For Your Paws Only (6 page)

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 0830 HOURS

“Glory?” Oz looked up
in surprise from the bathroom sink in his room at the Waldorf Astoria when he heard the gentle tap at the window. His tiny friend was perched atop a pigeon on the ledge outside. Setting his toothbrush down, he wrestled the sash up a few inches. “How did you find me?”

“Easy,” said Glory, slipping off the bird's back. “I used to be a computer gymnast, remember? I hacked into the hotel's reservation system and found your room number. Vinnie here did the rest.”

She motioned to the pigeon beside her, who lifted a leg in a jaunty salute.

“Uh, thanks, Vinnie,” said Oz. Leaning down, he whispered to Glory, “I thought you said nobody was supposed to know about this mission. Top secret, For Your Paws Only, and all that sort of thing.”

Glory patted his hand reassuringly, her soft little
paw as light as a feather. “It's okay, Oz. Vinnie works for us. He's Hank's cousin. Lives at the Bronx Zoo. Running Pigeon Air here in midtown is his cover.”

Vinnie winked at him, and Oz smiled in relief. “I've got your stuff,” he said to Glory. “I hid it in my suitcase under my pajamas.”

A strange assortment of stuff it was, too, Oz thought. He and D. B. hadn't been able to resist sorting through the contents of the purple dinosaur lunch bag last night when they'd arrived at the hotel. In addition to Bunsen's souped-up video sunglasses, there was a cell phone (scratched and battered, it was much the worse for wear, but it boasted a small video screen), a miniature tape recorder, a Ping-Pong ball, a book of matches, a magnifying glass, and what looked like a kazoo. Oz couldn't imagine what Bunsen had in mind for all of it.

“Great,” said Glory. “I knew we could count on you.”

“Where are the others?”

Glory rolled her eyes. “B-Nut's cover for us is just a few blocks away at Rockefeller Center. A nightclub called BANANAS! under the floor of the Rainbow Room.” She shook her head and sighed deeply.

“What's the matter?”

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about,” said Glory. “My absentminded brother told the nightclub owner that I'm the lead singer. Only problem is—I can't sing. I mean I
really
can't sing. He got me mixed up with our sister Blueberry. I've got a voice like a bullfrog with laryngitis.”

“Oh,” said Oz. “That is a problem.”

“No kidding. Anyway, no point in worrying about it now. Our gig is hours away. What's your schedule look like today?”

Oz reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “The first Bake-Off session is from nine to ten thirty—I mean 0900 hours to 1030 hours. Then a half-hour break. From 1100 to 1330 hours, we're supposed to go on a tour of the Empire State Building and have lunch at Grand Central Station. Then the afternoon Bake-Off session is from 1400 hours to 1530.”

“Busy day,” said Glory. “But lunch at Grand Central couldn't be better. We'll rendezvous with you there. Bring the equipment with you, okay?”

“How will I find you?” asked Oz, sounding worried again.

“Don't worry. We'll find you.” Reaching into her backpack, Glory pulled out a small scroll of paper and passed it to him.

“What's this?” asked Oz.

“Coded message. From Bunsen. He asked me to give it to you. Use pigeon post if you need to write him back—or if you want to contact any of us, for that matter.”

Oz frowned. “What's pigeon post?”

Vinnie stepped forward. “One of my boys will be tailing you all day,” he explained. “You need to get in touch, you just write your message, roll it up, step outside, and hold it over your head.”

Oz grunted. “Sounds simple enough.” He unscrolled the tiny piece of paper and squinted at it.

“The magnifying glass in the equipment bag is for you,” added Glory helpfully. She climbed back up onto Vinnie. “Bunsen figured you'd need it.”

Vinnie flapped off into the air, and Oz poked his head out the window.

“Glory?” he called.

“Yes?” she said, tugging on the shoestring reins to make Vinnie circle back.

“What about the Bake-Off? Jordan and Tank have it in for me.”

Vinnie hovered in front of the windowsill so that Oz and Glory were eye to eye. Glory regarded her human friend soberly. “I know, Oz, but I can't spare anyone yet. Not until we've got a handle on Dupont and the other rats. Someone will be back to help out just as soon as possible, I promise. Hang in there, meanwhile, okay?”

Oz nodded glumly. He'd been afraid she'd say that.

Glory saw the look on his face. She smiled at him. “Come on now, Ozymandias Levinson. You're an honorary Spy Mice Agency field agent, and you're part of my team. You are true-blue, and so am I. I won't let you down. See you at Grand Central!”

With a final wave, she and Vinnie flew off.

There was a knock on the bathroom door. Oz opened it a crack.

“For heaven's sake, Oz, what's taking you so long?”
his mother asked. “Hurry up now, sweetie! You have a busy day ahead, and you can't work on an empty stomach. D. B. and her mom are here already. Amelia and I are going to head down to breakfast. We'll save a spot for you two at the table.” She reached through the crack in the door and tousled her son's pale blond hair. “I just know you and D. B. are going to win the Bake-Off! I can't wait to see the two of you up there on that float, riding in triumph!” Lavinia Levinson lifted her caftan-draped arms upward dramatically. As an opera diva, she did a lot of that kind of thing onstage. Offstage, as well.

“Okay, Mom,” said Oz. “I'll be right down.”

He emerged a few minutes later, clean and dressed. “Check this out,” he said, handing D. B. the scrap of paper from Bunsen. “Coded message.”

D. B. brightened. “Really? Cool.”

Oz rummaged through the lunch bag for the magnifying glass and cipher disk. “See those two letters?” he said, pointing to the
N
and
A
that Bunsen had written in bold across the top of the scrap of paper. “That's the key to the code,” he explained. “You line those letters up like this.” Oz twisted the cipher disk until the
N
on the outside ring was lined up with the
A
on the inside ring. “Read me the rest of the letters and I'll tell you what they stand for.”

“
S-B-E
 . . .
L-B-H-E
 . . .
C-N-J-F
 . . .
B-A-Y-L
,” said D. B.

As she spoke, Oz found the corresponding letters on the inner ring of the cipher disk and wrote them
down. “FOR YOUR PAWS ONLY,” he read aloud.

“Awesome!” said D. B. “It really works!” She continued to call out the letters, and the decoded message soon emerged: “GLORY IN TROUBLE. CAN'T SING. NEED YOUR HELP. SENDING SHEET MUSIC. HAVE D. B. USE TAPE RECORDER IN EQUIPMENT BAG. NEED TAPE BACK BY 1900 HOURS.”

“He's sending music to me?” said D. B., frowning. “Why?”

Oz rummaged in the lunch bag again and emerged with the miniature tape recorder. “They've set up the mission command station in some mouse nightclub called BANANAS!” he explained. “It's under the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center.”

“I've heard of that place,” D. B. replied. “The Rainbow Room, I mean. It's a really fancy nightclub, right? A human nightclub, I mean.”

Oz nodded. “Anyway, Glory's undercover there with the Steel Acorns. She's billed as the lead singer. It was B-Nut's idea. The only problem is, he got her mixed up with their sister Blueberry. Glory says she has a voice like a bullfrog. If she tries to sing tonight, she'll blow their cover.”

“Uh-oh,” said D. B., “that's not good. But I still don't understand—why would Bunsen send the music to me?”

Oz prodded his glasses, which had slipped down his nose as usual. “Um,” he replied, “I think he wants you
to record the song. He's probably figured out some way for Glory to lip-sync it.”

D. B. stood up so fast she nearly knocked Oz over. “Me? No way.”

“Why not?” said Oz.

“Glory thinks her voice is bad? I don't even sing in the shower. I'd probably scare the shampoo. And besides, even if I could sing, I can't read music.” D. B. folded her arms across her chest. “No way, Oz.”

“Well I certainly can't sing for her!” protested Oz. “What are we going to do?”

He and D. B. stared morosely at the decoded note. Then they looked at each other. “I guess there is somebody else we can try,” said Oz slowly.

D. B. relaxed her arms. “Oh, yeah,” she said with a relieved smile. “It ain't over . . . ”

“ . . . until the fat lady sings,” finished Oz. “We'll ask my mom.”

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 0900 HOURS

Roquefort Dupont crawled
out from underneath the train. “New York, New York!” he crowed, stretching his legs and sniffing the air appreciatively. Donuts, pretzels, pizza, popcorn, bagels—the smells from the train station's many concession stands were mouthwatering, and Dupont's eyes glinted greedily. “Now this is my kind of town.”

Behind him, Scurvy and Gnaw emerged from where they, too, had been clinging to the underside of the train. Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie, Dupont's young rats-in-waiting, were right behind them, their eyes wide with astonishment.

Led by Dupont, the cluster of rats climbed up the side of the platform and cautiously poked their long noses over the edge. A herd of human feet clattered by, and someone trod on Scurvy's long, droopy whiskers.

“Hey, watch it, buddy!” he cried.

“Shut up, you fool!” snarled Dupont in a low tone. “Do you want every human in the place to know we're here?” He gave his aide a vicious kick, and Scurvy went tumbling back down onto the track. He landed with a thud and clutched his tail, whimpering.

Dupont turned to his rats-in-waiting. “So, kids, what do you think? Was I right or what? Is Grand Central Station the rat's pajamas?”

Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie nodded enthusiastically in agreement. They always agreed with Dupont. That was their job. This time, however, they really meant it. Limburger Louie's stomach growled. It had been a long trip, and he was hungry.

Dupont chuckled. New York always put him in a good mood. “I could use some breakfast too, Louie,” he said. “And we certainly have our choice here. They don't call it the Big Apple for nothing. But first, we need to rendezvous with the others. We're meeting under Track Seventy-seven. Easy to remember, because there are seventy-seven of us.”

Taking one last look around, the rats crept back down and scuttled off into the shadows. Dupont, who as a ratling had spent many a vacation visiting his New York relatives, knew the city like the back of his paw. He led his aides expertly through the tunnels and ductwork and pipes that connected the hallways and tracks, and within a short time they emerged at Track 77.

“So, where is everyone?” squeaked Lulu, looking around in disappointment.

“All in good time, my pet, all in good time,” said Dupont. He whipped his tail toward a grate on the far side. “Watch for trains!”

With that warning, he darted across the track, shoved a sewer grating aside with a thrust of his powerful snout, and disappeared through the hole. Scurvy, Gnaw, and the Limburger twins followed.

The rats descended into darkness, the twins clutching each other's tails fearfully as Dupont led them down, down, down into the bowels of the enormous train station. The air soon grew close and warm, filled with the familiar, comforting scent of sewer water. Lulu and Louie breathed a sigh of relief. It was almost like home.

“Here we are,” announced Dupont, stepping out of the pipe into the large side chamber of a sewer main. Dim light filtered down from somewhere far above, and the steady dripping of water echoed through the dark, dank space. The rats looked around to find that they were no longer alone.

“Roquefort! You made it! We were getting worried.” A beefy rat stepped forward and slapped Dupont heartily on the back. “Good to see ya!”

“Uncle Mozzie, you old sewer crawler, you!” growled Dupont, baring his sharp yellow fangs in a smile. “How's Aunt Parmesan?”

“Feisty as ever. She sends her love. Says come over for some pasta if you've got time. There's this new restaurant down the street—you should see the stuff they throw out!”

“For that, I'll make the time,” replied Dupont. He turned to his aides. “This here's my Uncle Mozzarella Canal, from right here in the Big Apple. Little Italy, to be exact. Best Dumpster diving in all of Manhattan—if you like Italian food, that is.”

As Scurvy and Gnaw exchanged greetings with Dupont's uncle, another rat stepped forward. A very attractive female rat.

“Roquefort,
mon cher,
how delightful eet eez to see you again!” she murmured.

As Dupont's aides watched, their beady red eyes popping in amazement, the sleek rat leaned forward and kissed their boss on both cheeks. Was Roquefort Dupont—Lord of the Sewers and supreme leader of Washington's rat underworld—actually
blushing
?

“The pleasure is all mine, Brie,” said Dupont, taking one of her paws in his own and bending over it gallantly to bestow his own kiss in return. He turned to his speechless aides. “May I present Brie de Sorbonne, my cousin from Paris.”

Brie inclined her head regally at Scurvy and Gnaw, who managed to stutter a greeting. Then she leaned down for a closer look at the twins. “Why, how utterly
charmant
!” she cried, cradling their furry little faces in
her paws. “Roquefort, you never told me zat you were a father!”

Lulu and Louie's eyes grew round with astonishment, and Dupont turned a brighter shade of red. “Uh, well, no, I'm not—I mean, I've never—they're not mine, Brie. Just rats-in-waiting.”