Life is good for Oscar Westerwit. He's the mayor of Central Park -- the greatest place on earth for the squirrels, chipmunks, mice, and other animals who live there. He's the shortstop and manager of his baseball team. What could be bad? Plenty! Big Daddy Duds, jewel thief, all-around thug, and leader of rats, is about to take over the park. And when he does, the other animals who live there will be turned out of their homes. Everyone looks to Oscar to save the day, but he may not even be able to save himself. . . . “Avi reinvents himself with every book, and this lighthearted venture is no exception.” - ALA Booklist “Animal fantasy cum comic-gangster tale spiced with some old-fashioned romance.” - School Library Journal Life is good for Oscar Westerwit. He's the mayor of Central Park -- the greatest place on earth for the squirrels, chipmunks, mice, and other animals who live there. He's the shortstop and manager of his baseball team. What could be bad? Plenty! Big Daddy Duds, jewel thief, all-around thug, and leader of rats, is about to take over the park. And when he does, the other animals who live there will be turned out of their homes. Everyone looks to Oscar to save the day, but he may not even be able to save himself. . . . Avi is the award-winning author of more than eighty-two books for young readers, ranging from animal fantasy to gripping historical fiction, picture books to young adult novels. Crispin: The Cross of Lead won the Newbery Medal, and The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle and Nothing but the Truth were awarded Newbery Honors. He is also the author of the popular Poppy series. Avi lives in Denver, Colorado. Visit him online at avi-writer.com. Brian Floca , in addition to being the illustrator of the books in Avi's Poppy Stories series, is the author and illustrator of the acclaimed picture books Locomotive , winner of the Caldecott Medal; Moonshot: The Flight of Apollo 11 ; Lightship ; The Racecar Alphabet ; and Five Trucks . You can visit him online at www.brianfloca.com. Excerpt Chapter One I Start Telling the Tale Now the way I heard it, this whole loopy story happened in the pearly month of May 1900, right here in the middle of New York City. It's mostly about this gray squirrel who went by the name of Oscar Westerwit. To look at Oscar Westerwit you might think, hey, just another New York City squirrel. Only thing is, if you said that, you'd be dead wrong. 'Cause the simple scoop is that this here Oscar Westerwit was a full-sized uptown romantic. And when you get an uptown squirrel who's romantic, let me tell you something: You got yourself a story busting to trot itself up Broadway like a tap-dancing centipede. But you're asking, how come I was able to grab this tale? Well, back in them days I was cub reporter for the Daily Mirror . My beat was Central Park. So, figures, while I'm not in the story, I heard all about it. Anyway, this Oscar Westerwit, this squirrel I'm talking about, the voters in Central Park used to call him the mayor of Central Park. Which ain't to say he actually was mayor. At the time, the real mayor of New York was Hiz Honor Robert A. Van Wyck, a guy so terrific they named a traffic jam after him. But the thing of it was, since Oscar knew everybody and everything in the park so well, the voters there called him the mayor. Now to bump right into the beginning, this yarn started spinning string on the third Friday night in May. That was when Oscar held his regular mayor's monthly open house. Only first you need to fix yourself a picture of Oscar in your head. I mean, this here was one swell-suited squirrel, dressed up to all nine buttons. He was sporting a light, white cotton suit, with a baby blue bow tie, shined-up shoes and spats, and a ripping red gardenia right there on his jacket lapel. And his home - a two-room elm tree apartment in the middle of the park-was just as terrific. There was an easy chair by the window with an actual electric lamp at its side. There was a pile of The Baseball Weekly stacked up along with the New York Tribune . Pictures of his heroes - Honus Wagner, Roscoe Conklin, and Lillian Russell - were on the walls, right along with his degree from the City University - class of 1898. As for Oscar hisself, he was humming a Broadway show tune and sliding into a tap-dance do-diddle every other step while setting food on the table. You know, like: My sweetheart's the girl in the moon, I'm getting to marry her soon. When all of a sudden, who should come bip-bopping into his room? Sam Peekskill, that's who. "Hey, Oscar," the rabbit shouted, the way only an excited southpaw rabbit can volume his voice, "Arty Bigalow has gone missing!" Now what you got to know is, Oscar wasn't just mayor of Central Park. No, sir, he was also the shortstop and manager of the Central Park Green Sox. And a pretty decent player, too. "Says who?" said Oscar to Sam. "No one's seen him since day before the day before." "I'm