Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (19 page)

“And the photographs?”

“Oh, I'm not exactly sure what they'll show. Maybe bulldozers digging up the golf course. Maybe dump trucks loaded down with black garbage bags.”

“Maybe?
Maybe?
You don't know?”

“Nope. Not until Jamal and I sneak into the president's office at the country club.”

Mongo raised his hand. “Why are you guys going to do that?”

Riley grinned slyly. “So we can grab Mr. Sowicky's camera out of Mr. Paxton's desk.”

WAITERS WERE PLACING SILVERWARE, GLASSES
, and napkins folded into swan shapes on the cloth-covered tables in the Cranbrook Ballroom as the All-School All-Stars arrived for their final rehearsal.

Riley, Jake, Jamal, and Briana stood on the elevated stage, set up right in front of the ballroom's floor-to-ceiling windows. Mongo was off on a “reconnaissance mission” to make sure the diesel-powered portable floodlight tower was still parked near the construction crew's trailer.

“This is fabtastic!” whispered Briana as she checked out the view of the golf course through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the stage. “You can totally see the ninth hole!”

“I know,” said Riley.

“Hey, Jake?” cried Mr. Holtz from the back of the room. He was carrying a milk crate full of black cables and had a painfully puzzled look on his face. “Got a minute?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Holtz,” said Jake.

“These microphone cords are all in a jumble and the mixer board is new and a bunch of these kids are singing to videos and . . . ah, it's a mess.”

Riley gave Jake a knowing nod.

“On my way,” said Jake, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.

“Stick with Jake,” Riley said to Jamal. “See what gear they've got that we might be able to use.”

“On it,” said Jamal. “Yo, Jake. Wait up, bro.”

As the two guys headed back to help Mr. Holtz, the lobby doors swung open. Sara, Brooke, and Kaylie—all three of them wearing sunglasses and pink feather boas—swept into the ballroom. An entourage of four adults bustled in behind them.

“We'll do hair and makeup at six,” Sara barked over her shoulder.

“Yes, Ms. Paxton,” said one of her grown-up flunkies.

Riley checked out a guy in Sara's crew and pegged him to be her accompanist because he was hugging a stack of sheet music against his chest. That meant Sara hadn't totally decided on what she and the Star-Spangled Starlettes were going to sing in the show.

Perfect
, thought Riley.

One woman in the entourage sort of walked like a stork. She clapped her hands together briskly and, in a clipped German accent, said, “Time to limber up, girls. We do the flap, ball, change, ja? And five, six, seven, eight . . .”

“Oh, give it a rest, Helga,” whined Sara. “The walk from the parking lot wore me out.”

Helga had to be the choreographer Mr. Paxton had told them about. The
Broadway
choreographer.

“You ready?” Riley whispered to Briana.

“Ready.”

“Briana!” Riley exploded. “Why won't you listen to me?”

“Because you're wrong, Riley! I don't want to go on last.”

“Last is best. You'll be the big finish!”

“Yeah—I'll be totally finished if I sing that stupid song you suggested!”

Smiling, Sara wafted ever so gracefully toward the stage as pink feathers fluttered from her fluffy scarf. Her backup singers and entourage trailed behind her.

“Stupid?” Riley fumed. “
Stupid?
You're stupid.”

“You're right. I am stupid for ever having listened to you. Get out of my life, Riley Mack!”

“No. You get out of mine.”

“Fine. I will!” Her face burning bright red, Briana stormed out of the ballroom.

Riley stood on the stage shaking his head.

“What's wrong, Riley?” Sara said coyly. “Girl trouble?”

“Ah, Briana thinks I'm stupid for saying she should go on last.”

“Oh,
ja
,” said the choreographer. “Last is always best. Leave them with the big bang.”

“Plus,” said Riley, “she won't sing this song!”

He whipped out the sheet music he had downloaded.

“What is it?” asked Sara.

“Only General Joseph C. Clarke's favorite song in the whole world.” He handed the paper to Sara. “The general is one of the judges.”

“I know that,” said Sara, studying the song's lyrics. “‘Mix a pancake, stir a pancake, pop it in the pan?'”

“It's a British nursery rhyme from like the eighteen-hundreds.”

“So?”

“General Clarke's mother, who was British, used to sing it to him every night before she tucked him in!”

“Really?” Sara sounded skeptical.

“How do you know this?” asked the choreographer.

“Because my dad's in the army! Everybody in the army knows General Clarke's favorite song.”

“It is a classic,” gushed the accompanist. “And, well, the choreography simply
leaps
off the page!”

“Ja,”
said the choreographer, miming someone stirring a pot, then flipping a spatula.

Sara glared at Riley hard. Brooke and Kaylie were right behind her, glowering over her shoulder. “How do we know you're telling the truth, Riley Mack?”

“Look, you guys, it's your call. Jake and I even worked up this awesome video montage for the pancake song. It's way better than the video Briana put together for her stupid
Shrek
number.”

Sara's jaw dropped. “Briana has a video?”

“Well, duh. Just about everybody in the competition will be singing to a video!”

“We'll sing ‘The Pancake Song,'” said Sara. “And we want your video, too.”

“But—”

“You want me to beat Briana, don't you?”

“Yes.”

She turned on her heel. “Mr. Holtz?” she shouted. “Please tell Tony Peroni that we will be singing ‘The Pancake Song' instead of ‘God Bless America.'”

Mr. Holtz looked up from his sound-control board, holding a jumbled tangle of wires. “What?”

Sara stomped her foot. “‘The Pancake Song' is ours and we're going on last and Riley Mack's running video for us and if you say no I'm calling home right now and telling my daddy to cancel this whole stupid show and don't think I won't do it either!”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Sara, Brooke, and Kaylie—followed by their entire production crew—swept out of the ballroom.

The speakers buzzed to life.

“Test, test, test,” said Jake into a cordless microphone, his voice echoing around the room. “We're good to go, Mr. Holtz.”

“Let us know if you require further technical assistance,” added Jamal.

Then the two of them ambled across the ballroom to join Riley.

“Mr. Holtz asked me to run the sound board tonight,” said Jake. “Tony Peroni makes him nervous.”

Riley grinned. “Sweet. Our work here is done. Come on, Jamal. We need to go check out Mr. Paxton's office. See if he still has the groundskeeper's camera in his drawers.”

“You mean his desk?” said Jamal.

“Yeah.”

“Good because I sure don't want to go looking for a camera in that stuck-up old fart's underpants.”

RILEY LED JAMAL AND JAKE
down the wood-paneled corridors.

“Hang on,” said Jake, putting his hand to the Bluetooth listening device in his ear. “It's Mongo.”

“What's his status?” asked Riley as he scanned the doorways, looking for a plaque that said
MR. PAXTON, PRESIDENT,
or
CHIEF POISON PEDDLER
—something like that.

“The rolling floodlight tower is right where it's supposed to be. The backhoe, too. No sign of Curly and Larry.”

“Good,” said Riley.

“Since there's no one around, Mongo's going to haul the floodlight cart closer to the fairway.”

“Works for me,” said Riley.

“Now he's grunting,” reported Jake.

“Huh?” said Jamal.

“Diesel-powered generators with collapsible light towers on top of heavy-duty trailer frames weigh as much as a small truck,” said Jake.

Riley nodded. Larry and Curly probably hauled the lights around the golf course with a bulldozer or a team of mules. Riley and his crew had something even stronger: Mongo.

“Here it is, Riley Mack,” said Jamal, pointing to a brass sign with
COUNTRY CLUB PRESIDENT
engraved on it. Jamal's hand immediately went to the doorknob. “Locked.”

“Can you get us in?”

“Does bacon sizzle in a skillet?” Jamal crouched down and examined the doorjamb. “No deadbolt.” He pulled a plastic card out of his wallet.

“You have a credit card?” said Jake.

“Nah, man. This was our motel room key at Disney World. They said I could keep it as a souvenir.”

Jamal slid the key card down the crack between the door and the frame. When it was parallel with the doorknob, he angled it in and pushed until it slid some more.

“Got it.”

“Hang on,” said Riley. “No sense all of us risking this.”

“Risking what?” said Jamal.

“Getting caught breaking and entering.”

“Oh. Right. This is illegal.”

“Well, what about selling poisoned pancake mix to the army?” asked Jake.

“Oh, that's illegal, too,” said Jamal. “Just aren't any cops looking out for it on a daily basis, is all.”

“We need to move fast,” said Riley. “There could be security cameras back here.”

“Not to worry,” said Jake. “I've been checking for surveillance equipment ever since we left the ballroom. We're clear.”

“Good to know,” said Riley. “Okay, Jake—meet us at my house in thirty minutes. If we find any incriminating photographs on Mr. Sowicky's camera, we'll work them into Sara's music video.”

“About that video,” said Jamal. “How are we gonna pull that off?”

“Easy,” said Jake. “Head to YouTube. Search for ‘Pancake Song.' Download a couple clips.”

“Exactly,” said Riley. “See you in thirty minutes.”

“Unless, of course, we get busted,” said Jamal. “Then, we'll see you in like thirty years, if we get time off for good behavior, which, you know, may not happen, seeing as how everybody keeps calling us ‘troublemakers.'”

Riley arched his eyebrows. “Jamal?”

“Sorry, man,” said Jamal. “Nerves.”

“Go,” Riley said to Jake.

“Right.” Jake stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and shuffled back up the hallway.

“Let's do it,” Riley said to Jamal.

“Doing it,” said Jamal, leaning his small shoulder against the door, pushing it open.

They stepped into the office.

Riley eased the door shut. “Check out the top drawer.”

“It's locked,” said Jamal as he slipped on a sleek pair of black leather gloves and started checking out the various leather cups and penholders on top of Mr. Paxton's desk. “Forgot to pack my lock-picking tools.”

“But you brought your gloves?”

“These are my batting gloves. In case we decided to, you know, get up a game today.” He rattled the executive desk set's pencil cup. “Score.”

“What is it?”

“Paper clip and paper clamp. I'm gonna improvise a lock pick.”

While Jamal took apart the clamp and bent the clip, Riley pressed his ear to the door.

“Anybody coming?” asked Jamal as he worked the straightened paper clip into the small desk lock and used one V from the clamp for sideways torque.

“Yeah. I hear footsteps. Whistling.”

“Whistling isn't good,” said Jamal, furiously manipulating the tiny levers. “Whistling usually means it's a security guard.”

The drawer lock popped open.

“Got it.”

Riley moved away from the door, leaned across the desk. “Is there a camera inside?”

“Sure is.”

“Power it up. Check out the screen.”

Jamal did. Unfortunately, the camera came to life with a jolly “ba-ba-bling!” sound.

“Shhh!” said Riley.

Jamal thumbed some controls. Flipped the camera around so Riley could check the screen.

It was a photograph of a dump truck loaded down with black trash bags.

There was a
XYLODYNE DYNAMICS
decal on the door.

“Busted!” said Riley.

The door flew open.

Jamal hid the camera behind his back.

Riley spun around.

The whistler
was
a security guard.

“Riley?”

“Um, hi, Sergeant Chambliss.”

Fortunately, it was Godfather #24. Chick Chambliss. The former soldier who used to be in his dad's army battalion.

“What're you boys doing back here? This is the club president's office.”

“Yeah,” said Riley, thinking fast. “Mr. Paxton asked us to grab his camera.”

Jamal smiled and held up the digital camera.

Mr. Chambliss's steely-eyed scowl softened. Slightly.

“His daughter's in the talent show,” explained Jamal.

“Mr. Paxton wanted us to get some snapshots of the dress rehearsal for him,” said Riley.

“Which is just about over,” said Jamal.

Mr. Chambliss stepped aside and pointed toward the open door. “Then hustle, men. Hustle!”

Riley shot him a two-finger salute off his eyebrow. “Yes, sir, sir!”

He and Jamal ran down the hall, around the corner, past the ballroom, through the 19th Hole Lounge, across the outdoor dining deck, onto the fairway, and into the woods. In fact, they didn't stop running until they reached the shady spot in a clump of trees where they had hidden their bikes.

Then they pedaled hard and fast, heading for Riley's house.

They had photographs to download and edit into a music video all about pancakes smothered with toxic chemicals instead of butter and syrup!