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.