prescott, to tell you the truth, I more or less gave Gavin the idea.”

“I see. And was it also your idea to call Mr. Kleinman from the Environmental Protection Agency?”

The chief narrowed his eyes and rubbed his cheeks some more. “You happy to see Kleinman taking water samples?”

“Delighted.”

“Well, I figured you might be,” said Chief Brown, hiking up his baggy khakis. “So I gave Kleinman a call. Told him something was, you know, fishy up here.”

“
Nyes
. Excuse me. I must have a word with my head groundskeeper.”

“I've got the cuffs standing by.”

“Splendid. Mr. Sowicky?”

Pretending to be furious, Paxton stomped down the lush green slope from the hole to the water hazard where the ponytailed tree hugger stood shaking his head and staring down at all the foul-smelling dead fish.

“Mr. Sowicky? What goes on here?”

“I don't know, man.”

“I do,” said Kleinman. He was shaking some sort of stoppered test tube. “I ran a quick field test. Your nitrogen levels in this water are off the chart!”

“What did you do, Stuart?” Paxton demanded indignantly.

“I-I-I . . .”

“I'll tell you what he did,” said Kleinman. “He used all sorts of toxic fertilizers and pesticides on this grass to make it artificially green!”

“No, man,” said the groundskeeper.

“If you did this thinking you could impress me and the board by greening up the fairways in time for opening day, you were sorely mistaken.”

“No, I swear . . .”