Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers by Chris Grabenstein

don’t want the bank’s money, Chip. I want yours.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYou got ten thousand dollars to spare, don’t you? Shoot, you probably got that much tucked away somewhere in your desk drawer.”
    Got him. The chief could see Weitzel’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he gulped.
    â€œSuppose I was interested in your, uh, proposition?” The banker’s voice sounded squeaky. “What would you offer as collateral to guarantee the loan?”
    The chief reached into his back pants pocket. Pulled out a folded-over, crumpled envelope.
    â€œThese.”
    He turned the envelope upside down. A dozen grainy security camera photos tumbled out.
    â€œWhat are they?” said Weitzel, pretending not to know what he was looking at.
    â€œPictures of you. Last weekend. In Las Vegas. Gambling with a whole mess of cash that may not have been yours. You see, Chip, I may spend my weekends in Fairview, but I have friends everywhere.”

18
    â€œPOPCORN! PEANUTS! CRACKER JACK!”
    That afternoon, Briana played her part with great gusto. It was as if Shakespeare were up in the stands of the high school baseball stadium hawking food.
    â€œHot, buttery popcorn! Slightly salted peanuts! Crrrr-acker Jackkkkk!” She hit that final consonant so hard, it sounded like someone had just thwacked a home run.
    Riley was down on the field in his school photographer disguise: safari vest, backward Furriers baseball cap, big boxy camera to block his face. The camera also had an extremely long lens so he could zoom in on Gavin Brown and see which cheerleader he was zooming in on.
    â€œDo you guys see what I’m seeing?” asked Mongo over Riley’s Bluetooth earpiece. Mongo was seated two rows behind Brown and blending in nicely with the freshmen. “Every time the frizzy-haired blonde in the middle moves, Gavin moves his head.”
    â€œYeah,” said Riley. “Bree?”
    â€œTalk to me,” Briana whispered back. Earlier, Jake had linked up their three cell phones through a dial-in conference call service so they could remain in constant contact with one another during the game.
    â€œThe frizzy-haired blond cheerleader,” said Riley. “The one they tossed up to the top when they made the pyramid.”
    â€œShorty?”
    â€œYeah. Who is she?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œCan you find out?”
    â€œBut of course.”
    â€œWe just need a name,” said Riley, pretending to snap a photo of the crowd, actually framing up Gavin Brown. He was wearing a Furriers baseball jersey with the sleeves cut off and had painted half his face brown, the other half white—the team colors. With his flat, round face, he looked like one of those black-and-white cookies—half chocolate, half vanilla.
    Briana worked her way down the bleachers to wherethe rowdy juniors and seniors were chanting and stomping along with the cheerleaders.
    â€œHere we go, Furriers, here we go!”
    Stomp, stomp.
    â€œHere we go, Furriers, here we go!”
    Stomp, stomp.
    Yes, unlike football, basketball, or even lacrosse, baseball basically had one cheer. On the plus side, most fans already had it memorized.
    â€œExcuse me,” Riley heard Briana say to somebody on his earpiece. “I think that girl down there is, like, my second cousin twice removed.”
    Riley tilted his lens down. Found Briana, who was schmoozing a hunky high schooler while pointing at the frizzy-haired cheerleader, who was shaking her fake-fur pompoms.
    â€œBut, and this is, like, totally embarrassing,” Briana improvised, “I can’t remember her name!” She added a giggle.
    â€œYou mean Rebecca? Rebecca Drake?”
    â€œRight. Becca! That’s what we call her at family reunions. Becca Boo. The Beckster. Beck-o-matic. Thanks! Here. On the house.”
    She gave the guy a free box of Cracker Jack.
    â€œWay to go, B,” said