The Grateful Fred Read online

  Fred Three had been asked to cause general trouble. This gave him a ton of options. Should he steal something? Break something? Beat up someone? The possibilities were endless. He decided he’d start with bullying and work his way up to more serious crimes.

  He went to the nearest school and waited for the bell to ring. As the students headed home for the day, Fred chose the smallest one to pick on.

  “Hey, you,” Fred Three said, closing in on a second-grader. “Hey, twerp.”

  The second-grader stopped and looked at Fred. He’d been told never to speak to strangers, but here was someone who knew his name. How did this man know his name was Twerp? Timothy Twerp Junior the Third, if you wanted the long version.

  “Do I know you?” Timothy asked Fred. The fact was, he thought he recognized Fred from someplace. Maybe on the cover of one of his mother’s CDs.

  “You look hungry, kid,” Fred said.

  It was one thing to talk to a stranger, but to take food from one was a definite no-no. Timothy turned and began to walk away. “I’m not hungry,” he called over his shoulder. “Thanks anyway, mister.”

  “Seriously, kid. You look hungry. How about a knuckle sandwich?”

  Knuckle sandwich! The worst food Timothy could imagine. His walk turned into a run, then into a sprint—pretty darn fast, too, for a second-grader.

  But he was no match for Fred, who caught up with the kid in no time and delivered a couple of choice knuckle sandwiches right in front of the automated teller machine on Wilshire, where his every move was captured on video. Fred looked up and said, “Cheeeeeeese.” He was glad that he’d brushed his teeth earlier that day. He wanted to look good for the evening news.

  * * *

  Back at his lair, Joe the Bad Guy was getting anxious. He couldn’t wait to see if the three Freds accomplished their missions. He cloned ten more Freds while he was waiting and sent them off.

  “Rob, steal, and break stuff,” he told them. “Make sure someone sees you, and don’t get caught. Meet back here this evening.” He would have had them stay to clean up the lair first, but Freds One, Two, and Three had done a pretty good job.

  The Freds took off and Joe watched them from the door of his lair. “I feel like a father,” he said.

  It didn’t take long for the news to get out. Los Angeles was in the midst of a crime spree, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Max the Wonder Thug’s second cousin had robbed fourteen banks in a single day … or was it Calamity Wayne’s third niece? In any case, bad stuff was happening. And all fingers pointed to one man—Fred of The Grateful Fred.

  13

  UNLUCKY THIRTEEN

  There were thirteen Freds out and about, doing dastardly deeds. And, as everyone knows, thirteen is an unlucky number.

  It sure was unlucky for young Winston Clarkwood. He had been minding his own business, walking home from school, when a red Ferrari jumped the curb and came roaring down the sidewalk toward him.

  Winston dived into the street just in time. Just in the nick of time, to be exact. He tore his pants and skinned his knee, not to mention his face.

  He got to his feet, took a deep breath, and continued on his way. A few minutes later he passed the First National Bank just as a man burst from the front door, holding a bag of money. He ran right over Winston. There was no getting out of the way this time. More skinned knees. Another face-plant into the concrete.

  Winston got up slowly and stumbled on. Funny, he thought, the bank robber looked just like the man in the red car. Exactly like him in fact. How could that be?

  It was a confusing and painful day for young Winston Clarkwood. He’d had painful days before, and he’d had confusing ones. But this was the first time he had both on the same day. And the problem was, his day wasn’t over yet.

  He moved on, keeping an eye peeled for the guy in the red sports car, or his bank robbing twin. His face was tired of meeting the ground up close and personal.

  Suddenly Winston saw him. The sports car man, the bank robber dude. “Don’t tell me there are three of them,” he said.

  “Actually, there are thirteen of us,” the man told him, blocking his path. “The name’s Fred. Stick ’em up.”

  Winston blinked. This can’t be happening, he thought. Somebody wake me when it’s over.

  “Your money or your life.”

  Winston just stood there, not believing his own ears.

  When he didn’t move, Fred turned him upside down until every last coin fell out of his pockets. Then he grabbed the money and walked off. “Pleasure doing business with you, kid.”

  It wasn’t very pleasant for Winston Clarkwood. But at least he didn’t hit the ground for a third time that day.

  When Fred left, Winston ran the rest of the way home. Los Angeles was no place for a kid on his own, he decided. That evening he was quiet at dinner. He did his homework in his room and fell asleep early. This was one day he wanted to forget.

  But when Winston closed his eyes he saw the same face—Fred’s face. He had one nightmare after another. He woke up screaming.

  His mother came running. “What is it, Winston?”

  He was shivering under his covers. He didn’t say a word.

  “Winston?” his mother asked. “What’s wrong?”

  He sat up and poked his head out from under his blankets. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I—I—”

  “For goodness’ sakes, what is it?”

  He swallowed hard. “I see Fred people.”

  14

  TAKING THEIR LIST, CHECKING IT TWICE

  Melvin and Candace met at the public library after school, as usual. The math went smoothly. But Melvin’s mind wasn’t on it. He had a bad guy to catch, plus a human life to save. And not just any life—this one belonged to his all-time favorite rock and roller.

  “Who’s first on the list?” Candace asked, putting away her math book.

  “Max the Wonder Thug.”

  They went to the address listed on the sales receipt and knocked on the door. Max opened it. His neck was almost as wide as his shoulders. Melvin asked Max where he was the night of the concert.

  “Let me see,” Max said, scratching his oversized neck. “Oh yeah, I was robbing the bank on Fifth and Wilshire.”

  “You were nowhere near The Grateful Fred concert?”

  “Nope. Just robbing a bank.”

  “Well, that’s okay then,” Melvin said, “as long as you were just robbing a bank. Thank you for your time.”

  Max closed the door, and Melvin and Candace moved on.

  “Next?” Candace asked.

  Melvin checked the list. “Stinky Gillespie.” He made a face. “Not another smelly bad guy.”

  Smelly bad guys were Melvin’s least favorite type of bad guy. He didn’t know if there were any sweet-smelling bad guys, but he could always hope.

  They went to Stinky’s lair and knocked on the door. The smell greeted them first. When the door opened it grew worse—much worse. Melvin and Candace pinched their noses.

  “Are you Stinky Gillespie?” Melvin asked in a high voice.

  “In the flesh. If you’re collecting for the Bad-Guy Retirement Fund, I’ve already donated.”

  “We aren’t collecting anything,” Melvin assured him. “Just one quick question.”

  “A real quick question,” Candace blurted as her eyes began to water.

  “Where were you on the night of the Grateful Fred Concert?”

  Stinky paused to think about it. “Let’s see. Was I on a jewelry heist that night? No, that’s not it. Liquor store robbery? No, that was Monday night. Oh, right, I believe I was stealing TVs that night. Hey, that reminds me. Can I make either of you a deal on a thirty-two-inch Zenith?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Melvin answered. He and Candace turned to leave.

  “If you know anyone, send them my way,” Stinky said. “The TVs may be hot, but the price is right. I also sell jewelry and … uh … pretty much anything I can get m
y hands on.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Melvin said.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Candace tugged on Melvin’s cape to get them downwind as soon as possible. “I’m glad he wasn’t the one we’re looking for,” she said.

  Melvin looked at her and nodded. “I know what you mean. How do you capture a bad guy while holding your nose at the same time?”

  “Exactly. So who’s next on the list?”

  “Calamity Wayne.”

  And so it went—all day long. Calamity Wayne, the McNasty Sisters—every bad guy they talked to had been committing other crimes the night of the concert.

  But there were still more names on the list. Was one of them out to get The Grateful Fred?

  15

  ARREST THAT FRED!

  Thirteen Freds were committing crimes. And that’s a lot of Freds, no matter who’s counting. Robbing banks, swiping cars, stealing lunch money—these guys didn’t mess around.

  But the real Fred didn’t know any of this. He didn’t watch much TV and hadn’t been reading the papers. He’d been too busy fixing his guitars. Someone had broken into his house and cut all the strings, the same person who’d given him a midnight toenail trim. There’s nothing worse than having your toenails trimmed by a criminal.

  Fred went about fixing his guitars the way he went about everything in life—with a song in his head. And to him, everything was a song. The sky is blue, yeah, yeah, baby. What’s for breakfast? Yeah, yeah, baby. Melvin can see my underwear! Yeah, yeah, baby. This was just the way it was. The Rock and Roller’s Code was in his blood. Songs were everywhere.

  And so, despite having to fix seventeen guitars all at once, it was a pretty good day for Fred.

  Or at least it was until the police showed up.

  Someone’s at my door. Yeah, yeah, baby.

  “What can I do for you, officers?” Fred said out loud when he opened the front door, and in his head, Yeah, yeah, baby.

  “You’re under arrest,” the police told him.

  “Arrest? What for?” Fred couldn’t believe his ears. He also couldn’t believe the policemen’s mouths. There went his happy day—poof!

  “You name it. Bank robbery, grand theft, stealing pocket change from schoolchildren.”

  “You have the wrong guy,” Fred said as they dragged him away. “I’m telling you, this is a big mistake!”

  “Save your breath, Fred. We have eyewitnesses, and we have you on tape. You’re going to jail for a very long time.”

  “I want to talk to my lawyer,” Fred yelled. He thought this over. “No, wait. Get me Melvin Beederman!”

  * * *

  Later that day, the police threw Fred into a jail cell with a stinky criminal named Stan. Fred made the bad mistake of breathing through his nose. Holy burning nostrils! he thought. This had to be the second stinkiest bad guy in Los Angeles.

  Holy burning nostrils, indeed! He was the second stinkiest guy in Los Angeles.

  “What ya in fer?” Stan asked.

  Fred pinched his nose and spoke in a high voice. “They have the wrong guy.”

  “That’s what they all say on the first day. You’ll come clean with me, sooner or later. And I can keep yer secret, don’t you worry.” He walked over and shook Fred’s hand. “My name’s Gillespie. You may have heard of my brother, Stinky Gillespie.”

  Just what I need, Fred thought, Stinky’s kid brother as a roommate.

  It was going to be a long and smelly night for Fred. He stood at the bars of his cell, trying to get air and singing, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Yeah, yeah, baby.”

  No one believed Fred was innocent. Somehow he had to get a message to Melvin Beederman. Melvin would believe him—and he’d know what to do.

  16

  THIRTEEN FREDS, THIRTEEN PAIRS OF UNDERWEAR

  The TV was on when Melvin arrived back at his tree house. The Adventures of Thunderman was long over, and Hugo the rat was now watching the local news.

  Melvin could hardly believe his eyeballs. There on the TV screen he saw Fred of The Grateful Fred, handcuffed and yelling to the reporters, “You can’t do this to me! I’m innocent. Melvin Beederman, help me!”

  A moment later Melvin’s phone rang. It was Fred. They’d given him one phone call and this was it.

  Melvin listened to Fred and watched the TV at the same time. In his ear he heard that Fred was innocent, but what he saw with his own eyes was a whole other story. The bank robbery was caught on tape. So was the car theft. The reporter said that even the fingerprints matched. It was an open-and-shut case. Fred was going to prison for a long time.

  But in his ear Fred was pleading his case. “I can’t explain what you’re seeing on the TV,” Fred said, “but that is not me. Something funky is going on. Melvin, I need your help.”

  It was hard to say no to his favorite rock and roller. Just talking to Fred made “Yeah, Yeah, Baby” pop into Melvin’s head.

  “Can you help me, Melvin?” Fred asked. “Will you?”

  “Yeah, baby.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, yes, I’ll get to the bottom of this.” Melvin hung up. There were still a few more names on the list to go through. He and Candace would get cracking first thing after math.

  * * *

  The next day, they raced through Candace’s math homework. Melvin was in a hurry to clear Fred’s good name. Candace was not so sure.

  “It looked an awful lot like him on TV, Melvin. Fingerprints and everything.”

  “Call it a hunch,” Melvin said. “Something funky is going on.”

  “A hunch? Is that anything like noggin power?”

  “Kind of.” Melvin took out his list and looked at it. “Goofball McClusky. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  They went to the address on the receipt. It was an enormous double-decker lair. Candace couldn’t help herself. She started drooling. Melvin knocked on the door.

  Goofball McClusky opened it. Behind him, they saw steam rising.

  “Look,” Candace whispered, “a double-decker lair with a Jacuzzi! All I have is a lousy bedroom.”

  “Shhh,” Melvin said and turned to Goofball. “Mr. McClusky, where were you on the night of The Grateful Fred concert?”

  “I was working, of course. Robbed a few jewelry stores on Rodeo Drive.”

  “Oh, you were just robbing jewelry stores.”

  “Yes, it was a good night. I’m thinking of upgrading to a triple-decker lair.”

  “Triple decker!” Candace said with wide eyes.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. McClusky,” Melvin said. He turned to leave, pulling Candace with him.

  “Did you hear that, Melvin? A triple-decker lair!”

  “Focus, Candace,” Melvin told her. “We have work to do.” He pulled out his list of names and looked at it. “Only one more left, Joe the Bad Guy. Let’s hope this last one is our man.”

  They went to Joe the Bad Guy’s lair and knocked on the door. Joe answered.

  “Hello, I’m Melvin—”

  “Melvin Beederman. Come in, come in,” Joe said with a smirk. “Can I offer you a root beer?”

  Melvin’s ears perked. Root beer was his favorite. Candace’s too. “I’d love a root beer.”

  “Help yourselves,” Joe said.

  Melvin and Candace went to the fridge, opened the door, and—BOLOGNA! It was their only weakness. And the whole fridge was packed with it.

  The partners in uncrime fell to their knees.

  “Can’t … move … get … me … out … of … here.”

  Joe laughed. “I was hoping you’d show up, Melvin Beederman.”

  Melvin looked at Candace. “I can’t believe I fell for it,” he gasped. “The old bologna-in-the-refrigerator trick.”

  Joe the Bad Guy grabbed some rope and tied their hands behind their backs. Then he bound their feet, his smirk getting bigger by the second. Melvin and Candace knew it would do no good to resist, not with the bologna right there in front of them.

  “Looks lik
e Fred will be in jail for many years to come, thanks to the Clone-o-Matic 6000,” Joe said with a kind of mean laugh (he still hadn’t read the book on evil ones). “Well, I’m off to dispose of the extra Freds.”

  He went to a door in the back of the lair and opened it. “Guys,” he called, “let’s go. And turn off the TV.” He turned to Melvin and Candace. “They love watching The Adventures of Thunderman.”

  Joe stepped back and suddenly the room was filled with Freds, each one the spitting image of the original. Thirteen Freds, thirteen pairs of underwear. Poor Melvin!

  “Roll call,” Joe said. “Fred?”

  “Here.”

  “Fred?”

  “Here.”

  He went through all thirteen of them. To Melvin and Candace he said, “Once these Freds are history there will be no evidence. The real Fred will be blamed. And I will be long gone.”

  The Freds went outside and loaded themselves into a van.

  Joe stayed inside and struck a match. “Looks like I won’t be needing this lair anymore.” He tossed the burning match into a wastebasket and kicked it over, spreading flames across the floor. “Adios, amigos,” he said, then he ran for the van and took off.

  Candace turned to Melvin as the flames spread to the furniture and drapes. “What do we do now?”

  “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m not the narrator.”

  17

  JOE THE BRAINLESS

  The door to the fridge was open and our two superheroes were tied up close by. Flames rose to the ceiling. Smoke was everywhere.

  “Seriously, Melvin, what’s your noggin telling us to do?” Candace asked.

  “I have no idea.” Melvin couldn’t believe his bad luck. It seemed the whole world knew of his weakness. And here he was, once again, powerless before bologna.

  The room grew hotter. They could hardly breathe.

  “Come on,” Candace said, coughing. “If anyone can think of a plan, you can.”