by Avi
Blinker kept telling himself that he must let Clutch know what Silversides was planning.
“Hey, dude, what’s happening?”
Blinker, startled out of his sad reverie, looked up. It was Ragweed.
“I . . . I . . . Oh, never mind,” Blinker murmured mournfully.
“Where you been, dude?” Ragweed asked. “I thought you were gone for good.”
Eyes to the floor, Blinker silently shook his head.
“Cool. If we’re ever going to open this place, we need every paw we’ve got. How about you and me taking a walk around the place and checking out security? Come on, dude, I can use your smarts.” There was a hint of impatience in Ragweed’s voice that made Blinker cringe.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I . . .”
“Let’s hit it, dude. Like, life is moving on!”
Sick to his stomach, Blinker followed along after Ragweed. The mice first checked the back door. The way had been blocked, making it impassable for any creature. From there they went on to check the front door hole.
“We’ll post guards both places,” Ragweed explained. “At all times. I don’t think cats can get in, but dude, this place has to be, like, triple safe.”
The reluctant Blinker in tow, Ragweed climbed the rickety old staircase to the second story of the building. At the top they found a room cluttered with junk from years past.
“Windows front and back,” Ragweed observed. “But closed tight. Cool. Still, I think we better post sentries up here, too. They can look out on the front street and back alley.”
“There’s a hole in the wall over there,” Blinker pointed out timorously. It was the size of a grapefruit and rather jagged around the edges.
“Hey, awesome, mouse!” Ragweed cried and hurried over to examine the hole. “Fantastic. It goes into the next building, dude. Way good.”
“Why is that so good?” Blinker asked.
“We needed one decent bolt hole, dude. This’ll be, like, a great one. I mean, if we ever need to empty the place out fast, we can zap up the steps and cruise out this way.”
“I see,” Blinker said. Knowing that he would be telling Silversides everything he learned made him feel ghastly.
Ragweed looked about. “I suppose we should check the basement.”
“Ragweed, do . . . do you really think the cats . . . will try to get in?” Blinker asked.
Ragweed shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But, like, we can’t take any chances. Know what I’m saying?”
“Maybe . . .” Blinker stammered, “it’s all a mistake.”
“What’s a mistake?”
“Having this club.”
“Don’t be a dork, dude,” Ragweed snapped.
Blinker was afraid to say any more.
The two mice went down the steep flight of steps that led into the basement. The area was small, dark, and damp. The dirt floor was spotted with stagnant pools of water from the hosing the floor had received the day before. A rusty furnace stood in one corner. Coils of wire and rope hung from the walls. Some broken chairs were piled one atop another. Bundles of old advertisements, along with a few boxes of decaying books, took up the rest of the space.
“What do you think that is?” Ragweed asked. He pointed to a large metal pipe that stuck into the room.
Blinker stared at it. “An old sewer hookup,” he said.
“Mouse, how come you know so many things?”
“Well, I’ve not lived much. But I’ve read a great deal.”
“Okay, what’s a sewer?”
“It’s a pipe that carries away dirt and waste.”
“Where’s it lead to?”
“Probably to a bigger sewer. But if it’s unhooked,” Blinker said, “and it looks that way because no water is coming out, I suppose it doesn’t lead anywhere.”
Ragweed hauled himself up, going from the newspapers to the chairs to a coil of rope until he reached the pipe. Clinging to its lip, he peered in. It was dark inside and had a bad odor. “You’re right,” he called down to Blinker, “it’s not being used.”
He dropped back down. “I don’t see any way to get in, do you?” he said, looking around again.
“No.”
“Then there’s no point in posting a sentry here.”
“I . . . I . . . think you should,” Blinker stammered.
“You do? Why?”
Blinker hung his head. “Just in case,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, I suppose, like, you’re right. Let’s go.”
The two mice returned to the main floor. “Thanks for your help, dude,” Ragweed said to Blinker. “And cheer up. Things are going to get better.”
“Ragweed . . .” Blinker called as Ragweed started off.
“What’s up, dude?”
Blinker’s paws trembled. “I . . . I . . . have a . . . a confession to make.”
“A what?”
“It’s . . . It’s . . .” Unable to find the words to speak, Blinker took a deep breath with the intention of trying again.
Before he could say anything, Clutch ran up and joined them. “Blinker!” she cried. “Where you been, dude? I’ve been worried about you.”
“You have?”
“’Course I have.”
“Why?”
Clutch grinned. “Hey, mouse, I like seeing you around.”
Blinker bowed his head. “You do?”
“Right. So, like, where you been?”
“Home.”
“I thought you were giving that life up.”
“I . . . don’t know . . . how,” Blinker whispered.
Ragweed considered the two of them. They were certainly a striking couple, she tall and thin, gray-brown with the top of her head dyed green. He was small and shy, entirely white, with blinking pink eyes and a naked tail.
Sensing he should leave the two mice alone, Ragweed started to back away. Clutch grabbed hold of him. “Hey, dude, the guys and I have been thinking. Remember I told you about Muffler?”
“Wasn’t that your lead singer?”
“You got it. The one Silversides took out.”
At the mention of Silversides, Blinker paled.
“Anyway,” Clutch continued to Ragweed, “with all your talents, dude, we figure you might be a singer, too.”
“You mean, be a part of your band?” Ragweed exclaimed. He was rather pleased.
“Hey, dude, it would be awesome. How about giving it a try?”
“Well, sure, Clutch. Like, whatever. Just let me finish here with Blinker and . . .” He turned to where the white mouse had been. But Blinker was not to be seen.
CHAPTER 23
Opening Night at Café Independent
THE DIM LIGHT OF AN OUTSIDE street lamp slipped through the front window of the bookstore, providing a flickering pink light. The light cast letter-shaped shadows, so that the old name of the store was spelled out on the spotless, shining floor. All the old books that could be salvaged had been arranged neatly on shelves. Those that had pictures had been opened to provide decoration. Signs had been polished. One read “Children’s Books,” another “History.” Some of the others read “Sports,” “Animals,” and “Health.”
The mice had constructed a long counter out of discarded book boxes. Behind this construction stood Radiator, the fat mayor of Mouse Town. He was ready to dispense nectar, honey, and water from an array of bottle caps spread before him. Because of the grand opening, he was offering three kinds of cheese: green, orange, and white. Scattered throughout the room within easy reach were heaps of bread crumbs, sunflower seeds, and alfalfa sprouts.
The volume of the encyclopedia had been pushed into one corner in anticipation of the Be-Flat Tires’s performance. Small tuna-fish cans were already in place for Lugnut. Dipstick’s bass guitar was there. So was Clutch’s new guitar.
Off to one side of the platform Foglight was still working on the finishing touches to her poem. On the other side of the room, near the art section, Windshield was whipping paint onto the wall with hi
s tail. As he worked he kept mumbling under his breath, “Make the turning point a brighter yellow . . . Give the trend a more vibrant blue cast . . .”
Ragweed and Clutch stood in the center of the room. For the occasion she had redyed the top of her head bright red. Her purple earring, which was newly polished, dangled prettily. As for Ragweed, he looked no different than he ordinarily did, though he had licked down his fur to a neatness that would have made his mother proud. He and Clutch were standing before a group of five grim-faced, muscular young mice, all of whom had volunteered to be security guards.
“Okay, dudes,” Clutch began. “You know what we’re worried about. Do I have to, like, lay it all out?”
“Cats,” the mice chanted in unison.
“And, like, you don’t have to hear it from me, they are no joke. So you’ve got this awesome responsibility. Know what I’m saying? You all okay with that?”
The mice acknowledged their understanding by nods and squeaks.
“Cool. Now Ragweed here will give you your particular assignments.”
“Brakepad,” Ragweed began, speaking to a particularly large young house mouse, “you’ll be at the front window, like, checking out the street in front of the store. That’s an awesome stretch out there, dude. Killer activity.”
“Hey, no problem,” the burly mouse replied, squeezing his front paws so that his knuckles crunched audibly.
“Sparkplug,” Ragweed continued to a young harvest mouse with large ears and bright eyes, “you take the back window. You’re the one who has to check out the alley. Like, listen for weird sounds. Keep your eyes open for odd shadows. They can be something else. Know what I’m saying?”
“I’m hanging right there,” Sparkplug replied.
“Piston, you and Seatbelt”—a deer mouse and a house mouse—“divvy up the back steps and the upstairs bolt hole. That’s a really crucial place, so like Clutch says, are you guys are up for it?”
“We can handle it,” Piston said for the two of them.
“Finally, Bumper, you’ve got the basement. You can stay on the top of the basement steps. Nothing but junk and an old sewer pipe down there. Even so, it has to be watched like the other places. You with me?”
“I hear you,” Bumper, a short-tailed grasshopper mouse, replied.
“I miss anything?” Ragweed said, turning to Clutch.
Clutch shook her head. “Just keep your ears and eyes open to where it’s at, dudes. Like, I know you’ll be wanting to check out what’s going here, where the party is. But—can’t say it too many times—what you’re doing is killer important. You let any cats in and you can nuzzle tomorrow goodbye. So if you get tired or need to check out, hey, no problem. Just come to me or Ragweed here. But those posts have to be covered at all times. Know what I’m saying? Everybody cool?”
The mice all said they understood and scooted off to their posts.
“Well, dude,” Clutch said to Ragweed, “I think we’re all set.” She looked around the new club with satisfaction. Then she turned back to Ragweed. “Hey, have you seen Blinker?”
Ragweed replied, “I don’t know. He hasn’t been around today. I guess he’ll show up.”
“I worry about him,” Clutch said.
“Hey, dude, you really like him a lot, don’t you?” Ragweed blurted out.
Clutch eyed Ragweed. “Hey, he’s way cool,” was all she said before hurrying off.
Ragweed, wishing he understood exactly what Clutch was feeling, watched her go.
“First mice coming in!” Brakepad bellowed from his ledge post on the front window.
And indeed, the mice of Amperville had begun to stream into the club. They came alone, they came in pairs, they came in groups. However they came, they arrived in numbers. It was as if all the mice in Amperville felt the need to be at the café’s opening night. The air was filled with great excitement.
Soon the old bookstore floor was covered with a milling mob of mice, generating a bubbling babble of squeak and squeal. Groups of mice were crowding together to talk. Individual mice strolled about and gawked as they inspected the new club or looked on as Windshield continued to paint his wall.
Clutch was very much the center of attention. Ragweed could see her red head bobbing about as she moved from group to group. She was accepting congratulations, even as she told anyone who cared to listen how the club came to be.
As the evening progressed, Ragweed remained in a corner, observing how things were going. From time to time he slipped away and went upstairs and down, checking with the security guards, making sure they were in place and attentive.
“The better job you do, dude,” he told them one by one, “the better this place is going to be. Hey, face it. You guys are the most important mice in this place.”
Some two hours after the first mouse had arrived Radiator worked his way to the platform. Once there, he sat up on his hind legs and looked over the crowd, rubbing his paws in satisfaction, nodding to first this mouse, then that, greeting most by name.
Finally he called, “Hey, guys, listen up!”
He was completely ignored.
The second time he fairly brayed, “Can I have your attention, dudes!”
That quieted the crowd. All eyes and ears turned toward the mayor. The only one who did not pay attention was Windshield, who continued to toil away on his painting as if no one else were there. “More purple where the mice are helping mice,” he murmured.
“As mayor of Mouse Town,” Radiator began, “it’s my duty and pleasure to welcome you to the opening night of Café Independent!”
There was a raucous chorus of cheers, jeers, and squeaks.
“There are any number of mice we have to thank, but before we get into that I want to introduce Clutch’s mother, Foglight. Foglight will read to us from the mouse epic she has been composing. Will you please join me in giving Foglight a Café Independent welcome!”
More applause and cheers as Foglight, looking somber, marched across the platform. When she reached the middle, she paused, looked sternly at the upturned faces and whiskers, and began to recite her poem. She spoke slowly, enunciating each word with great care, using a free paw to provide emphasis. “From Cheese of Grass, Part Seventeen,” she intoned.
“There once was a poetical young mouse
Who was considered a cantankerous souse.
Yet what the world never knew
Was that his fleas were more than a few,
And until this house mouse doused the louse, no one knew he was really not a grouse.
Thank you.”
For a brief moment there was nothing but stunned silence. Then the mice broke into wild applause. Foglight, smiling and bowing stiffly, backed off the platform.
Radiator returned to the stage. “Thank you, Foglight. Great poem. Thank you again. And now,” he called out, “I want to introduce the mouse who had so much to do with this all, our own Clutch!”
Clutch leaped on the stage, wearing a grin as wide as her face, her red hair radiant, her earring bouncing.
“Hey, dudes,” she called out, “this is, like, an awesome moment. Know what I’m saying? Check it out! But the dude who is really the force behind all this may be new to you. There he is over there, like, in the corner. My tight bud—Ragweed!”
All eyes turned to Ragweed, who, grinning, waved at the crowd.
“But all this talk is not, like, where it’s at. I want to call the members of the Be-Flat Tires up here, along with Ragweed. We’re going to swing into a little Café Independent music. You dudes ready for that?”
“Yes!” the crowd roared back.
Lugnut and Dipstick edged onto the stage and got ready to play. Lugnut set himself behind his guitar. Dipstick was primed to hit the drums. Within moments, Ragweed joined them up front and center.
Clutch turned to her band and snapped her fingers. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”
Dipstick stroked out the rhythm with a wild flourish. Then the other band members joined in wi
th a rocking, rollicking beat of joy. Clutch nodded and whisked her tail. Lugnut leaped up and down. At first Ragweed hung back, head bowed, absorbing the beat. Then he stepped forward. In his low, husky voice, he began to sing:
“This old world is swinging on
As it keeps on spinning roun’ and roun’
The sun comes up and the moon goes down,
But the dancing goes on and on.
Hey, mouse, whatcha doing tonight?
Hey, mouse, whatcha doing tonight?
Come on down and be . . . Independent!
Come on down and be . . . Independent!”
There was a general squeak of approval. The next moment the floor was crowded with dancers. They leaped and jumped and wiggled, and over and over again they joined in the chorus:
“Come on down and be . . . Independent!
Come on down and be . . . Independent!”
Clutch looked at Ragweed. Ragweed looked at Clutch. They grinned at each other.
“Is Blinker here yet?” Clutch mouthed.
“Nope,” Ragweed replied, and continued to sing his heart out.
CHAPTER 24
The Sewer
SILVERSIDES AND GRAYBAR moved silently through the streets of Amperville. Only when they came to the niche by the old sewer where Graybar made his living quarters did they stop. Fish bones, chicken bones, and assorted fast-food wrappers were scattered about. A half-eaten pizza slice lay curled up in one corner. Not far off was a bit of hot dog.
“Okay,” Silversides said, “let’s go over what Blinker told me.”
“Sure thing,” Graybar said, his tail twitching with impatience.
“Tonight at about ten-thirty—it’s eleven now—the opening of this Café Independent club took place. The whole of Mouse Town should be there.”
Graybar grinned.
“There’s a dance,” Silversides continued. “The mouse mayor gives a speech. The Be-Flat Tires perform.”
“The what?” Graybar asked.
“It’s a band. Clutch’s band. And Ragweed is going to sing, too.”
“That stuff doesn’t matter,” Graybar said. “Go over their security.”
