Nickel Bay Nick

by Dean Pitchford

“But . . . but this . . . ,” I stammer, pointing to the chop, “this is the stamp on that.” I point to the hundred-dollar bill. “And that’s the signature of . . . oh my God!”

  From across the desk Mr. Wells stares at me, unblinking. It’s a good thing that I went to the bathroom earlier, otherwise I’d probably wet myself.

  “You’re not just a spy,” I whisper. “You’re Nickel Bay Nick.”

  THE SURPRISE IN THE SONG

  “WHERE WERE YOU THIS YEAR?”

  As stupid as it sounds, that’s the first question that flies out of my mouth. And I don’t just ask it. I shout it.

  “Why?” Mr. Wells looks startled. “Did you miss me?”

  “No! I mean . . . I mean, yes!” My words can’t keep up with my thoughts. “I mean, not just me! The whole town. Didn’t you see the news? Everybody’s all, ‘Where’s Nickel Bay Nick?’ ‘When’s he gonna show up?’ Then that turned into, ‘Is he ever gonna show up again?’ And finally it was, ‘Looks like Nick’s forgotten us.’ It was horrible! People stopped smiling. They stopped shopping. My dad’s business has been awful. Heck, everybody’s business has sucked. Christmas didn’t feel like Christmas.” I’m really getting angry. “Don’t you care about this town anymore?”

  “Sam, please!” Mr. Wells gives a little laugh. “For one moment, stop and think about what it means to be Nickel Bay Nick.” He polishes his glasses as he talks. “Every year for the last seven years, I have withdrawn thousands of dollars in crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from a variety of accounts I keep in banks around the country. But I never take too many from one bank. Why, do you think?”

  “I dunno.” I shrug.

  “Use your head, Sam! Why not make one enormous withdrawal from one single bank?”

  The answer hits me. “Because a big withdrawal would attract attention?”

  “Exactly.” He seems pleased. “Once the money arrives, I stamp each bill with the sign of the phoenix using this purple ink”—from the strongbox, he pulls a small, square bottle—“that I import from Cambodia. Nobody will ever be able to test it and trace it back to me.” He replaces the ink and continues. “Then, as you know, in the weeks before Christmas, I set out to distribute my gifts. Some I send in anonymous Christmas cards, which I mail from post offices I visit across the state. Others I wrap in packages—packages without fingerprints on them, I might point out—that people find on their front porches alongside the morning paper. Or—and I think this method gets the most attention—I blend into a crowd of holiday shoppers and slip my gifts into the pockets and purses of unsuspecting citizens.”

  “I’ve seen those people on the news!” I interrupt excitedly. “They’re always waving their money around and hugging each other and stuff.”

  “I’ve seen them, too. For years. But when this happened”—Mr. Wells thumps his plaster cast—“I had to face facts. I couldn’t very well drive around to dozens of post offices, tiptoe onto people’s porches in the dead of night or sneak around town undetected when I couldn’t even walk down a flight of stairs, now could I?”

  “Guess not.”

  “And, as much of a help as Dr. Sakata is, I couldn’t ask him to perform the duties of Nickel Bay Nick. For one thing,” Mr. Wells chuckles, “he’s not going to blend into any crowd in this town, is he?”

  I look Dr. Sakata up and down and shake my head. “No way.”

  “So I made the difficult decision to skip my visit this year,” Mr. Wells says, “and I’m very sorry to see what that did to Nickel Bay. I never intended to cause such pain.”

  “Wait a second,” I say, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you telling me this? All these years, you haven’t told a soul, and now suddenly you’re spilling your guts to me?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Are you going to have to kill me now?”

  Mr. Wells throws back his head and roars with laughter. “Nobody’s killing anybody, Sam,” he says. “You obviously have the wrong impression of my past. I never jumped from a burning plane or crashed a speeding car or disarmed a ticking bomb. But all my years of training, all the tricks I acquired and all the schemes I hatched during my career, those come in very handy when I assume the role of Nickel Bay Nick.” He lowers his voice when he asks, “Can you understand, Sam, how challenging it is to do what I’ve done for as long as I’ve done it and still remain a mystery?”

  “It’s tough, huh?”

  “Nearly impossible. Being Nickel Bay Nick requires a quick and devious mind. It requires the ability to move in the shadows, never attracting attention or leaving clues behind. In short, it requires the skills of a thief.”

  “So? I still don’t get it.” I shrug. “Why am I here?”

  “You are here, Sam”—he looks me in the eye—“because you already are a thief.”

  I stare back until I realize what Mr. Wells just said. Then my heart starts thumping like a jackhammer. “Wait a sec. Are you saying . . . ?”

  “I am.”

  I gasp. “You want me to be Nickel Bay Nick?”

  “Think of yourself as my understudy.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I wave my hands. “That’s crazy!”

  “I’ve seen your police files, Sam,” Mr. Wells says. “You want to talk about crazy?”

  “But, I’m . . . I’m just a kid,” I stutter. “And besides, it’s too late now! Christmas is over.”

  “Far from it,” Mr. Wells says. “Have you ever heard the carol about the twelve days of Christmas?” He starts to sing, “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I interrupt and sing the rest of the line. “A cartridge in a pear tree.”

  “A what? A cartridge?” Mr. Wells sputters in surprise. “It’s ‘a partridge in a pear tree.’ A partridge, Sam, not a cartridge. It’s a bird, not a bullet.”

  “Hmm,” I grunt. “So all this time, I’ve been singing it wrong.”

  Mr. Wells holds up a calendar that’s open to the month of December. “Take a look at this,” he says as he runs a finger over the first three weeks. “Nowadays we celebrate Christmas before December twenty-fifth. But hundreds of years ago, people actually began their festivities at sunset on Christmas Day, which makes today”—he taps December 26 on the page—“the first day of Christmas. Like in the song. Celebrations would then continue for the last six days of the old year and”—he flips the calendar page—“the first six days of the new one. Twelve days of Christmas, ending at sunset on the sixth of January.”

  “January sixth?” I scrunch up my face. “That’s the last day of my Christmas vacation.”

  “Good. Then you’re available to work for me.”

  I don’t like the way this guy is taking over my life. “What if don’t want to do this?” I ask. “What if I don’t want to be your understudy Nick?”

  Mr. Wells sits back and studies me. “I thought that you’d be intrigued by a secret mission. I thought you’d jump at the opportunity to bring a little Christmas cheer back to Nickel Bay and help your father’s business in the bargain. But maybe I was wrong. So, if that doesn’t persuade you, then please remember this.” With one bony finger, Mr. Wells points at me. “You vandalized my property,” he growls. “Either you work off your debt, or your father can pay me for the damage you caused.”

  I have to admit this guy is creeping me out. “And what do you expect me to do, exactly?”

  “You’ll receive your assignments as we go along.” He picks up a manila envelope and extends it across the desk. “This evening, you will go home and study the pages in here. Then you’ll bring that back when you report for work tomorrow.” As I take the envelope, he adds, “The contents are for your eyes only.”

  That sounds like something a spy would say, and despite my annoyance, a prickle of excitement runs down my spine.

  “Should your father ask,” he says, “tell him that my storage rooms and fi
les are in far worse shape than I originally thought and that you’ll be working every day for me until your vacation ends.” He looks down at his calendar and announces, “Tomorrow morning, be here at eight thirty sharp.” He looks up. “Do you have a wristwatch? We’ll need to coordinate timetables as we go along.”

  “Yeah, I have a wristwatch,” I say with more than a little attitude. “A Rolex, actually.”

  Mr. Wells’s eyebrows arch. “A Rolex? What’s a boy your age doing with an expensive timepiece like that?”

  “My mom sent it to me after I got my new heart,” I answer. “After she forgot that she’d promised to visit me in the hospital and then never showed up.”

  “Your mother never visited you?”

  “She had things to do. Out of town,” I snap, feeling an unexpected heat rising up my neck. “Why’s that your business?”

  Mr. Wells is silent for a moment, then he puts his glasses back on.

  “It’s not.” He waves a hand impatiently. “That’s all for now.”

  With one eye on Hoko, I stand, clamp the manila envelope under my arm and turn for the door that I came in through.

  “Not that way!” Mr. Wells spits out. I turn back to him. “From now on, you will use the back door,” he says, pointing to a hallway leading off the far corner of the living room. “I can’t risk having a neighbor notice your comings and goings. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal,” I mutter.

  Dr. Sakata steps forward holding not only my shoes but my jacket and gloves as well. As I put them on, Mr. Wells says, “At the northeast corner of my backyard, you’ll find a security gate. The combination is oh-one-oh-five. Can you remember that, or should I write it down?”

  “Oh-one-oh-five,” I repeat. “I’m not an idiot.”

  Mr. Wells pretends he doesn’t hear me. “The gate is engineered to close slowly, so do not walk away until it shuts firmly. I don’t want anyone sneaking onto my property. You will then find yourself in the alley that runs the length of the block and wraps around behind your place. You know the alley I mean?”

  Slipping into my shoes, I grumble, “Yeah, I know it.” I straighten up and glare at him one final time. “You know, I bet there are a few reporters in Nickel Bay who’d pay to hear everything you told me here today.”

  He tilts his head. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m just saying it might be worth it to toss a couple of those Benjamins my way. To keep me quiet.”

  “Are you now trying to blackmail me, Sam?” Mr. Wells spreads his arms over the files and videos on his desktop. “Because, you know, two can play that game. In which case”—he gives a little wave—“buh-bye, Sam Brattle. Buh-bye, Nickel Bay.”

  I jut my chin, determined not to let him see that he’s won this round.

  “Sam,” says Mr. Wells, “anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a cold heart?”

  “So what?” I sneer on my way out. “It’s not mine.”

  THE HISTORY OF A MYSTERY

  Early evening shadows have already begun to swallow up the winter-bare flower beds and rock gardens when I step into Mr. Wells’s backyard. You could never tell by looking at the front of the house, but it’s the size of a baseball infield. Flagstone paths wind every which way and disappear into groves of naked trees. In a far corner of the yard I find the gate he’s told me to use, and I punch in the code. Oh-one-oh-five. The gate pops open, and once I exit into the alley, I watch it hiss shut until—click!—it locks into place.

  Since the city’s plows never turn down these alleys, the snow here is slushy and deep. Potholes and puddles make my route home an obstacle course. By the time I slop around to the back of my house and squeeze through a couple of rotting boards on the back fence, my shoes and pant legs are soaked.

  “How was your first day of work?” is the first thing Dad asks when I call him at work.

  “Fine,” is all I say.

  “Did Mr. Wells feed you?”

  “Soup and stuff, yeah. When’re you coming home?”

  “Couple hours. Why? You hungry?”

  “Nah. I can wait.”

  I hang up. Now that I know I’ve got the place to myself, I carefully open the envelope that Mr. Wells has given me and empty the contents onto the kitchen table. Out slide dozens of clippings about Nickel Bay Nick from papers like the New York Times and the London Observer. I find pages out of Time and People magazines, and articles in a lot of foreign languages. I always knew he was famous in Nickel Bay, but I never realized that the story of Nick had spread all over the world. When I remember that I’ll be playing that part this year, my mouth goes dry.

  I learn a lot of things I didn’t know, or hardly remembered. Like the fact that everybody calls his gifts Nickel Bay Bucks. Or Nickel Bay Bens, since Ben Franklin’s picture is on the front of the hundred-dollar bill. There are plenty of stories about grateful people whose lives were changed or whose prayers were answered when they received a Ben. One man told how Nickel Bay Nick’s gift bought enough heating oil to keep his family from freezing in December. An elderly couple said they were able to pay their rent instead of being forced into a homeless shelter on Christmas Eve.

  Just like Mr. Wells predicted they would, detectives from all over have dusted his gift wrappings and Christmas cards for fingerprints. They’ve analyzed the purple ink and tried to trace the serial numbers on the money, hoping to “unmask” Nickel Bay Nick.

  They got nothing.

  By the time I work my way through the piles of clippings, I’m impressed and intimidated. Nickel Bay Nick—I mean, Mr. Wells—has touched lives and saved Christmas for a lot of people in our town. He’s given unselfishly, never expecting any kind of thanks. And he’s never been caught.

  How could a man like that be such a grouch? And a blackmailer?

  I don’t realize how much time has passed until the sound of Dad’s car sends me into a panic. Scooping up the clippings, I race into my bedroom, where I stuff everything back into the brown envelope and slide it under my mattress.

  “What’s going on?” Dad’s suddenly behind me, standing in the doorway that has no door.

  Down on my knees at my bedside, I turn to Dad with all the innocence I can muster and fold my hands. “Just saying a few prayers.”

  Dad’s eyes bug out in surprise. “Since when do you pray?”

  “Since I thought we might need some help.”

  “I can’t disagree,” Dad grunts. He starts to leave, but he turns back to say, “Could you maybe put in a plug for the bakery while you’re at it?”

  Dad rarely lets on when something’s bothering him, so I figure things must really be serious. “Let me see what I can do,” I say, and when he goes, I actually do mutter a quick prayer. In case someone’s listening.

  Later, Dad microwaves a couple of frozen mini-pizzas. “I asked around about our neighbor,” he says as we eat. “Nobody’s got any idea where this Mr. Wells is from. What he does. What he did. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  I shrug. “If you say so.”

  “A guy lives in one place for this long, you’d think he’d drop a clue or two.” Dad leans in. “Did he tell you any more about what he did in the Foreign Service?”

  “I was in the yard all day,” I lie, holding up my hands. “Nearly froze my fingers off.”

  When Dad’s wristwatch buzzes and he clicks off the alarm, we say, “Seven thirty,” in unison before I swallow my pill.

  Just then Jaxon’s ring tone rattles my cell phone. While Dad frowns, I scoot into my bedroom, flip open the phone and mutter, “What’s up, man?”

  “Sam the Man!” Jaxon shouts. He’s got about a dozen funny names for me. “Say hello to Ivy.”

  “Hey, Sam.” It’s Ivy. Jaxon has us on a three-way call.

  “Oh, Ivy. How’s it . . . how’s it going?” I stammer. “I mean, how was your Christmas?” Even though we’ve
been hanging out for a while now, I still sometimes get tongue-tied around her.

  “You kids can talk later,” Jaxon says before Ivy can answer. “We’re calling you, Samster, to ask if you wanna hang with us tomorrow. Me and Ivy are gonna check out some of the after-Christmas sales.” He giggles his crazy giggle. “If you know what I mean.”

  I know what he means.

  “So. You wanna go . . . shopping?” Jaxon taunts.

  “Can’t,” I reply. “My dad made me get a job.”

  “A job?” That’s Ivy asking. “You mean at the bakery?”

  “Nah. I’m working for this old neighbor guy down the street. Cleaning out his basement and stuff.”

  “Well, tell your neighbor to shove it,” Jaxon orders. “And while you’re at it, tell your dad to shove it.”

  I laugh just as a shadow falls across my desk. “Gotta go,” I whisper into the phone, and snap it shut.

  “What’s he want?”

  “The usual.” I shrug. “He asked if I wanted to hang out. Stuff like that.”

  “I wish you had a few friends your own age,” Dad says.

  “And I wish I was a rock star.”

  Lying awake later, I slip a hand under my mattress to make sure Mr. Wells’s papers are still there. With the history of Nickel Bay Nick at my fingertips, my pulse quickens at the thought that tomorrow, I’m going to become a part of that legacy.

  THE MONKEY AROUND MY NECK

  December 27

  The next morning, Dad only hangs around long enough to make sure I take my seven-thirty pill, and then he leaves for work. Once I’m sure he’s gone, I drag the kitchen step stool into Dad’s bedroom closet and pull a velvet box from the back of his top shelf. In it he keeps a pair of gold cuff links, his high school class ring and my Rolex wristwatch.

  I set the time according to the clock over the stove—7:51. Very carefully, I wind the watch, hold it to my ear, and when I hear it ticking, my heart skips a beat. I strap it on, and even though the watchband hangs loosely on my wrist because my bones are so small, the Rolex looks awesome.