Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (21 page)

“Oh, right,” said Riley's mom. “I heard Tony Peroni asked Briana Bloomfield to be his wild-card pick. Isn't that fantastic?”

“Nyes.”

“Is Mr. Peroni here?”

“Not yet.”

“He had anothaw wedding to poofoam at,” added Mrs. Paxton, her lips barely budging.

“But, he'll be here in plenty of time to emcee the show and, of course, help you folks pick a winner,” said Mr. Paxton. “Our last act will most likely go on around ten thirty, ten thirty-five. So, with your voting and a brief award ceremony, we should be done at eleven, eleven fifteen at the latest. Afterward, you're all invited to join me in the Nineteenth Hole Lounge for a champagne reception.”

“Whoo-hoo!” said Mr. Kleinman. “Champagne. What I like to call ‘giggle juice.'”

Riley figured the EPA guy didn't get out much on Saturday nights unless there was an oil spill or something. Just as everybody sat down, Mr. Holtz, sweating worse than Tony Peroni without a piano player, scurried over to the table.

“Jake? I am so glad you're here early! Some of the wires got disconnected and my hard drive says it's having a fatal error and . . .”

“No problem, Mr. Holtz,” said Jake, getting up from his seat and grabbing his cardboard crate. “I even brought some extra cables and junk from home.”

“You're a lifesaver!”

“What about your dinner?” asked Riley's mom.

“He can have half of my sandwich,” said Mr. Holtz.

“Cool,” said Jake as he followed the panicked teacher to the rear of the room. Riley knew Jake would immediately start tinkering with all the wires and cables and inputs they needed to broadcast this evening's action live overseas.

“Um, Riley?”

“Yes, Mongo?”

“I'm starving. So, if Jake isn't . . .”

“Yes. You can have his dinner, too.”

“Awesome!”

“Good evening, all.”

Uh-oh. Police Chief John Brown was in the house. Dressed in a plaid suit that didn't quite button across his belly, he eyeballed Jamal, Mongo, and, most especially, Riley.

“Good evening, Chief Brown,” said Mr. Paxton.

“Are these young men on the judges' panel?”

“They're my dinner dates,” said General Clarke.

“Well, my wife and I are sitting right over there,” said the chief, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Remember boys, this is a country club, not the school cafeteria. If anyone tries to start a food fight in here . . .”

“We'll help you break it up, sir,” said Riley. “Right, Mongo?”

“Definitely.” His mouth was crammed full of bread and butter. He'd already found the roll basket.

The sheriff gave Riley a dirty look. Pointed two fingers at his eyes, then swung them around to point at Riley.

“I'm watching you, Mr. Mack.”

“Really?” said Riley's mom. “Because he's not in the show. Mr. Paxton's daughter, Sara, however, is.”

“Nyes,”
said Mr. Paxton.

“Well, enjoy your evening, folks.” The chief did the two-fingers-to-his-eyes, two-fingers-to-Riley bit again and wobbled away.

As soon as he was gone, Riley's mom stood up. “Will you gentlemen excuse me? I need to go visit the powder room.”

“Of course,” said General Clarke, popping up from his chair because, Riley figured, it's what officers and gentlemen do whenever a woman stands up.

“It's out those doors and to your right,” said Mr. Paxton, also popping up out of his seat.

“Would you like an escort?” asked Mr. Kleinman, the third to spring up from his chair.

“Thank you, Mr. Kleinman, but I'm sure I can find it. I'll be right back. Riley?”

“Yes, Mom?”

“Be sure you boys behave while I'm gone.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Riley grinned as his mother sashayed away.

She had draped her purse over the back of her chair but was carrying the tiny shopping bag she'd brought with her from home.

Riley knew that, when his mom exited the ballroom, she wouldn't be heading to the ladies' room.

She'd go straight to the kitchen and tell the chef what all-American breakfast food the dignitaries at the head table were demanding for dessert.

That's why she was taking the poisoned pancake
powder
with her to the “
powder
room.”

RILEY YAWNED.

Dinner—rubbery chicken covered with golden gravy goop, mashed something, wilted green beans, and chocolate mousse (a fancy kind of pudding) for dessert—was over and Mr. Paxton was up at the podium making a pompous speech.

“Welcome to Greens for the Army Green! Tonight, we salute the brave men and women of our military who fight to keep us free so we here might enjoy life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—better known as chasing a little white ball around eighteen holes!”

The audience applauded.

“It's almost time for Tony Peroni and the talent contest, but before Tony takes the stage, I'd like to introduce our three other distinguished judges. First up, General Joseph C. Clarke, my long-time partner at the Pentagon. Just this afternoon, we inked a multiyear deal for Xylodyne to continue providing wholesome, nutritious, home-style meals to our brave soldiers over in Afghanistan.”

More applause.

Mr. Paxton smiled and gestured toward the wall of windows behind him. “In fact, we closed the deal with a handshake right out there on the brand-new ninth hole green!”

Now there were hearty chuckles mixed in with the applause.

Riley wasn't just bored. He had work to do. He glanced at his watch: 9:48 p.m.

It was go time.

“Mom?”

She nodded and discreetly slipped her Bluetooth receiver into her ear, then worked her hand into her purse to activate the miniature walkie-talkie that would plug her into Operation Flapjack's command-and-control center, better known as the handy talky concealed in Riley's sport coat.

Riley turned to Mongo, who was clinking his spoon around in a sundae dish, scraping up the last brown smears from his second helping of chocolate mousse.

“You want to take that with you?” he whispered.

“Nah,” said Mongo. “I'm done.”

“Good. I'm heading backstage.”

“That means I'm heading outside.”

“Jamal? Hang here.”

“Hanging,” said Jamal.

Jamal was the designated “swing” player for Operation Flapjack. He would be standing by to do whatever needed doing that nobody had figured out would need to be done.

Riley grabbed his backpack and motioned for Mongo to follow. Crouching so they wouldn't block anybody's view of the stage, they scooted across the ballroom and exited out the side doors.

“See you on the fairway,” Riley said to Mongo when they hit the corridor.

“See ya!” Mongo hustled up the hall and out the door. He had floodlights to roll into place.

Riley gave Mongo three minutes to make it around the country club building and over to the construction crew's trailer area.

While he waited, he could hear his mom being introduced. She got more applause than anybody. It was pretty awesome.

At 9:53 p.m., right on schedule, Riley tapped a button on his handy talky. It was time for a radio check.

“Jake?”

“Here.”

That made Riley smile. Jake thought this was roll call, like in school.

“All set?”

“Locked and loaded.”

“Jamal?”

“Present.”

“Mom?”

“Achoo!”

Riley took her sneeze to be her sneaky way of saying, “Here!”

“Mongo?”

Riley heard a lot of heavy breathing.

“Mongo?”

“Okay. Made it. I'm here. Had to run. Ate too much. Mousse.”

Now Riley heard an
urp!

“Okay,” said Mongo. “Better.”

“Briana?”

“Here.”

“I'm coming in. We need to make the backhoe call.”

“Hang on. Sara, Brooke, and Kaylie are in here, too. If they see us talking together, they'll know we faked them out with our pretend fight.”

“Don't worry. I've got it covered.”

Riley headed down the hall to the private banquet room the talent show cast was using as a dressing room.

“Hi, Riley!” It was Sara Paxton. She, Brooke, and Kaylie were all dressed in chef's hats and aprons. “Is the general here?”

“Yep. And, get this—” Riley leaned in dramatically. The three girls clustered around him. “The general told this other judge, Mr. Kleinman, that he hoped someone would be singing ‘The Pancake Song' tonight.”

Sara gasped. “No. Way.”

“And Mr. Kleinman?”

“Yeah, yeah?”

“He said it was
his
favorite song, too!”

The girls put their hands over their mouths, squealed, then bounced up and down like they had to pee real bad.

Riley looked across the room at Briana in her angelic white gown. “Poor Briana. She is going to lose. Big-time.”

“So?” said Sara.

“Well, we used to be friends.”

“Hah. Everybody
used
to be friends with Briana Bloomfield. We dumped her a year ago.”

“I know. But I should at least tell her I'm sorry for blowing up like I did earlier.”

“Whatever.”

Riley walked across the room.

“Um, Briana?”

“What do you want, traitor?”

“Can I talk to you? Outside?”

Briana huffed an exasperated sigh. “I guess.”

The two of them hurried out the door.

“What'd you tell the three wicked witches?”

“Exactly what they wanted to hear.” Riley dug a cell phone out of his sport jacket. It had the pitch modulator attached to it.

“I'm Mr. Paxton again, right?”

“Right. Jake rigged this thing so Curly's caller ID window will read ‘Xylodyne Dynamics' when we're connected.”

“Fabtastic.”

Riley handed Briana the phone.

“It's ringing!”

Riley leaned in, tight against Briana's ear, so he could hear both sides of the conversation.

“That you, Mr. Paxton?” snapped Curly the instant he picked up the call.

“Nyes,”
said Briana. “I need you fellows to start digging up the gold immediately. The talent show is about to commence and . . .”

“Forget it, pal.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said forget it. We ain't diggin' up nothin'. Youse can have it all.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand . . .”

“Then, let me paint you a picture: Larry and me are currently situated on a white, sandy beach far, far away from Fairview. A secluded-type place where you can't never find us.”

“But what about our agreement?”

“Agreement, schmeement. Once we dug up your gold for youse, you'd send some of your navy SEAL and army commando buddies over to dig
us
an early grave. We ain't dumb, Mr. Paxton. We play video games. We know how these things work.”

“But, I assure you . . .”

“Enjoy your buried treasure, Mr. Paxton. The gold is all yours.”

The line went dead.

So did Riley's dreams of rescuing his father.

RILEY LOOKED AT BRIANA.

Briana looked at Riley.

“They're gone?” she said. “Curly and Larry? We've lost our two guys with the backhoe?”

Riley nodded.

“Now what do we do? Riley?”

Riley glanced at his cell phone.

It was 10:06 p.m. They had less than thirty minutes before his father's hearing started.

He was about to strike out for the third time in less than a month!

“Aren't those Rockin' Rollers amazing?” he heard Tony Peroni's voice boom over the loudspeaker in the ballroom.

The talent show had started.

“Beautiful. I mean that, kids. Sincerely. Our next act comes from Crestwood Middle School, and wait till you see what this kid can do with a rubber duck!”

When Riley linked up with Afghanistan, he definitely needed to show his dad (not to mention everybody else in the room) a live video feed of something much more interesting than some kid squeaking out “Jingle Bells” on a tub toy or Sara Paxton singing “The Pancake Song”!

They needed a new plan. Operation Flapjack was a flop.

“Riley?” said Briana.
“What are we gonna do?”

Suddenly, the answer hit him.

“We're gonna do what we do best. Improvise.”

“Oh-kay. And how, exactly, are we going to do that?”

“I'm not sure. I need to go see what I can dig up. In the meantime—stall!”

“There's only three more acts after the squeaky ducky, then I go on, then Sara.”

Riley nodded. He thumbed the talk button on the handy talky in his coat pocket. “Okay, everybody. We're going to plan B.”

“Achoo-bee?”

Yes, his mom had apparently decided to use nothing but sneezes to communicate.

“I'm not sure, Mom. Stand by for updates. Mongo?”

“Yeah?”

“You all set up?”

“Yeah. But, Riley, the lights are off in the construction trailer. I don't think those guys with the backhoe are here yet.”

“I know.”

His mom sneezed again. This time, it sounded like a sloppy, “Wha-a-at?”

“It's a long story. Mongo, meet me at the trailer. We need to find some kind of hand tools. A shovel. A hoe.”

“Okay. I already found a bucket of golf balls.”

“Wait,” whispered Jake, “the poisoned pancake powder is buried
six feet deep
.”

“I'll dig fast,” said Riley. “Mongo can help.”

“Sure I can,” said Mongo.

“You only have like twenty-some minutes, Riley,” said Jake.

“You need the backhoe, man,” whispered Jamal.

“I know. Do you know how to hotwire one?”