Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (20 page)

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arrived at five p.m. (or one thirty in the morning, Afghanistan time).

“I was able to rouse a couple of the cooks,” said Sergeant Lorincz, his grainy image flickering inside the videoconference box on Riley's laptop. “Hauled them out of their bunks. Explained the situation. One guy even took me to his pantry. They still had an unopened sack of Protein-Power Pancake Mix sitting on the shelves.”

“Is it from Mobile Meal Manufacturing?”

“Roger that. I zoomed in tight for a close-up on the label. That link working for the footage?”

“Downloading it now, sir,” reported Jake from over at Riley's homework table where he was working laptop number two.

“Good. You'll hear these cooks say they've been serving these Protein-Power Pancakes for more than a year.”

“Did you confiscate any powder?”

Sergeant Lorincz grinned. “Roger that, Mr. Mack. I then turned it over to a bomb guy I know who's an expert in all kinds of chemical analysis. I, of course, assumed that was what you would do.”

“Outstanding.”

“We're good to go on this end,” the sergeant continued. “Your father's advocate will have the internet connection up and running at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

Riley did the math in his head one more time: with an eight-and-a-half-hour time difference, Larry and Curly had to be digging up the golf course with their backhoe by ten thirty Fairview time so his dad's defenders could show it to the judge (or whatever the military had) as soon as the hearing started.

“Okay, Sergeant,” said Riley. “Thanks for going the extra mile for my dad.”

“Any of his men would, Riley. Colonel Richard Mack is a rare and remarkable leader.”

“Just like his son,” said Jamal, leaning in so the laptop camera could capture his smiling face. “Semper Fi, Sergeant. Semper Fi.”

Sergeant Lorincz chuckled. “That's the marines' motto, mister.”

“I know sir,” said Jamal. “It means ‘always faithful.' I looked it up.”

“We're army, not marines.”

“Oh. Let me get back to you on that . . .”

“Okay, Sergeant Lorincz,” said Riley. “We gotta go. Tell my dad we won't let him down.”

“Will do, Riley. See you at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

“Riley?”

Riley whipped around.

His mother was standing in the doorway.

Judging from the horrified look on her face, she'd been standing there for a while.

“Um, well, I gotta go . . .” Riley said to the computer screen. “See you in school on Monday, Sarge.”

He slapped down the lid on his laptop.

“Hey, Mom. You're home early.”

“Who was that?”

“Oh, this guy from school. Scott Sargensky. We all call him ‘Sarge.'”

“What's going on, Riley? Is your father in some kind of trouble? Was that Sergeant Lorincz?”

Riley sighed.

He could not lie to his mother.

Especially not about something this huge.

It was time to add a new member to his crew.

“Yeah, Mom. It's bad. And, we're gonna need your help.”

Riley quickly brought his mother up to speed.

He told her everything.

About the dead fish, and the polluted water, and the high levels of nitrogen in the watershed, and how Mr. Paxton was trying to kiss up to the EPA by asking Mr. Kleinman to be a judge at the talent show, and how they had found poisoned pancake powder buried under a sand trap, packages of a mix meant for the military, which was why Mr. Paxton was also kissing up to General Clarke, and how that was why Paxton needed Riley's mom, Mrs. Army Hero Mack, at the talent show. But some of this exact same pancake mix may have made soldiers in Afghanistan sick and now somebody over there was trying to blame Colonel Richard Mack, which is why they had tossed him into the brig, and he had a disciplinary hearing about it first thing tomorrow morning, which would be nine thirty tonight in Fairview.

Next, he told her all about Operation Flapjack and Larry and Curly and the backhoe and the video camera and the linkup with Afghanistan and how great it was that General Clarke and the EPA would be there to verify all the evidence the construction goons dug up.

His mom didn't say a word the whole time Riley monologued.

She just sat there on the edge of his bed, calmly listening, nodding, and waiting until Riley unloaded absolutely everything.

When he finally said, “And that's basically it,” she stood up.

Smoothed out her pants.

And exploded.

“Why in blazes didn't you tell me about this sooner?”

“Because, well, Dad and I didn't want to ruin your big night at the country club.”

“Riley?”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“The next time something this major is going on? Ruin my night.”

“Okay. Good to know.”

His mom took a deep breath. “So, is this what you guys do when you hang out together?”

“Only when we have to, Mrs. Mack,” said Jamal.

“Well, you've certainly been busy.”

“Chya!” said Jamal. “And they call it summer ‘vacation'!”

“All right, Riley. What do you need me to do?”

“Well, I was kind of thinking it would be awesome if you could coordinate things inside the ballroom at the judge's table. Make sure none of our heavy hitters leave before they see what we need them to see.”

His mom nodded. “And then, when Briana starts screaming at the windows, I need to encourage the general and Mr. Kleinman to run outside and investigate, find out what all the fuss is about.”

“Perfect,” said Riley. “That'll free me up to head out to the golf course with the remote video cam the instant Mongo blasts the green with the floodlights.”

“Works for me,” said his mom. “So, do you have a sample of this poison pancake powder?”

“Yeah. In my backpack.”

“Can you lend me a cup or two?”

“It's pretty toxic stuff, Mom.”

“Don't worry, hon, I'll be careful. I just want to add a little something
extra
to Operation Flapjack.”

“What?”

“Oh, let's call it
dessert
.”

“Um, most people eat pancakes for breakfast,” said Jake.

“But,” said Jamal, “I believe your mom plans on making Mr. Paxton his ‘just deserts.' Am I right, Mrs. Mack?”

Her grin grew wider. “Exactly.”

RILEY AND HIS WHOLE CREW
(which now included his mom) arrived at the Brookhaven Country Club about two minutes before the fancy dinner was supposed to start.

Riley's mom parked the van herself—just in case the valet parking attendants got nosy about all the gear being lugged into the country club.

Riley stepped out first, carrying his backpack with the helmet cam stuffed inside. “Communications check,” he said.

Mongo, Jake, Briana, and Jamal all crawled out of the van and touched their left ears, where they had each tucked in a miniature Motorola H9 Bluetooth.

“Coming in four by four,” said Jamal, turning to Riley's mom, who wasn't wearing her H9 just yet because she wanted to show off the sparkly earrings her husband had given her on her last birthday. “Four by four is military lingo for ‘loud and clear,' Mrs. Mack.”

“Really?” said Riley's mom, pretending that this was news to her.

“Roger that,” said Jamal. “That's military talk, too.”

“Okay, you guys,” said Briana, tugging a rolling suitcase. “The show starts at nine. I need to head to the ladies' room and change into my fancy dress.”

“Are your folks coming to see you perform?” asked Riley's mom.

“Um, no. That would cost like a thousand bucks for two tickets. I figured I'd tell them about the show
after
I win.”

“Good idea. And good luck up there, even though, as a judge, I shouldn't say that or let you know that I'm rooting for you!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Mack! Catch you guys later!” Briana dragged her wheelie into the country club.

“Well, we'd better head inside, too,” said Mrs. Mack, who was toting a purse plus a small shopping bag. “Dinner starts at seven thirty and I still need to swing by the kitchen. So come on—let's do this thing!”

“I'm with you on that, Mrs. Mack,” said Jamal as the gang marched under the country club's grand portico toward the impressive entrance.

A guy wearing a vest and top hat held open a door and they all stepped into a vestibule filled with stuffed chairs and stuffy-looking sofas. The lobby of the Cranbrook Ballroom had been decorated with patriotic streamers, balloons, and bunting.

Mr. Paxton, decked out in a tuxedo, stood waiting patiently for his final judge to arrive. A woman who sort of looked like a mannequin was standing next to him in a sequined gown. Her skinny face was tighter than bicycle pants on a water buffalo. Riley figured it was Mrs. Paxton, Sara's mom.

General Clarke stood beside the Paxtons, his chest a neatly ordered garden of multicolored military ribbons and medals.

Mr. Kleinman, from the EPA, stood next to the general. He was also wearing a tuxedo—one that looked like it had been in storage since his high-school prom back in the 1980s.

“Mrs. Mack!” said Mr. Paxton, putting on his smarmiest smile. “My, you look radiant this evening.”

“Nyes,”
said Mrs. Paxton through pinched lips. “Indeed. Wadiant.”

“Thank you,” said Riley's mom, demurely showing off the shimmering gown that made her look like a movie star walking the red carpet.

“And I love the eawwings,” said Mrs. Paxton. Her lips were pulled back so tightly, she had trouble pronouncing her
R
s.

“Thank you. Mack gave them to me the last time he was stateside.”

“Mack is what everybody calls my dad,” Riley piped up. “The guys in his squad.”

General Clarke stepped forward. “Mrs. Mack, it is a true honor to finally meet you. When Prescott told me that you were to be one of the judges of this talent competition, well, I immediately signed on for the duty.”

“Thank you, General Clarke. That's very sweet of you to say.”

“I'm Irving Kleinman, from the Environmental Protection Agency. This is my first judging gig. Gig is a word show people use. If we were giving out an award for Best Dressed, you'd have my vote, Mrs. Mack!”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Riley's mom, “but I believe Mrs. Paxton would be the winner in that category. Is
Mrs.
Kleinman here tonight?”

“Oh, no.” He donkey laughed. “I'm single. Still living
la vida loca
!”

“And who, may I ask, are these other children?” asked Mr. Paxton.

“Riley's friends. They're helping out with the show.” She turned to Mongo. “Maybe you can find a vending machine or something and grab a quick snack. I think I have some quarters . . .”

“Nonsense!” said General Clarke. “These young men are eating dinner with us, right, Prescott?”

“Well, the table is only set for—”

“However many we tell them to set it for!”

“Of course, General,” said Mr. Paxton. “Please, gentlemen. Join us.”

“Thanks!” said Mongo. “I'm starving.”

“
Nyes
. I imagine you are.”

“What's your name, young man?” the general said to Mongo.

“Hubert Montgomery.”

“And these are my friends Jake and Jamal,” said Riley.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet all of you.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Paxton was suspiciously eyeing Riley and Jamal's backpacks. He didn't particularly like the looks of Jake's cardboard box crammed full of electronic gear, either.

“Would you gentlemen like to check your bookbags and, er, boxes at the coat-check room?”

Riley hesitated. They needed their gear and gizmos.

“Well, uh . . .”

“Jake's helping Mr. Holtz run the sound for the talent contest,” said Riley's mom. “And Riley, Hubert, and Jamal need their backpacks and books. It might be Saturday but these boys know the rules: if they finish dinner early, they need to start their homework.”

“But,” said Mrs. Paxton, “school's out for the summer.”

“I know!” said Riley's mom. “That's why homework is even more important.”

“Bravo,” said General Clarke. “The world needs more parents like you, Mrs. Mack.”

Riley grinned.

He totally agreed.

MR. PAXTON LED THE WAY
into the Cranbrook Ballroom.

Riley hung back a few paces with Jake.

“You need help hooking up the computer?”

“Nope.”

“What about the receiver for my head cam?”

“We'll link up via a wireless connection. The footage will stream straight into the overseas connection.”

“And Sara Paxton's ‘Pancake Song' music video?”

“I put it in my cloud and will download it into the show computer as soon I hit the control booth.”

Riley draped his arm over his friend's shoulder.

“You're good at this.”

“Yeah. I know.”

The tables in the ballroom were decorated with red-white-and-blue centerpieces made out of flowers and flags. A control booth—basically a chorus riser crammed with racks of audio and video equipment—was set up near the rear exit. Mr. Paxton pointed to an empty table close to the stage with a
RESERVED
sign planted on it. “That's our table, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Wonderful,” said Riley's mom. “We're so close to the stage, we'll be able to see
all
the exciting action!”

“Nyes,”
said Mr. Paxton, leading the way through the enormous ballroom. “Now then, the speeches and show will start promptly at nine forty-five p.m. This year, there will be seven acts instead of the usual six.”