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Over his career at The Daily Apple, Bob had come across a whole range of unexpected sources who provided him with hot tips, but the one who consistently provided the best and most exciting leads called his office every Wednesday morning at six o'clock.
Bob did not know his name; he was merely a posh English voice on the other line, but whoever he was, he seemed to have his proverbial finger on the pulse of the criminal underworld. When the Scarlet Tomato had fallen, the voice had told a full day before any other newspaper caught the story. When the Purse Snatcher had fled to Mexico, the voice had given Bob his location down to the geographical points. When the supervillainess, Lemon Diva, had tried to run for mayor under the alias Bella Citron, the voice had helped Bob to expose the scheme, and Diva was arrested in the middle of one of her campaign rallies. The Thursday edition of The Daily Apple had become their best seller because whatever the voice told Bob turned out to be true, sooner or later.
Which made it doubly frustrating whenever Bob could not run a story.
One Wednesday morning found him in his office like usual, his temper resembling the gathering dark clouds outside. A series of black-and-white photographs sat on his desk waiting for approval, each one showing a tall onion man with arms and legs fighting a crook or driving his hovercraft into a dire situation or posing with one of the many veggies he had rescued.
"Fake," Bob spat at the onion's pale monocled face. "You're just a big fake, but my own staff and the rest of Applyburg can't get enough of you."
With a frustrated breath, he gathered the photos into a pile and tossed them to the side. As if to punctuate his annoyance, his office phone erupted with its trilling ring, and Bob snatched the receiver up.
"This is Bob," he said as civilly as he could.
"Good morning, Mr. Robert," replied the familiar voice. "I trust you are well?"
"As much as be expected," he huffed, adjusting his weight in his high-backed swivel chair. "What do you got for me today?"
"Well, that depends," said the voice.
"On?"
"When one goes out of his way to provide a fellow with an excellent news story, one expects to see said story in the news," the mysterious voice returned. "Frankly, I must say I'm most disappointed, Mr. Robert."
"Oh, are you?" Bob drawled.
"I have told you in no uncertain terms that the vigilante known as Altruistic Alvin is none other than the supervillain, Awful Alvin of Lollyhaven, and yet I see The Daily Apple continues to sing a wicked man's praises. Hardly what one expects from a man who claims to print only the truth."
"Yes, well, circumstances are currently beyond my control," Bob answered, rocking back in his office chair with an agitated jerk. "I may be fairly convinced, but doubt casts a pretty long shadow, as it turns out, especially when alleged supervillains have evil grandfathers like Selfish Simon still breathing."
Silence met him for a moment. Although he had never seen his source, Bob could picture some snooty face quirking a thin eyebrow in dry disapproval.
At last the man spoke: "I am sure there are other newspapers who would better appreciate my munificence."
Bob barked a dry laugh. "If you could get someone else to print it, you would have done so by now, but no editor is going to risk Selfish Simon showing up on their doorstep over libel."
"He has disowned Alvin. He will not harm you."
"Kin is still kin, and you could be wrong about Awful Alvin and the other Alvin being the same man."
"Haven't my leads been good in the past?"
"My photographer claims that Alvin stopped LarryBoy from robbing the Applyburg Institute of Archaeology, and Alvin allegedly rescued her when the Cucumber of Crime endangered her life. People aren't going to buy he's a supervillain with all his fans yapping his praises across the city."
"Even photographers get confused."
"But at least she has a few clear pictures for evidence," Bob retorted, tapping his pencil against his desk. "All you've done to direct me to one photograph from an old issue of my paper where Awful Alvin resembles Vigilante Alvin."
"It will convince a significant amount of people."
"Look, pal, I run a respectable newspaper, not a tabloid. I don't dip into that yellow journalism nonsense, even over a vigilante."
"What more do you require, Mr. Robert?"
"Proof," Bob answered. "The past few days I've called around. The public-information officers for both the Lollyhaven and Applyburg police don't have anything on Awful Alvin's known whereabouts, and all the other contacts that I tried haven't seen him around in about a year. For all I know, the real Awful Alvin could have fallen off the face of the earth, and the other Alvin is just an unfortunate look-alike. So, get me something I can use. Show me fingerprints and dental records. Show me birth certificates and social-security cards. If I'm going to stick my neck out on this one, I need concrete evidence that will show up in court in a defamation suit."
A pause followed, and Bob could visualize that snooty face deliberating with a frown.
Then: "I will be in touch."
A click followed and then the dial tone.
"That's what I thought," said Bob, returning the receiver.
He adjusted his visor with a jerk and spun his swivel chair to gaze out of his nearest window. The island of green known as Applyburg park stretched out before him on the other side of the street, rimmed with tall buildings and obstructed views of the overcast sky. Bob remembered when he had worked in a third-floor cubicle without access to a window, writing articles about birthday parties for dogs and other such tripe, but he had worked his way to the top. He had earned this fifth-floor view; he had earned this private office with sliding glass doors that allowed him to monitor his subordinates while commanding sheer respect from onlookers.
Respect. A short, serious, often soft-spoken tomato from the suburbs had to fight for every crumb of it in this town, and once he had it, Bob held onto it with a death grip.
As Bob stared at the cityscape, a flat object slipped into sight, passing on a distant street at a height equal to his office, and Bob clenched his teeth to recognize the vehicle and the tall onion driver at the controls.
"Just give me proof," he muttered, watching the onion pilot his platform. "Just one piece of solid proof, and you're done in this town, Alvin."
Under his tight supervision and a successful series of quality decisions, the paper had flourished. Even when other newspapers were too scared to write about the malicious Bok Choy coming out of retirement to teach a supervillain class, decrying it as a conspiracy theory, Bob had followed his gut and chased down the lead. He had sent his best investigative reporter undercover to infiltrate the underworld, and once his reporter had returned with a mountain of evidence, Bob had run the story without a thought to his own safety because he had known it was the truth.
Bob's gut told him now that Awful Alvin and the vigilante were one and the same, but he could lose everything he had worked for if he went after a supervillain without evidence. To wind up jobless, homeless, and with a reputation in tatters was one victory he would not let Awful Alvin gain over him.
Alvin had taken enough from him already, all those years ago.
"But my British friend has come through before," he reminded himself with a smirk as the hovercraft disappeared among the row of skyscrapers.
By sunset the clouds had cleared, perfectly fitting Bob's shift of mood as quitting time neared.
Normally, Bob stayed well past working hours, tending to the various details for the next morning's paper, but tonight he kept a close eye on the clock. When seven o'clock rolled around, he smilingly put his folders away without double checking a thing. (He was feeling daring tonight.) He removed his visor and swapped his blue bowtie for a fresh one which he had brought from home, spritzed a little breath freshener into his mouth, and checked his appearance in the small mirror he kept in his desk. Satisfied, he hopped out of his chair, shut off his office lights, and sauntered toward the elevator on the other side of the mass of desks and cubicles, humming as he went.
He passed by Vicki Cucumber, his best photojournalist (and the Alvin-supporter-in-residence), who was gathering extra rolls of film for her work camera from her desk drawers. From the unmistakable glow on her face, Bob was sure she expected to find a newsworthy night waiting for her on the streets of Applyburg.
And she probably hopes to find her next story from the back of a certain hovercraft, Bob snarked to himself, surveying her with a frown. Aloud, he said, "Out to take more pictures of your vigilante buddy?"
"They won't take themselves, now will they, Chief?" she quipped without looking up from her task.
Bob rolled his eyes and continued on toward the elevator.
He only had to wait a few moments before the doors slid open. He hopped into the empty car and pressed the button for the lobby, but as the doors started to shut a nasal voice called out, "Wait! Hold the elevator!"
Bob dutifully pressed the open-door button, and Larry, their cucumber janitor, slid inside with his mop.
"Thanks, Bob!" he sighed gratefully. "Hit the basement button for me, will ya?"
Bob did, and the doors slid shut, and the car began to descend. Larry leaned against his broom and turned to look at Bob, only for his eyes to widen in amusement.
"Where are you going all spruced up, Boss?"
Bob adjusted his bowtie. "It's Open-Mike Night at the Cherry Cafe downtown, and my girlfriend and her sisters are singing."
Larry quirked his eye ridge, looking impressed. "Wow, that sounds like fun! You're so lucky, Bob."
Normally, Bob would have ended the conversation there, having the mind that familiarity bred contempt, but he was in a good mood, and he was proud of his lady, so he allowed his small smile to spread.
"She's an amazing singer — even though she just does backup right now — but Katrina and her sisters are going places. I'd wager they're good enough to perform at Vegetable Square Gardens someday."
"I hope I can hear them sometime," Larry smiled. "You said they're at the Cherry Cafe?"
"That's right."
"Maybe if I finish up here in time, I can swing by," he said, giving his mop a little shake, "but I still gotta clean up the bathrooms on the third floor and sweep the stairwell and fix the microwave in the staff lounge and—"
But the elevator doors opened then, and Bob hopped out into the lobby, leaving Larry to continue listing all his remaining tasks.
With a cab driver who pushed the speed limits past Bob's comfort zone, he managed to get to the Cherry Cafe in great time. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped into a cozily lit front room, and the radiant Katrina Dill hurried over to meet him. She was a tall sweet potato with an orange complexion and short blonde hair styled in a fetchingly mature way, and she wore a cute but practical mint-green dress with pale-green-and-purple polka dots.
"Just in time," she said as Bob pulled her into a side hug. "We're on next, Bobby!"
With anyone else, he would have grimaced at the nickname, since he tried to command a certain level of respect from his peers, but when Katrina said it, with that affectionate lilt in her Southern voice and those lovely eyes sparkling just for him, he did not mind it so much. Actually, Katrina could get him to tolerate anything, even leaving work early to catch her performance.
She ushered him over to a table with four chairs and hurried to join her two sisters as the cafe's M.C. announced them. The DJ started the cassette tape with the instrumental parts, and the Dill sisters began their number. Katrina sang the backup harmonies with her fraternal twin, Sabrina, a sweet potato with brown hair and a green peel, while Mirabelle, their college-aged little sister with amber hair, sweetly sang the lead part.
"'Cause, baby, God sees something in you they can't see.
You're rough around the edges, baby, I agree,
But He's telling me from up above,
I gotta show you love…"
Mirabelle had written the lyrics herself, claiming they had just come to her one day, but Bob could not help noticing she had composed the song shortly after he and Katrina had met for a blind date — well, technically Bob was supposed to have gone with Sabrina, but she had caught a cold and had sent her twin in her place. Although they had enjoyed their time together, Katrina had deliberated on gracing Bob with a second date.
"You're nice and all, but I usually don't go for short guys," she had informed him bluntly when he had walked her home that first night.
A week later, however, she had surprised him by calling him at his work and asking if he could listen to the new song her kid sister had composed and give her his professional feedback as a writer on the lyrics. Although his expertise was journalism rather than poetry, he had met them all for dinner at their shared apartment, and the Dill trio had performed "Show You Love", a song noticeably about looking past a person’s exterior. Bob had liked it, and afterwards Katrina had asked if he wanted to try out a second date.
"You're not just using me to get you and your sisters in my newspaper, are you?" he had asked, quirking his eye ridge.
Katrina had snorted in her typical dry way. "Please. I have some self-respect, you know. The three of us have the talents to get famous on our own."
Bob did not doubt that, and despite Katrina's aversion toward short men, the two of them had hit it off.
The sisters finished their number to a chorus of applause, with Bob among the loudest. The ladies joined him at the table, where they spent the rest of the evening sipping cocoa and listening to the other amateur acts, while Katrina leaned against Bob's shoulder. He was not at all surprised when the M.C. came up after the last act to announce that the Dill sisters had won the one-hundred-dollar gift certificate to the store.
"You girls deserve it," he smiled fifteen minutes later as he walked with the sisters toward their building. He and Katrina walked side by side while Mirabelle and Sabrina brought up the rear.
"And we did it all without your newspaper contacts, Bobby," Katrina replied, nudging him playfully.
"You sure did," he acknowledged with a bow.
"So, Bob," said Mirabelle from behind Katrina, "can we expect to see any interesting stories in the morning paper?"
"Anything with superheroes?" Sabrina chimed in, excited.
"No superheroes, Mirabelle," Bob answered flatly. "Just Alvin again."
"But Altruistic Alvin is a superhero," Sabrina replied.
"It's pronounced 'vi-gi-lan-te,' Sabrina," Bob scoffed.
"Here we go again," Katrina exhaled, rolling her now jaded eyes.
Mirabelle gave the tomato a weary smile. "Bob, don't you think you're a little too hard on Altruistic Alvin? Just a smidge?"
"Where is his degree from an accredited superhero university?" Bob challenged. "He takes in criminals without due process, and I'm expected to applaud?"
"But you don't have hands," Sabrina pointed out.
"Can't you acknowledge Altruistic Alvin has done some good?" Mirabelle pressed. "Even the Bible says you'll know false prophets by their fruits, so has Alvin been participating in kidnappings and robberies or stopping them?"
Bob halted in his tracks, pivoting to face her.
"Look, I can understand a spur-of-the-moment thing, where some thug pulls a stink bomb on your girlfriend, and you put yourself in front of her" — and he slid himself right between Katrina and Mirabelle for emphasis — "because there's no time to find a payphone to call the police, but Alvin goes out in an unregistered hovercraft and patrols the city without a badge. If he actually cared about justice, he could join the police force, but it's all about ego for him — and maybe something else," he added under his breath.
Mirabelle shook her head. "If Mayor Blueberry doesn't have a problem with him, why should you?"
"Because I'm not so easily fooled like some folks are."
"What did Altruistic Alvin ever do to you, Bob?" asked Sabrina, incredulous. "You make it sound like he stole all your candy when you were four years old."
Bob glared at her, but instead of answering, he spun back around to face front. With a huff, he started off again, and the girls followed, but a noticeable shift had come over them all.
The wind picked up, and clouds began to cluster above them, promising a storm. Bob and the sisters continued down two more blocks in a tense silence, and as they hurried past a dark, yawning alley, Sabrina suddenly stopped cold.
"Hey, did anybody hear that?" she said in a strange voice, whirling around and looking up in alarm.
"What?" returned her twin, slowing her walk.
Gulping, Sabrina scanned the tall buildings lining either side of the street.
"It— It sounded like a suction cup," she stammered, "like on a plunger."
"You're imagining things," Katrina chided, but her eyes went wide, and she drew closer to Bob.
The only reason why someone would hear a plunger this late at night in downtown Applyburg was if it was being shot by the nefarious supervillain known as LarryBoy, the Cucumber of Crime. Unlike other villains, he had never been unmasked, which was a testament to his criminal capabilities — and to his formidable status among evil-doers.
The sisters exchanged worried glances, but Bob took charge.
"Let's get somewhere well lit and call a cab," he said.
The sisters nodded silently, but before they could start off again, a soft sound came from the dark alley on their right.
"Psst!"
They all whirled around and froze as one to see the tall, thin figure of an asparagus in a mask carrying a bag — and a red, dangerous dodgeball.
"Oh!" Mirabelle cried in alarm.
"None of that now," the man ordered in a soft voice, but Bob thought he might have had an English accent "I have a lot more dodgeballs in my bag here, young lady, and I wouldn't want to use them. So, let's do our business inside this alley. Nice and easy now."
The girls shrank behind Bob, clutching each other.
"Wh-What do we do?" whimpered Sabrina.
"Do as he says," Bob answered in a strained voice that did not sound like his own.
"Right you are, sir," sniffed the soft-voiced robber. He motioned with the dodge ball again. "Quick now."
Bob shuffled forward and mutely led the way into the darkness.
So, this is how it ends, he thought faintly. He could imagine the next morning's headlines: "Tomato Found Bruised" — "Pathetic Weakling Could Not Rescue His Girlfriend from Robber" — "Newspaper Editor Against Vigilantes Attacked by Criminal."
Halfway into the alley, the tall man ordered them to line up against the brick wall beside the Dumpster, and he pulled out a smaller bag.
"All right then," he hissed. "Drop your wallets and other valuables in this if you know what's good for you."
Bob pulled out his leather billfold and tossed it into the bag, and the girls did the same with their handbags and pieces of costume jewelry. Suddenly, the robber directed the dodge ball at Katrina.
"Your earrings too, ma'am," he ordered.
Katrina shrank back against the wall, shaking her head so that her blonde hair swung around her face. "No, no, you don't understand. These belonged to my mother—"
"And now they're mine," the robber cut her off sharply, "unless you want your friends here to get bruised."
"It's okay, Katrina," Mirabelle said in a faint voice. "Mama would understand."
Katrina clenched her jaw but stiffly complied. With a deep breath, she tossed her late mother's jewelry into the waiting bag, and she quickly averted her gaze.
A turbulent of emotions raged within Bob to see her anguish, but he stayed rooted to the spot. He had not felt this helpless since his high-school days when bullies would stuff him in garbage cans and roll him down the hill, but this was ten times worse. Right then, Katrina needed him, and he could do nothing to protect her, not even make a valiant last sacrifice.
"All right then," hissed the robber. "Face the wall. Don't try any funny business—"
But he was cut off by a whistling sound, and something struck the brick wall above them. Bob's head snapped up to find the unmistakable shape of a plunger with a taunt tether cord.
"What the—?" the robber started to say, but something solid collided with him, sending him flying down the alley.
That solid object skidded to a halt on the concrete road, and it straightened, jerking its head to retract the plunger to its helmeted head.
"Not so fast, evil-doer!" came a bold, deep, if nasal voice.
Bob stared at their rescuer in confusion, and with a sickening dread, he recognized the cucumber shape, the strange purple helmet with a tall fin and two plungers, the blue shirt, the utility belt with LB on the buckle.
"LarryBoy," he whispered, drawing back against the wall.
The robber scrambled to his feet, tossing the bag onto the road.
"Here, take it!" he cried, staggering backwards. "It doesn't matter to me! Please don't hurt me!"
"Wise choice," retorted the cucumber. He pounced upon the bag and scooped it up, opening to glance inside, but then — to Bob's shock — he turned and held it out toward Katrina.
"I believe your earrings are in here, ma'am?" he said in a tone that sounded gentlemanly.
Trembling, Katrina took the bag from him and hugged it against her chest without opening it, regarding the cucumber like a wild animal.
"Well, uh," said the robber, backing away, "I'll be going then, yes?"
Without waiting for a reply, he spun and desperately sprinted back toward the mouth of the alley.
"Aren't you going to go after him?" squeaked Sabrina, sounding discombobulated.
"Why?" LarryBoy smiled at her. "He's not going anywhere,"
To demonstrate, he pivoted sideways, closed one masked eye to aim, and fired a plunger, sending it zipping through the air. The suction cup collided with the fleeing robber's back just as the man reached the edge of the sidewalk, and he yelped in surprise, falling flat on his face.
LarryBoy darted over to him, pulling something from his utility belt which turned out to be another cord. Reaching the robber, he hauled him up, retracting his plunger, and he soon had the cord wrapped and tied around him like a Christmas ribbon. The robber must have been too frightened to resist and did not even offer a cry of protest. LarryBoy pulled out another object from his belt, which was a smaller plunger that he attached to the robber's back. With great strength for a cucumber, he hauled the robber up and hurled him right at the brick wall, where he stuck like a glob of silly putty.
LarryBoy whirled back toward the gawking four.
"Hurry, citizens!" he charged. "We must call the police. This must be handled by the proper authorities who will use due process to put this guy away for good."
Bob blinked at him in surprise. "That's pretty ethical, LarryBoy."
"I'm not without integrity," he replied with something that sounded a bit like a titter, but he quickly coughed. "Sorry! Ack! Had something in my throat. Let's go!""
Maybe it was shock or the bizarreness of the situation, but neither Bob or the Dill sisters questioned this command. The five thundered their way down the road, and right at the corner came upon a 24-hour diner. LarryBoy reached the door first and hauled it open, stepping back to let the sisters in first. As Bob passed him, LarryBoy pulled out a pair of funny glasses and slipped it over his masked face.
"Can't be too careful," he told Bob with a wink as he shut the door behind them.
Bob was about to ask him what he meant, but he noticed the other patrons and the lone server behind the counter staring at them, and he understood. The mere sight of LarryBoy might have caused a panic.
Mirabelle, the fastest of the sisters, reached the payphone in the back first and quickly dialed 911 while the twins collapsed in a booth, gasping for breath. Bob was about to join them when LarryBoy nudged his shoulder. Bob turned and was surprised when LarryBoy pressed a trio of $20 bills into his invisible grasp.
"Get the girls what they need," he said. "They're probably in shock."
Before Bob could reply, LarryBoy spun for the counter and ordered a plate of onion rings and a chocolate milkshake for himself.
Twenty minutes later, they were still waiting for the police to appear, but at least Bob had managed to coax a dazed Katrina into drinking two cups of tea, and Mirabelle and Sabrina also looked a lot calmer, if shaken. None of them dared to exit the diner, even to see if the asparagus was still hung up down the street or to check for an approaching cop car.
Meanwhile, LarryBoy lounged at the counter, calmly watching the infomercial on the mounted television set as if he were not a wanted criminal.
What would have happened if he hadn't shown up? Bob wondered, bemused. The girls could have gotten hurt. Katrina could have been hurt…
He stopped himself with a shudder, refusing to entertain that unpleasant thought. He gave Katrina a soft nudge, which she returned, leaning against him. Her weight on his round side was reassuring, but it also reminded him of what he could have lost, and shame at his own weakness swept over him.
Thinning his lips, Bob glanced again toward LarryBoy, hesitated, then patted Katrina, signaling he was about to get up.
"Be right back."
He started along the rows of booths, acting as though he were only going to the men's room in case he changed his mind. As he came parallel to the cucumber, however, LarryBoy suddenly turned on his stool and smiled at the sight of him.
"How are the ladies doing?" he asked.
"Better." Bob cleared his throat. "Thanks to you."
"Don't mention it." He picked up an onion ring and used it to gesture to the stool beside him. "Pull up a seat, pal."
Only an hour ago Bob would have been wary of such an invitation, but this was the man who had rescued his Katrina, and Bob found himself climbing up into the revolving seat.
"What's your poison?" asked LarryBoy.
"Pardon?"
"What do you want to drink? Tomatoes can drink like the rest of us, right?"
"Oh. Right."
LarryBoy motioned the server over, but Bob asked only for a water with lemon. It was brought quickly, and LarryBoy passed Bob a paper napkin from the dispenser to use as a coaster.
"You know," said LarryBoy between sips as he studied the infomercial product, which promised to brew coffee and cut fries at the same time or your money back, "I bet CukeCorp could come up with a product ten times better than that."
"Maybe." Bob swirled his water glass but did not drink. "Uh, LarryBoy?"
"Yeah?"
Bob cleared his throat. "Why did you save us?"
LarryBoy turned lazily in his chair. "Why wouldn't I, Mr. Tomato?"
"Because you're… well…" Bob rocked his head side to side, trying to phrase his thoughts without offending the dangerous man before him. "…LarryBoy."
The cucumber arched his masked eye ridge. "And who is LarryBoy?"
Bob shifted his weight. "Well, uh, you're— not to be rude— but aren't you the, uh, Cucumber of Crime?"
"And who calls me that?" LarryBoy returned. "I sure didn't give myself that name."
"Nor did I," Bob answered hurriedly, gulping.
LarryBoy snorted, leaning against the counter.
"There's a lot more to me than what you see in the newspapers, Mr. Tomato. That's the problem with wearing a mask. All your enemies can tarnish your reputation, and there's no way you can defend yourself."
"Sure, sure," Bob nodded furiously. He fiddled with his blue bowtie. "Um, what sort of enemies are you referring to? Like newspaper editors…?"
"Oh, anyone who tries to stop true justice," LarryBoy said. "That's what I'm really after. Justice."
"I see," answered Bob indulgently. "In what sense?"
Instead of replying right away, LarryBoy scanned their surroundings, then pretended to be interested in his chocolate milkshake.
"I know what they say about me," he said in a hushed tone. "Like how I'm a cat burglar who steals irreplaceable artifacts from the Applyburg Museum of History and Really Old Stuff and sells them on the Internet, but I've never taken anything that wasn't already stolen."
"What do you mean?"
"Look it up in international newspapers," LarryBoy returned. "See what I did with the Lost Soda Recipe of Fizzytopia if you want proof. Most of the stuff I 'take' were artifacts wrongly removed from other countries by big-time museums, and these items were then loaned to Applyburg and other local places. I just return the artifacts to the rightful owners — but that never gets reported in the States. I only appropriate things from unpunished crooks, Mr. Tomato."
Bob frowned. "Like a vigilante?"
"Nope!" LarryBoy insisted, tossing his head as though Bob had just questioned his honor. "I'm taking a correspondence course from an accredited superhero college, thank you very much!"
Bob leaned back, skeptical. "You're a legitimate superhero?"
"Superhero in training," LarryBoy corrected. "I have to get a bunch of hours of real hero work in as part of my degree, but" — he sighed wearily — "I made a few mistakes as a rookie, and people got the wrong impression. And then my archnemesis built a robot that looks just like me, and he has the robot steal things, and I get all the blame!"
Bob sat up without meaning to. "Your archnemesis? Who?"
LarryBoy stirred his straw through the milkshake. "Is this on the record?"
"Not if you don't want it to be," Bob replied.
LarryBoy checked over his shoulder again, then said, "I have to be careful because he's got a lotta fans in this town, and word might get back to him before I'm ready to deal with him. Already he got some newspaper photographer to take pictures of him 'stopping' me at the Institute of Archaeology, but he was only fighting his own robot!"
Bob's ears perked up, "Who is he?"
"A supervillain who used to live in Lollyhaven. His name is—" LarryBoy stopped abruptly and shot yet another furtive look over each shoulder as though he expected someone to be pointing a microphone at him. He lowered his voice so that Bob had to lean in just to hear him. "His name is… Awful Alvin."
Bob sat up and knocked right into LarryBoy's plunger. "Awful—!"
"Shh!" LarryBoy clipped, adjusting his helmet with a pained wince.
Bob checked himself and whispered, "Awful Alvin? Are you sure?"
"Unless Selfish Simon has another grandson with limbs who recently moved to Applyburg," LarryBoy snarked. "You've probably seen him flying around on that junker hovercraft with his pet lamp."
"Altruistic Alvin," Bob breathed.
"Got it in one, pal."
Bob's rapid mind went over this new development. It made sense. In order to solidify his status as a hero, Awful Alvin had to make someone look even worse, and who better to invent such a despicable robot than the most awful-minded genius in the world?
And Alvin had manipulated Vicki into photographing his "heroics" that night at the Institute, and the poor girl ate up his lies with a spoon.
Bob's blood began to boil.
"That fiend," he growled, pulling out his paper napkin from under his drink only to clench it in his nonexistent fist. "Using my photojournalist to advance his plans and getting her to publish his propaganda in my newspaper!"
LarryBoy looked at him. "Oh, you own a newspaper?"
"I'm an editor," Bob returned tersely. "You know The Daily Apple?"
"Oh, wow!" LarryBoy whistled. "I didn't realize you were such a big-time man!"
"And how!" Bob tossed the crumple napkin to the side. "Ooooooh, if only I had proof, then I'd show him… I'd show everyone!"
"Do you mean it?"
"Of course!" Bob snapped. "I got into journalism to share the truth with the whole world, and I'm not going to let some supervillain use my paper to put out his lies!"
LarryBoy smiled. "Just what I wanted to hear, Mr. Tomato."
He plucked one of the complimentary mints from the bowl and placed it right in front of the tomato.
"Criminals leave a sour taste in your mouth, right?"
"That's a good way to put it."
"Then maybe we can help each other out," LarryBoy said with a grim, conspiratorial smile. "If you really mean you want to print the truth, then you need to tell everyone about Awful Alvin's LarryBoy robot. I can't clear my name without your help!"
Bob leaned forward. "Do you have proof?"
"I will. Soon." LarryBoy lifted his funny glasses, and his masked eyes radiated the desperate urgency of a falsely condemned man looking for a reprieve. "And when I do, can I count on you to print the truth, Mr. Tomato?"
Bob hesitated. It occurred to him then that the so-called Cucumber of Crime might actually be lying to him, and if that were so, either Bob was going to be lured into a huge propaganda scandal, or he was going to need witness protection for refusing to work with a known villain.
But isn't Awful Alvin a known villain? another part of him argued. Bob knew the sorts of crimes that Alvin had pulled in Lollyhaven, and LarryBoy of all people had just confirmed that Alvin was now masquerading as a superhero. If "Altruistic" Alvin was evil, then why couldn't LarryBoy be a falsely accused good guy like he claimed?
Bob thinned his lips, deliberating, then sighed.
"If it's the truth, then I will publish it, LarryBoy," he said at last, bowing his head.
LarryBoy allowed the glasses to drop back onto his nose, and he picked up his chocolate milkshake.
"Thanks, brother." He took a few sips before he added, "Oh, and one more thing."
"What?"
"I'm sure a big-time newspaper editor will want to write about tonight — and I don't blame you — but if you do, could you word it in such a way that Awful Alvin isn't tipped off that we're onto him? If he found out now, it could mess up my plans."
Bob nodded slowly. "I can wait awhile before I publish anything."
"Excellent." He held up his glass in a toast. "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Mr. Tomato."
Bob lifted his own drink before he realized it, and the two clinked glasses.
"Bob!" Katrina suddenly cried, sitting up. "The police are here!"
Bob whirled around in his chair in time to see a pair of blue-and-white cars pulling up alongside the diner. He heaved a sigh, slumping in his seat. He turned his head, curious to see LarryBoy's reaction, but he jolted to find an empty chair beside him.
To their dismay, they soon learned that the masked robber had escaped his bonds and had disappeared. After the police officers telephoned for the forensics team, one of the police officers offered to give the Dill sisters a ride back to their apartment. Unfortunately, there was only room enough for three in the back, and Bob as a civilian was not permitted to sit in the passenger seat, but he said he would call a cab, and he and Katrina exchanged their tender goodbyes.
After the police car drove off, however, he realized he was too restless to wait for a taxi, and the nearest subway station was only a block away, so he set off by himself.
The fifteen-minute trip seemed to pass by in a slow fever dream, and Bob kept reliving the moment when the robber appeared — and that helpless feeling of foreboding when Bob realized he could not protect the woman he loved or her sisters — and the timely arrival of the plunger-headed figure — and the strange conversation with LarryBoy at the diner.
"Was he telling the truth?" Bob kept muttering to himself. "Could it be the truth?"
At last he realized the automatic voice over the intercom was announcing his stop, and he quickly collected his thoughts.
Soon he was beneath the cloudy night sky once more, and another twenty minutes brought him to his front yard in the suburbs just as it began to sprinkle.
Inside, he flicked on lights as he went through the house until he was at last in his study. He took his seat, booted up his computer and connected to the internet, and the whispers of falling rain slightly increased outside his window.
He opened a browser and paused, staring at the keyboard, then typed in "larryboy lost soda recipe of fizzytopia."
A bunch of websites in some foreign language appeared in his results, but the fourth one was in English, a newspaper site that appeared to be British. He perused the article, which mentioned in glowing terms that a mysterious benefactor with the alias "LarryBoy" had donated the soda recipe to such-and-such museum, and the country of origin was delighted to have one of its historic artifacts back.
"The plot thickens," Bob murmured, leaning back in his swivel chair.
If LarryBoy was giving back artifacts, then maybe he was good after all.
If he was also against Awful Alvin, who was surely evil, then maybe there was some truth to his odd tale about doppelganger robots.
And if LarryBoy was good, and if Awful Alvin was evil, then maybe Bob could trust LarryBoy for the present.
"Trust, but verify," he said aloud.
He reached for a pen and legal pad, his reporter instincts alerted. Bob scoured the article once more and took notes, barely hearing the faint murmur of thunder in the distance.
THE END