Villain's Lair (10 page)

Now, you may be wondering how a boy like Dave, whose father works at a corner market and whose mother works at a Laundromat, gets a job
couriering
envelopes between businesses and banks and restaurants in the hustling, bustling heart of the city.

It would, after all, be a reasonable thing to wonder.

And I could give you a lengthy, detailed explanation, but instead, I'll simply say this: the school librarian, Mr. Kelly, got him the job.

Hmm. Perhaps you do need to know just a
little
bit more.

Mr. Kelly's official title was library media specialist, for although the school did not have an adequate public address system, it did, in fact, have a few computers in its library. And it was on one of these computers (the main one) that Mr. Kelly discovered a message that had been forwarded via the school district's communication lines. It was a message originated by City Bank looking for a bike-riding student who would work as a courier.

“They want someone quick, punctual, tidy, and reliable,” Mr. Kelly had told Dave. “Sounds like you to me.”

Dave hadn't known what to think, as he was, at this time, still twelve (and not yet an all-knowing thirteen-year-old). Up to now his job had been to get good grades. His dad had always told him, “School is your job and your only job, son. Prove yourself at this one and you'll be a rich executive someday!”

But Mr. Kelly had taken out a map and said, “Here's City Bank. All they want is for you to make deliveries to places around town. I've seen you ride that bike of yours—you could handle this easily.” Then he leaned in and said, “Dave, they'll pay ten dollars per delivery!”

That afternoon, Dave reported to City Bank.

And yes, the woman at the bank was surprised to see a boy so young, but there he was, punctual, tidy, and (so far) reliable. So she gave him a shot. And when Dave's father saw the extra twenty dollars on the dinner table that night and heard how it had gotten there, he sat for a very long time just chewing and thinking.

At last he said, “If you are going to do this, I think you should start a business and do it right. Business cards, a shirt, everything.” He gave Dave a stern look. “But if your grades start to slip, that's it.”

This, then, is how Dave formed Roadrunner Ex-press. He kept his grades up, his hair trimmed, and his
clothes neat. His orders came in through Mr. Kelly's computer, and every day when the dismissal bell rang, he pulled on a red ROADRUNNER EXPRESS sweatshirt (which his mother had embroidered), clipped on his helmet, and pedaled into the city to courier envelopes for a growing number of customers.

It's why the kids at school always called “Meep-meep!” when he raced by.

It's also why girls like Lily thought he was a buttoned-up dork.

Now, by the time Sticky came into his life, Dave had been delivering envelopes and packages for at least six months. His deliveries had taken him through every street in the city and out to nearly every neighborhood. He had met a lot of people, and it had opened his eyes to things such as luxury cars and golf courses and private helicopters and sushi bars. (Not to mention hoboes and hustlers and piles of stinky garbage and people who seemed certifiably crazy.)

But in all his days delivering, there was one thing Dave had never seen. One thing that, when he did see it, struck terror in his heart in a way that not even hoboes and hustlers and certifiably crazy people can.

A mariachi band.

Dave skidded to a halt about a block away. “Sticky!” he whispered into his sweatshirt.

“Sí, señor?”
Sticky answered with a yawn and a lazy stretch, for while Dave had been racing around town, he'd been enjoying a siesta.

Then he heard the music. “Ay-ay-ay!” he said, poking his head out. “There's only one band that plays that bad!”

It was true.

The band was screechy.

Out of tune.

Out of time!

And their singing was terrible!

“What are they doing here?” Dave whispered.

“What do you think,
señor?”
And then, because Dave was just staring, Sticky shrugged and said, “They are looking for you.” His little gecko head bobbed like he'd been expecting this all along. “And for me.”

They watched the Bandito Brothers speak with people on the street, then move on, strumming their guitars.

Dave turned into a side street, keeping in the shadows as he watched the Brothers. “But the city is huge! How do they ever expect to find us?”

Sticky pursed his little gecko lips.

He pulled them back tight.

He moved them to the right, to the left, and back again.

And at last he frowned and said, “Most
hombres
would have shown off their gecko powers by now.”

“Gecko powers?
Gecko
powers? Is that what you call it?” Dave snorted. “What's to show off?”

But it was true. Most boys would have climbed
every wall in the neighborhood. Hung from every ceiling they could find. Scared their teachers. Impressed their friends. Done
something
with the ability. But all Dave could think about was what he couldn't do.

He couldn't fly.

He couldn't go invisible.

He couldn't even lift heavy things.

All he could do was walk on walls.

Big deal.

And sure, he had used it a couple of times. Once at school to get a ball off the cafeteria roof and once at home to freak his sister out. But at school he'd been careful that no one saw, and at home it had not had the desired effect.

“Show-off” is all Evie had said before huffing off.

And now Dave was glad that he hadn't shown off more. He'd naively thought that his battle with Damien Black was over, but now he could see that he'd underestimated the determination of the
dastardly, demented villain. (And if there's one thing you should never do, it's underestimate the determination of dastardly, demented villains.)

Sticky saw the gears in Dave's mind connecting. Saw the reality of the situation dawning on him. “You look a little green,
señor.”

Dave
was
a little green. “He's never going to stop looking for it, is he?” he whispered.

“Never,” Sticky said.

“What am I going to
do?”

It was a good question.

A very good question indeed.

Sticky pursed his lips.

He tapped his chin.

And as the Bandito Brothers moved their loud, screechy, out-of-time, out-of-tune show farther along the street, he said, “I think,
señor
, it's time for you to get a disguise.”

Perhaps you're wondering why Dave didn't just chuck the powerband into the river and be done with it.

He did, in fact, consider it. But then he realized that Damien Black would not know he had done this. Damien Black would still be after him!

Or perhaps you're wondering why Dave didn't turn the powerband over to the police and tell them everything.

He considered that, too. But in the end, he just couldn't seem to part with it. After all, he finally admitted, even a lame power such as the ability to walk on walls was better than no power at all.

And what if someday, some way, he could get his hands on the other ingots?

What if someday, some way, he really could
fly?

So instead of chucking the powerband into the river or turning it over to the police, he did what any boy in his predicament would do.

He bought sunglasses.

Sunglasses and hats and T-shirts.

Now, granted, these things do not make for much of a disguise. But as I have said before, this is not a made-up story. This is a real story about a real boy, and real boys do not dress in shiny, stretchy fabrics sewn into embarrassingly tight and wholly ridiculous costumes. Real boys avoid shiny, stretchy fabrics at all costs. Real boys like sunglasses, hats, and T-shirts.

Sticky watched patiently as Dave tried on every combination of hat, shirt, and sunglasses. But at last he said, “If you ask me,
hombre
, it's the
shoes that give you away. Those are what that evil
hombre
will recognize. And that backpack. And you should never wear that snake hat again.”

Dave blinked at his feet, then at the gecko. The shoes were his only pair, but Sticky was right. The red trim made them distinctive. He had to get rid of them. And the backpack. And especially the hat!

So the next day Dave bought more shoes.

A different backpack.

And (because they were right there at the checkout stand) bandannas.

Then he ditched his old shoes, the hat, and his old backpack in a garbage can, went home, locked himself in the bathroom, and tried new ways of disguising himself.

He cut holes and made a mask out of one of the bandannas.

“This looks so lame!” he moaned.

Sticky nodded.
“Mucho
lame-o.”

He tied a bandanna across his nose and mouth.

“Now I look like a bank robber!”

“Sí, señor
, you do.”

Now, to his credit, Dave had never considered using his wall-walking power for evil. Or even just bad. It had never even crossed his mind that he
could scale buildings, sneak in through windows, steal things, and leave. Dave may have been an all-knowing thirteen-year-old boy, but he was a hardworking,
good
thirteen-year-old boy. Going into other people's houses to steal things was just not something he would do.

(Hmm. Yes, he
had
been persuaded to sneak into a monstrous mansion by a kleptomaniacal talking gecko lizard, but that was an exception.)

Sticky, on the other hand, enjoyed scaling walls at night, finding sparkly things in other people's apartments, and adding them to his secret treasure stash behind the bookshelf in Dave's room. The thrill of bringing something new home (regardless of its actual value) gave him great satisfaction.

But the more he was around Dave, the less Sticky ventured out at night. Sticky was almost puzzled by how Dave was nothing like the Bandito Brothers or Damien Black. He wasn't deceptive or
double-crossing. He wasn't nice one minute and mean the next. He wasn't crazed for power or consumed by greed. He was just a boy. A good, hardworking boy.

So it was with a deep breath and a puffy-cheeked sigh that Sticky finally said to Dave (who was still playing around with his robber bandanna), “Look,
señor
, the idea is to cover up, not stick out like you're going to stick ‘em up.” Then he added (almost hopefully), “Unless you're thinking you might do a stick-'em-up?”

Dave whipped off the bandanna. “No!”

Now, right on the other side of the bathroom door was an ear. A big ear attached to the head of a little girl with a big mouth. And suddenly the fist attached to this little girl's arm pounded on the door, and the big mouth cried, “Who is that? Who are you talking to ?”

“Me, myself, and I,” Dave shot back. “Now leave me alone!”