Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble by Chris Grabenstein Page B

“Big blowhard like that? He’s probably out there all the time, pontificating profusely. Ya’all know what pontificating means?”
    â€œYes,” said Briana. “‘To speak in a pompous manner.’ Just like you.”
    â€œI am not pompous, Briana. I am precise.”
    â€œYou guys?” said Riley. “Fish are dying out there. Our swimming hole is totally polluted. Work with me.”
    â€œSorry,” said Briana.
    â€œI also express remorse for my pedantic proclivities,” said Jamal.
    â€œHuh?” said Mongo.
    â€œHe means he’s sorry,” said Briana.
    â€œI found some intel on Mr. Paxton,” said Jake.
    â€œAlready?” said Riley. “Excellent! What can you tell us?”
    â€œHe’s not only president of the Brookhaven Country Club, he’s chairman and chief executive officer of Xylodyne Dynamics.”
    â€œXylodyne is humassive!” said Briana.
    â€œYes,” said Jake. “They have operations in more than seventy countries, hundreds of subsidiaries, affiliates, branches, divisions. . . .”
    â€œThey’re like their own country,” said Mongo.
    â€œProbably have their own army,” said Briana. “My parents are always going to anti-Xylodyne rallies and protests.”
    â€œAnd,” said Jake, “Xylodyne does about a bajillion dollars in business with the Pentagon.”
    â€œWell,” said Riley, “that explains why Mr. Paxton is trying to brownnose General Joseph C. Clarke: he’s the guy who signs the bajillion-dollar checks.”
    â€œBut why’s he kissing the EPA’s butt?” asked Jamal.
    â€œProbably because he knows his golf course renovations are responsible for what’s happening down in that creek. Mongo?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYou’re with me.” He handed Mongo a card.
    Jamal raised his hand. “Um, Riley?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhat’s with the note cards, man?”
    â€œI dunno. Mr. Phelps always had an envelope with junk stuffed in it on Mission Impossible .”
    â€œHe did!” gushed Briana. “This is so cool. We’re like our own TV-show-slash-major-motion-picture franchise. Some day, an actress will play me: an actress playing people who aren’t me!”
    â€œBut my card is blank,” said Mongo.
    â€œYeah,” said Riley. “Sorry. My hand kind of cramped up on me after a few cards. Anyway, you’re with me. We’re heading back to the creek to see if we can ID the source of this pollution.”
    â€œOkay,” said Mongo. “I’ll write creek on my card in case we get split up or something.”
    â€œGood idea. Jake?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Phelps? What is my mission, should I choose to accept it?”
    â€œLock onto the GPS chip in my cell phone.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œTrack us.”
    â€œStill no problem.”
    â€œOverlay our position on that topographical map of the creek and country club; let us know if we leave the watershed contours. Jamal?”
    â€œYo?”
    â€œI need to borrow your lock-picking tools.”
    Luckily, Jamal had been an excellent instructor.
    Riley inserted a stainless-steel file from his younger friend’s leather kit into the padlock, flicked it a couple times, and popped open the hasp.
    â€œWe’re in,” he whispered to Mongo, who had grabbed Jake’s aluminum baseball bat “just in case we run into somebody besides dead fish.”
    Riley pushed open the gate. He and Mongo stepped into the no trespassing zone. Then Riley closed the gate and slipped the lock back through the fencing so he could reattach it on the other side.
    â€œUm, Riley?” said Mongo. “Why are you locking us in?”
    â€œWe many not be the only ones checking out the creek this morning.”
    Mongo hefted up his baseball bat.
    â€œCome on.” Riley led the way through the brambles to the creek bank.