For Your Paws Only (17 page)

Oz tugged on her sleeve. “D. B.,” he whispered urgently, still choking on flour. “D. B., something's
really
wrong. The rats are here.”

“I know the rats are here!” said D. B. “You don't have to tell me that! Two big rats named Jordan and Tank! I have had enough of those jerks!”

Oz shook his head, releasing another cascade of flour. He prodded at his glasses with a pudgy finger, trying to wipe the lenses clean but only managing to smear them with white. “That's not what I meant,” he said, pointing across the deck to where Dupont was crouched behind a fake sea chest, greedily tucking into his stolen treat. Over the edge of the deck, another set of whiskers appeared, and then another. The rats were gathering.

“Holy smoke!” said D. B. “What are they doing here? We're nowhere near Macy's!”

Oz spotted a small heap of brown fur at the feet of Roquefort Dupont. He stiffened.

“What?” asked D. B. in alarm.

“They've got Glory!”

D. B. gasped. Oz looked around wildly for a weapon.
There was nothing in sight. Bending over, he wrenched his heavy black pilgrim shoe off his foot, held it up menacingly, and started toward Dupont.

The big gray rat stood up on his hind paws as Oz approached. He stared at him with his red, glowing eyes. A malicious smile appeared on his ugly snout.

“Oz, don't,” called D. B. “Wait for the mice.”

“It'll be too late for Glory if I do,” Oz replied.

Still grinning, Dupont reached down and plucked Glory from the
Mayflower
's deck with one powerful sweep of his paw. He dangled her by the neck, several inches above the balloon deck's surface. He began to squeeze. Oz watched in horror as Glory struggled, her tiny legs kicking frantically.

“Oz, back off!” cried D. B. “Now!”

Oz hesitated. He lowered his shoe. Dupont watched him, still squeezing. Oz took a step backward. Sneering, Dupont released Glory. She crumpled to the deck in a heap.

“Dupont's got us trapped,” said Oz to D. B., his round face red with fury. “If we try and rescue Glory, he'll kill her.”

“But we can't just stand here and do nothing!”

“I don't intend to do nothing,” said Oz grimly. “Put your headset on and wait here.”

He ran to the deck railing and heaved himself over it, teetering on the edge. The ladder that they'd used to climb aboard had been taken away and strapped to the
truck pulling the float. Oz looked down. It was a long drop to Plymouth Harbor. He swallowed hard. He had to do it; he had no choice. He had to alert his colleagues that their plan had gone awry. He had to save Glory.

What I need is a parachute,
thought Oz. Agent 007 always carried a parachute. He closed his eyes and made a wish. He opened them again. No parachute. He sighed.
Here goes nothing
, he thought, jamming on his headset.
The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson,
he muttered under his breath, and jumped.

D. B. shrieked as her classmate plummeted downward off the deck. For a split second Oz thought it was all over. But the side of the
Mayflower
sloped outward just enough to catch him before he reached bottom, and he slid the rest of the way down to Plymouth's shore, leaving a long smudge of white flour trailing behind him. Lurching to his feet, he lumbered across the float toward his mother.

Lavinia Levinson's eyes widened in surprise when she saw her flour-coated son. But she was a diva, and divas didn't miss a beat. She held up a finger, signaling Oz to wait a moment, and quickly brought her song to a graceful conclusion.

The Mayflower Flour man stepped forward, frowned at Oz, and took the microphone from his mother. He began to address the crowd again, extolling the virtues of Mayflower Flour.

“Oz, what on earth happened to you?” Oz's mother asked, crouching down beside him.

“It's a long story,” Oz replied. “Mom, I need your help.”

“Sure, sweetie, anything. Those boys bothering you? I'll take care of that so fast it'll make their heads spin.” She cast a fierce glance over at Jordan's and Tank's mothers, who were waving to the crowd, oblivious to the commotion. Amelia Bean had her back to them too, busily filming the tap-dancing trees that preceded them in the parade line-up.

“It's not that. Remember the song you recorded for D. B. and me? Back in our hotel room?”

“ ‘Born to Shake My Tail'?”

Oz nodded. “I need you to sing it.”

His mother gaped at him in astonishment. “Now? Here?”

“Yes,” said Oz. “It's really, really important.”

Lavinia Levinson chewed her lip. “Really?”

Oz nodded again, and tears welled up in his eyes. Glory's life hung in the balance. But there was no way he could explain that to his mother. He just didn't have time.

His mother saw the tears and gave his floury hand a squeeze. “Okay,” she whispered. She glanced up toward the balloon ship's deck. Jordan and Tank grinned and waved. Lavinia Levinson scowled. “Remember,” she said to Oz, “it ain't over . . . ”

A smile tugged at the corner of her son's mouth. “ . . . till the fat lady sings,” he replied, completing the
“I love you” ritual he'd known all his life.

Lavinia Levinson straightened up again. She plucked the microphone from the startled Mayflower Flour man, silencing him mid-sentence. He didn't protest, however. Sometimes it paid to be a diva. She crossed the float to the Thanksgiving turkey, whispered something to him, and hummed a few bars. Her accompanist nodded. His hands hovered over the keyboard, then descended to strike the opening notes of “Born to Shake My Tail.”

Up on the
Mayflower
's deck, the half-strangled heap of fur that was Glory stirred slightly. Her elegant little ears perked up. That music! There was something familiar about it. Could it be? She shook her head wearily and closed her eyes. Impossible. She must be hallucinating.

“I'm a hard-rockin' mouse, and I bring down the house every time I twitch my tail!”

Glory opened her eyes. She sat up. She knew that music as well as she knew her own whiskers! No doubt about it, she was listening to the Steel Acorns' number-one hit.

As “Born to Shake My Tail” rang out down Broadway, sung by none other than world-famous opera star Lavinia Levinson, Glory's heart swelled with hope for the first time since her capture. If Bunsen and B-Nut heard this, they'd know something was up.

“Well done, Ozymandias Levinson,” Glory whispered softly, listening to the musical warning float out across New York City. “Well done, indeed.”

DAY THREE • THURSDAY • 0945 HOURS

“Now!” cried Hotspur Folger
as the Mayflower Flour float sailed into Times Square. He threw his gleaming silver skateboard down on the pavement and was all set to leap into action when Bunsen placed a paw on his shoulder.

“Wait,” said the lab mouse. “Something's wrong.”

Bunsen had spent a restless night worried about Glory. His pink eyes were ringed with dark circles, and his white fur was sticking up every which way.

Hotspur glared at him. “Nothing's wrong,” he snapped. “You need to learn to obey orders.”

Hotspur had lost no time taking over the mission in Glory's absence, and he wasn't about to let his shot at fame be derailed. To outsmart and eliminate not only Dupont, but also every major rat in the world? It was a coup beyond imagining! A triumph! His picture would be on the cover of every magazine and
newspaper!
Miceweek
would run a profile of him; the
Tattletail
would make up breathless rumors about his life. He'd be the talk of the town. With a bit of luck, he'd be running the Spy Mice Agency before long. Maybe even run for a seat on the Council. Yes, Hotspur Folger's future was bright with promise, and he was not about to let some insignificant little runt of a lab mouse ruin his plans.

“Slap your board down, soldier!” he shouted. “It's time to kick some rat tail!”

Bunsen hesitated. Insubordination by a field agent was forbidden. A firing offense. But Bunsen's own ears were telling him something was wrong, and Bunsen couldn't ignore his own ears. He held his ground. “Hotspur, listen to me. Don't you hear that music?
Something's wrong.
”

Hotspur cocked an ear toward the approaching float. So did Bubble and Squeak.

“ ‘Born to Shake My Tail'!” gasped Squeak. “Hotspur, he's right! Something's wrong!”

“What could be wrong?” Hotspur glowered. “Everything's going exactly according to plan.”

Bunsen decided to take matters into his own paws. “B-Nut, come in! B-Nut, come in!” he called into his tiny headset.

He stepped out from under the peanut vendor's cart at Forty-third and Broadway and looked up at the sky. Four pigeons were circling overhead. On their backs
were B-Nut and the Steel Acorns, awaiting their part in the operation.

“You're coming through loud and clear, Bunsen,” B-Nut replied.

“Do you hear that music?”

“You bet I do.”

“Something's up.”

“No kidding. Let me do a quick recon and get back to you.”

“Born to dance! Born to wail! Born to shake my tail!” sang Lavinia Levinson. At the last phrase, she turned around and coyly wiggled her large bottom. The crowd cheered. They loved seeing the dignified diva cut loose. “Brava!” they cried, picking up the refrain and wiggling their bottoms too. “Born to dance! Born to wail! Born to shake my tail!” everyone sang, as Times Square rocked to the beat of the Steel Acorns' number-one hit.

In all the commotion, no one noticed the lone pigeon that swooped low over the deck of the balloon ship and then circled back toward the corner of Forty-second and Broadway.

“Not good, gang,” B-Nut reported. “Something's definitely gone wrong. The rats are already aboard.”

Bunsen's stomach did a flip-flop. “What about Glory?”

“She's with them,” replied B-Nut.

“Is she—is she alright?” asked Bunsen fearfully.

B-Nut was silent for a moment. “Yeah, but she
doesn't look so good. I'd try an aerial rescue, but there are too many rats. I'd never even get close.”

“The rats are all there?” Hotspur couldn't hide his excitement.

“Dozens of them,” said B-Nut. “Dupont, Piccadilly, Brie, Gorgonzola—all the kingpins.”

Hotspur's eyes narrowed as he gazed up at the approaching balloon. “Then we move the timetable forward. Cut it loose now.”

“
Now
?” asked Bubble. His normally calm voice was agitated. “But I thought we weren't going to proceed with that until Herald Square!”

“Yes, that's right,” added Squeak. “After the parade. When everyone is safely off the float.”

“We cut it loose now,” repeated Hotspur.

Bunsen stared at him in disbelief. “Hotspur, Glory and the kids are still aboard!”

“Sacrifices have to be made in this business,” Hotspur replied coldly. “You know that as well as I do. Have you forgotten our motto? ‘The noblest motive is the public good.' ”

“No, I haven't forgotten our motto!” cried Bunsen, his nose and tail flaming red with outrage. “But I haven't forgotten my friends, either! ‘To the last gasp with truth and loyalty,' as the Bard says, or have
you
forgotten?”

“We cut the balloon loose now!” Hotspur said stubbornly. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! My uncle said so himself. We'll never have another shot at
eliminating the entire leadership of the rat underworld.”

In reply, Bunsen gathered up his flamingo-pink skateboard. Glory's skateboard.

“Stand down, lab mouse,” ordered Hotspur.

“The heck I will,
Snotspur
!” Bunsen retorted.

“That's it!” screamed Hotspur. “You just crossed the line, lab mouse! I'm going to make a note to report you!”

“Write it on your bicep, why don't you?” Bunsen screamed back. “You look at it often enough!”

The two mice stood nose to nose. Hotspur glared at Bunsen. Bunsen's whiskers trembled, but he didn't back down. There was a steely glint in his normally gentle pink eyes. He was sick and tired of Hotspur and his insults. The mouse he loved was in danger, and he, Bunsen Burner, was determined to save her.

Hotspur flicked a glance toward the float, which was almost upon them. “You've got five minutes,” he snapped.

“Good luck, Bunsen,” whispered Squeak, as the lab mouse hopped onto his skateboard. “We'll be right behind you.”

Bubble gave him a paws-up. “If anyone can do it, you can, Mr. Burner!”

As the float rumbled slowly past the corner of Forty-second and Broadway, Bunsen shoved off with a hind paw and scooted out into the street. Hotspur and the two British agents followed close on his tail. The crowd was too busy dancing and singing to notice them, and
the mice whizzed underneath the float undetected.

Whipping out their harpoon pens, they each took aim at the passing float. Four strands of dental floss flew upwards; four sharpened pen nibs snagged on the underside of the float's trailer. Moving as one, the mice flipped their boards up and into their backpacks, then climbed paw over paw up their lines of floss, creeping over the side of the float to emerge in a clump of fake bushes.

“B-Nut, Acorns, wait for my signal,” Hotspur commanded. “I'm giving Bunsen a five-minute headstart, then we'll cut the tethers.”

“Got it,” B-Nut replied, as Bunsen scampered past the basket of cheese twists toward the balloon ship.

“Dude, what's wrong with Oz and D. B.?” asked Romeo from his perch far above on Ollie's back. “Check it out—they're as white as Bunsen.”

The mice stared at the children. Oz was standing by his mother; D. B. was still up on the
Mayflower
's deck, leaning over the rail. Bunsen sped across the float and sniffed the white trail Oz had left on the balloon ship's side.