“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 his 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.
