Again.
What a geeky, dorky weirdo, she thought. And since geeky, dorky weirdos are too easy a target for sassy, saucy girls to resist, she lifted the window farther and called out, “Talking to yourself again, Dave?”
Well! There went Topaz, like a bolt of fuzzy, squooshy-faced lightning! Out the window, across the flower box, and then whoosh, over seven stories of nothingness (into which you and I would have plummeted to our deaths) and onto Dave’s flower box.
“Catch her!” the sassy, saucy girl cried. “Grab her quick before she falls!”
The minute Sticky saw Topaz coming, he abandoned his siesta and zoomed lickety-split across the box and up Dave’s arm. ‘Ay caramba!” he panted. “Here we go again!”
“Grab her, Dave! Grab her!”
Sticky’s preference would have been to let the cat fall on its face, but it would have made no difference (to its face, anyway).
Besides, cats have nine lives.
She would be back.
“Dave, what are you waiting for? Grab her!”
Evie was at the window now, singing, “Davy’s got a girlfriend, Davy’s got a girlfriend!”
“Shut up, Evie!” Dave snapped, lunging for the cat. He snagged her by the nape of the neck and hauled her in, clawing and mewing like she was being tortured. (Which, in fact, she was not. She was just furious that she’d missed the lizard again.)
Dave held her out like a furry, clawy, stinky diaper and met Lily in the hallway. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!” she gushed, acting neither sassy nor saucy.
“Hasta la vista, uuuuuugly,” Sticky muttered at the cat from inside Dave’s sweatshirt.
“What did you say?” Lily asked.
“Huh? Oh.” Dave cleared his throat. “Hasta be awfully hard for her, being cooped up inside all day.”
Lily smoothed back Topaz’s fur, making the cat’s flat face seem even squooshier. “Don’t I know,” she grumbled. “I’m grounded for grades.” She gave him a sassy, saucy smirk. “Why are you home? Don’t you have rounds to make, delivery boy?”
She was making fun of his after-school job, but this was nothing new. And he might have said, I don’t do deliveries on weekends, but instead, something inside him made him want to brag.
“Nah. I’m grounded, too.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You? Grounded?”
He nodded, pleased with her reaction. “Got home too late on Friday night.” He turned to go back into his apartment. “Well, see you at school tomorrow,” he said, then left her in the hallway with her jaw dangling.
It was enough to make him forget all about his troubles. You see, in addition to being a sassy, saucy thirteen-year-old, Lily Espinoza was quite a looker. One of those girls whose mere presence turns ordinarily coordinated boys into blushing, bumbling fools.
But for once Dave hadn’t stuttered in her presence.
He hadn’t tripped.
Hadn’t bashed into her with his bike.
For once he’d been smooth. (Or, as Sticky might say, suavecito!)
Yes, at that moment, the Bandito Brothers and Damien Black were the furthest things from his mind.
Too bad for Dave, he was the only thing on theirs.
Chapter 13
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE MANSION
Meanwhile, back at the mansion, Damien Black had survived his own dragon’s attack. So, too, had the Bandito Brothers, but that was only because they had traded their lives for loyalty. (Which is to say they were now firmly aligned with the evil treasure hunter.) (And that is to say they’d promised to help Damien find the boy.)
But where to begin?
Damien Black’s mansion loomed behind the city in an otherwise uninhabited area known as Raven Ridge. Like an eerie shadow, it was present yet overlooked by people as they hustled and bustled through their lives. A tingling of the spine, a sudden chill or a shiver…these were felt by the people of the city, but they were largely shaken off, dismissed, or ignored.
It was only if one paused to consider the shiver, paused to look up at the house, that the source was revealed. The house was, as you already know, wholly and totally spooky. But it’s a well-known fact that adults don’t buy into wholly and totally spooky. They buy into terms like “antique” or “fixer-upper” or “old and decrepit.” (Perhaps because they, too, are becoming old and decrepit, and would rather be viewed as antiques.)
But a young person calls a dog a dog (not a canine or man’s best friend or hunny-bunny-poochy-woochy). So a young person calls a wholly and totally spooky house (or person) exactly what it is—wholly and totally spooky.
So the house (and all the activities within) had a certain immunity. Adults ignored it, and children avoided it. This, then, explains how oddly jutting rooms could be built or dungeons created or Komodo dragons introduced, all without notice. It also explains how a telescope of mega-multiplying magnification could poke out of the window of one of those oddly jutting rooms without objection from the neighbors below.
Nobody noticed.
Now, the amount of time it took Dave and Sticky to get out of the mansion and onto the bike was exactly the amount of time it took Damien Black and his new cohorts to get out of the dragon pit and up to the mega-multiplying-magnification telescope (or, as the brass plate on the side of the telescope boasted, the Mighty Triple-M).
Damien put one of his dark and dangerous eyes up to the Mighty Triple-M (which, I think you’ll agree, actually makes it a Quadruple-M).
He swiftly moved the telescope across the landscape.
“Bwaa-ha-ha!” Damien laughed when he caught sight of Dave racing off on his bike. “Bwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“You spotted him, Mr. Black?”
The treasure hunter raised an eyebrow in Pablo’s direction as if to say, Why else would I be bwaa-ha-ha’ing, you fool? then resumed tracking the boy with his Mighty Triple-M.
“What does he have, anyway?” Angelo asked.
“What are those coins about?” Pablo added.
“They were very shiny!” Tito said with a head-bobby nod.
Again, Damien gave them a look. A long, hard, dark look, which meant, Ask any more questions and I’ll feed you to the dragon. The Brothers took a step back. Even Tito gulped.
Damien continued to stare until, with a jolt, he realized that his long, hard, dark look had gone on way too long. What if the boy had gotten away? He quickly turned
back to his scope, and when he found Dave again, he began muttering things like “You pesky little thief! You rotten little robber! You bungling burglar! You burrito bandito!”
“Hey!” the Bandito Brothers cried, for they were sensitive to such insensitive remarks, even if they weren’t directed directly at them.
But the treasure hunter ignored their com’ plaint and went on, his voice getting louder and more high-pitched as he trained the scope on Dave. “You crooked crook!” (As if there is such a thing as a straight crook?) “You pint-sized pickpocket! You nettling nuisance! You tricky trespasser! You confounded brat!”
And that’s what was really at the heart of the matter. You see, Damien Black had never been outsmarted by anyone.
Anyone besides Sticky, that is.
But still. It was one thing to be outsmarted by a talking lizard. The gecko, he assumed, was most likely bewitched or in possession of supernatural powers.
But being outsmarted by a boy?
A crummy, scrawny boy ?
It was an insult!
A slap in the dastardly face!
(And if there’s one thing a maniacal demon of a man cannot take, it’s a slap in his dastardly face.)
So Damien Black watched Dave through the powerful lens, following him off the mountain, across the river, and into the city, vowing to catch him.
Cage him!
Take the powerband from him and have his revenge!
He did manage to track him for quite a distance inside the city, but even the mightiest of mega-multiplying’magnification telescopes can’t see
around corners, so at last he lost sight of him.
“To the map room!” he cried, and off they all scurried, through secret passages, down a rope ladder, along a pulley cart, inside a vacuum tube, up through the trapdoor, and into the map room.
With great flair, Damien pulled down a detailed map of the area and stood staring at it as he twisted his mustache and murmured such things as “Hmm-mm. Ahhhh. Hmmm.”
Finally Pablo dared to speak. “What are you thinking, Mr. Black?”
This made Angelo brave a question, too. “Do you have an idea where he might be?”
Damien did not raise an eyebrow in their direction.
He did not sneer or snap or shout.
He simply nodded.
Then he picked up a pointer and thwapped it against the map. “I lost sight of him here.” He dragged the pointer, zigzagging along roads until he reached a neighborhood on the outskirts of town. “This area here is a possibility,” he said, circling it with his pointer. “Or here,” he said, cir-cling another neighborhood.
“How do you know, Mr. Black? How can you tell?”
Again, there was no shouting, no snapping, no raising of eyebrows. There was simply a smirk and a twist of the mustache as he replied, “Because no boy with money would risk his life that way.”
The smirk grew.
The twisting of the mustache became extra twisty.
And in his fiendish eyes, the Bandito Brothers could see a devilish glint forming.
Damien Black had a plan.
A dastardly, dark, diabolical plan.
Chapter 14
DELIVERY BOY
Dave did not think of himself as poor. (Of course, those who are rich with a family’s love never do.) His father worked at the neighborhood market, his mother at a Laundromat. “Your dad and I are a good team,” Dave’s mother would say. “Between the two of us, you’re always clean and fed.”
So Dave didn’t notice that the streets in his neighborhood were narrow and crowded or that nobody drove fancy cars. He also didn’t think twice that the playing fields at school were more dirt than grass. Or that his principal made the morning announcements through a megaphone from the middle rung of an A-frame ladder.
Ms. Batista was, after all, a little bit quirky.
It wasn’t until he began couriering—or delivery-boying, as Lily would say—that he started noticing how different life was outside his neighborhood.
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.
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.”
Chapter 15
THE 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.
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