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 with 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.”
“There will be guards at both doors, front and back,” Silversides said. “There will also be lookouts posted at the upstairs windows.”
“Any bolt holes?” Graybar asked.
“You go up some back steps to the second floor, then into the next building.”
“That’s dumb,” Graybar said with
