Nickel Bay Nick

by Dean Pitchford

  Mom used to sing me to sleep when I was little, so I pretend to hear her voice in my head as I toss and turn that night. But even that doesn’t work. Between the money in the closet and the job I’ve got to do in the morning, I can’t stop twitching. Once the digital clock next to my bed clicks to 12:01 a.m., however, I whisper, “The fourth day of Christmas,” and finally doze off.

  In the morning I shuffle around the apartment, burping a lot and bumping into walls, pretending I’m still half asleep. I’m eating my cereal over the kitchen sink when Dad blows past on his way out.

  “Don’t you have a job to get to?” he calls over his shoulder, but he doesn’t wait for an answer.

  Dumping the cereal bowl in the sink, I shift into high gear. From a mountain of dull-colored clothes on my bed, I pick out the day’s disguise, and as I get dressed, I notice my fingers are shaking. I’m never this nervous when I’m actually going to steal things, I find myself thinking.

  Two minutes to nine. From across the street, I stare at the front door of Colodner’s Drugstore with steely determination. I check the laces on my shoe, adjust the knapsack over my shoulder and slow my breathing. Finally I extend one hand, palm down, in front of my eyes, and very softly, I sing the song Mom taught me in Memphis.

  My heart is strong

  My hands are steady

  My future waits

  And now I’m ready

  Whoa-oh

  I’m so ready

  I look at my wristwatch, and you know what time it is?

  Time for the return of Nickel Bay Nick.

  • • •

  Colodner’s Drugstore is nearly empty, but as I turn into the hair care aisle, I’m startled to find a clerk down on one knee, restocking the shelves in the exact spot where I need to place my purchase. I stroll past, desperate to create a distraction, and at the other end of the aisle, I spy an opportunity. An old lady not much taller than me is inching her cart along, squinting back and forth between the shopping list in her left hand and the store shelves. As she passes, with one foot I nudge the front of her cart toward a display of salted peanuts, and she doesn’t notice that she’s on a collision course until it’s too late. The moment the tower of cans crashes to the floor, the clerk jumps up to clear the mess, giving me the opening I need to swoop in and make my drop.

  After visiting a few more stores, I make a valuable realization: overweight people in overstuffed winter coats provide the best cover. Walking alongside one of them, I’m hidden from store clerks and surveillance cameras, and it’s a snap for me to reach into my half-unzipped backpack, grab an appropriate item, and then—plunk!—replace it on its original shelf.

  By the time I exit Wise Automotive Supplies, the fifth store on my route, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. But that glow quickly disappears when I see the Bunster brothers heading in my direction.

  I’ve shared the backseat of many police cars with Lyle and Spaldo Bunster. The Bunsters snatch purses. And briefcases. And fanny packs. Then they run. Which is why they wear tennis shoes, even in the winter.

  Normally, the Bunsters wouldn’t be in my neighborhood, but in this economy, I’m guessing they’ve picked the streets clean on the other side of the bay, over where people live in nicer houses and drive bigger cars.

  The few who can still afford to.

  And normally the Bunsters wouldn’t give me a second glance, but I can tell from the way their eyes widen when they see me that they’re also seeing my bulging backpack. Lyle—the skinnier one—nudges Spaldo and thrusts his chin in my direction. Spaldo nods, as if to say I see it, and they slow down.

  I slow down, too.

  The brothers look around. Nobody’s coming. They take a few quick breaths, high-five each other and start running straight at me!

  Now, my brain realizes that I’ve still got a thousand dollars in my bag and that I should probably be scramming very quickly in the opposite direction, but my feet don’t get that message. Instead, I freeze like a squirrel in front of a speeding car on a country road, and my pulse shoots up to about a thousand. The Bunster brothers are approaching fast, and in the next second I expect to feel the knapsack ripped from my shoulder as they whiz past. But just as Lyle and Spaldo get close enough that I can see the tattoos on their necks, a Christmas miracle happens.

  From an alley between the Bunsters and me, out steps . . . Dr. Sakata.

  When he turns to face the brothers and folds his arms across his massive chest, he looks like a brick wall in a black suit. I hear the squeal of tennis shoes on shoveled pavement as Lyle and Spaldo screech to a halt. Their jaws drop, and in the next split second, they spin on their rubber heels and disappear around a distant street corner.

  Without even a glance in my direction, Dr. Sakata crosses the street. I blink in disbelief and relief at what just happened—or, rather, didn’t just happen—and by the time I open my eyes, Dr. Sakata is gone.

  I shake off my daze and race to my next drop-off, but on the way, the questions begin. How did Dr. Sakata happen to be in the right place at the right time? Or was he following me? Doesn’t Mr. Wells trust me? Or was he just making sure that nothing happens to his fifteen hundred dollars?

  I’d never give Mr. Wells the satisfaction of hearing this from me, but all his training sure pays off. I remember the exact order of every store to visit. I remember the exact shelf where each item in my knapsack belongs. I remember to turn up my collar and to keep my head down.

  An hour later, after I smoothly return the deck of playing cards to its place on the sales table at Wonderland Toy Shop, only one item remains in my bag, and I’m feeling pretty psyched. Out on the street, I’m allowing myself a little fist pump and a quiet “Yessss!” when my cell phone suddenly plays Dad’s ring tone. I check my watch. It’s only eleven fifteen.

  “It’s too early for my pill,” I grumble into the phone.

  “Where are you?” Dad sounds mad.

  Uh-oh. He expects me to be in Mr. Wells’s basement or attic. Thinking fast, I duck into a recessed doorway so Dad won’t hear any traffic noises.

  “I’m at work.” I try to sound cool. “Where I’m supposed to be.”

  “You’re supposed to be at Town Hall for our eleven o’ clock session with Mrs. Atkinson.”

  I almost swallow my tongue. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes!” Dad snaps. “Now, are you coming, or do I have to drive over to Mr. Wells’s and drag you out myself?”

  “I’m on my way!” I slam the phone shut and agonize. I’ve still got to return the tin of Altoids to Nickel Bay Newsstand and Confectionery, but that’ll take me four blocks out of the way. I’m only two blocks from Town Hall right now.

  This is what you call a no-brainer.

  As I run, I remember to remove my Rolex and hurriedly zip it into the front pocket of my knapsack. When I dash into Town Hall, Dad’s waiting right inside the revolving door. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I huff and puff, and my voice echoes in the two-story marble lobby. Instead of responding, Dad swings his eyes upward, giving me a signal. I follow his gaze and find Mrs. Atkinson standing at the mezzanine railing, looking down at me and shaking her head. She pulls a pencil from her hair bun, checks her wristwatch and scribbles in her notebook.

  Clapping me on the shoulder, Dad groans, “Let’s get this over with,” before he turns and crosses the floor. I start to follow, but when I see what stands between me and the main staircase, I freeze.

  Five feet ahead, two uniformed guards beckon visitors through a metal detector, while two more study the X-ray screens at the end of a conveyor belt.

  How could you forget the security checkpoint? I scream inside my skull. If I put my bag on the conveyor belt, I realize, the X-ray will definitely see my Rolex . . . and the tin of mints! The guards might ignore the watch, but I’m scared that they’re going to be curious about a rectangular metal object. An
d when they unzip my bag, Dad’s going to be standing there, wondering what I’m doing with the Rolex that’s supposed to be up in . . .

  “You coming or what?” Dad’s voice snaps me into focus. He has already cleared the metal detector and is waiting impatiently on the other side.

  I don’t even realize I’ve stopped in the middle of the lobby floor. Panicked, I look around. Above me Mrs. Atkinson taps her pencil in exasperation. Straight ahead, Dad clenches his jaw. From beyond the security barriers, the guards await my next move.

  The dull boom of my own heartbeat fills my ears as I set my backpack down on the conveyor belt. “You have to let go,” one of the security guards points out, and he’s right. My fist is still gripping the shoulder strap. When I open my hand, the bag slides forward, and time slows to a crawl. I feel every eye in the room boring into my skull, reading my mind and learning my secret identity. As my bag passes through the rubber flaps and out of sight, I have a final, terrible thought. What if Mr. Wells gets so upset that he decides to feed me to Hoko?

  At that very moment, the quiet of the lobby is shattered by a sudden scream. And guess what?

  I’m not the one who’s screaming.

  From out of a mezzanine hallway, a plump older woman comes running, shrieking like the hounds of hell are after her. In one hand she waves a mini TV as she wails, “Oh my word! Have you seen the news?” She nearly collides with Mrs. Atkinson before she stops at the head of the staircase, thrusts her TV overhead and shouts to the crowd below, “He’s back! Nickel Bay Nick is back!”

  A cheer erupts from every throat in the room. Some people jump up and down, while others high-five each other. Complete strangers embrace, and one woman crosses herself and mutters a prayer. It’s always like this, every time Nickel Bay Nick first shows up, but this year—maybe because it’s later than usual—people seem extra happy.

  While everyone’s distracted, I glance over to the security area, where I can see the skeleton of my backpack—with its cargo of the tin box and my wristwatch—gliding across the unwatched X-ray screen. I step through the unattended metal detector to reclaim my bag, and when I turn around to join Dad, he grabs me, spins me around . . . and hugs me. He smells like cupcake frosting.

  And for the first time in a really long time, I hug him back.

  THE SOUND OF CELEBRATION

  Chattering employees clog the hallways of Town Hall, passing around stale Christmas cookies and uncorking bottles of unchilled champagne. From what I can overhear, the first report of Nick’s return came from Brandt Brothers Bookstore, where a lady found what she thought was a bookmark in the bestseller she was browsing through.

  Then she saw the purple phoenix.

  When she started yelling, the store manager called the police, and once they arrived and saw the Nickel Bay Ben, they alerted the media.

  Pushing through the crowd, Mrs. Atkinson tries unsuccessfully to lead me and Dad back to her office. Finally, clearly annoyed, she turns and shouts over the noise, “In light of today’s events, maybe we should reschedule our appointment.”

  Out on the street, Dad starts his car and rolls down the window. “People seem pretty excited, huh?” he says, nodding toward Town Hall. “Nickel Bay Nick reappearing like that.”

  “I guess,” I grunt, trying to appear bored. I squint into the distance as Dad’s car idles.

  “Can I run you back over to Mr. Wells’s?”

  “Nah,” I say, scuffing at a mound of dirty snow, “I could use the exercise.”

  “Well, okay,” Dad says. “See you at home later.”

  I wait until he turns a corner before I head off to replace the box of breath mints at Nickel Bay Newsstand and Confectionery. The five or six people in the store are gathered around a television at the front counter, too busy talking about Nick’s return to pay any attention to me.

  Out on the sidewalk, I sag against a fire hydrant and contemplate my next move. My backpack is empty. My work is done. I’ve got nobody to celebrate with, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell them what it is we’re celebrating. Finally, with a sigh, I trudge on.

  But in front of Buzzetti’s Electronics, I stop and stare.

  The seven TVs in the window display are tuned to seven different channels, and each channel is carrying a different news story about shoppers finding Nickel Bay Bucks at one of the stores I’d visited that morning. Across the bottoms of the screens are banners saying things like NICK! WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG? or NICK HASN’T FORGOTTEN NICKEL BAY! while onscreen, people excitedly wave hundred-dollar bills at the camera, laughing or crying with joy. Then, like a piano dropped from a ten-story building, the realization hits me:

  I did that.

  With everything going on at Town Hall—seeing Dad mad, panicking about the X-ray machine, hearing the cheers of the workers—it hadn’t sunk in yet. But I now realize . . .

  I’m Nickel Bay Nick.

  I know Nick is Mr. Wells’s invention. And it’s his money and his plan. But this year, right now, I’m Nick.

  I exhale and stagger backward a little. My head swims, and I smile the biggest, stupidest smile I’ve smiled in a long time.

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m pounding with both fists on Mr. Wells’s back door and getting ready to stab the bell for the third time when the door flies open. Before I can yell, “Do you believe it?” Dr. Sakata grabs me by the collar, quickly looks around outside and drags me in. Mr. Wells is waiting right inside the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he demands.

  “Have you seen the news?” I start blabbering. “People are buying our stuff and finding the money, and holy cow! I was just downtown, and it’s getting crazy! There’s all this traffic in the streets, and people all over the sidewalks and—”

  “Sam!” Mr. Wells slams his fist on his wheelchair’s armrest. “Why are you here?”

  I stop and blink. “Because it’s working. Just like we planned!”

  “That’s why it’s called a plan!” Mr. Wells tries to calm his voice. “And part of that plan was that you were not to be seen here on the day of Nickel Bay Nick’s reappearance.”

  I suddenly remember. “Oh, right! Your housekeeper.” I lower my voice. “She still here?”

  “Fortunately, she’d just gone out the front when you began your racket at the back door.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “Never, ever drop by unannounced!” He rolls closer. “Three times a day, I let Hoko out to have the run of the backyard. What would happen, do you think, if you surprised him? Do you think he would hesitate to chase you down like a rabbit?”

  As if to emphasize Mr. Wells’s threat, Hoko casually yawns and licks his massive chops.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  Mr. Wells shakes his head and starts to wheel away.

  “Did you have Dr. Sakata follow me?” I call after him.

  Mr. Wells slowly turns. “What do you think? Do you think Dr. Sakata was out shopping the after-Christmas sales for bedroom slippers? And that he just happened to pass by as you found yourself in danger?” Before I can answer, he plunges ahead. “Or didn’t you think that I would take every possible step to insure that you and your backpack and our entire operation were not endangered by any unforeseen circumstances? That’s why it’s called a plan.”

  “Okay, okay,” I mutter. “I thought maybe it’s because you don’t trust me.”

  “What have I said before, Sam? I will trust you until you give me a reason not to.” He tilts his head and looks at me. “Should I be concerned?”

  “No,” I mumble, staring at the floor.

  Since I’m already there, Mr. Wells decides I should stay for lunch, and as we sip our broccoli soup in the kitchen, I decide that this might be a good time to start uncovering a few of Mr. Wells’s secrets.

  “Where’d you get all the money?” I as
k casually.

  I guess that catches him by surprise, because Mr. Wells spits a little jet of soup back into his bowl, runs his napkin across his mouth and clears his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

  “All the money you give away. Did you smuggle, like, gold and stuff out of India and all those places where you lived?”

  “My personal finances are hardly your concern.”

  “But that’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?”

  “You know practically everything there is to know about me. I even told you about my Hanuman,” I say, touching the figure at my neck. “But I know diddly about you.”

  “Information is power,” he says with a shrug. “My game. My rules.” Then he goes back to eating.

  I shake my head. “Were you like this with your kids?”

  He looks up. “Come again?”

  “You told me and Dad you had kids. A girl and a boy, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So, is this how you talked to them when they had questions?”

  Mr. Wells’s face suddenly goes slack, and the spoon in his hand starts to tremble. After a long pause, he sets it down and speaks quietly.

  “You asked about my money. In my very long career, I served in a total of fourteen countries all over Southeast Asia. I worked with and earned the confidence of emperors and presidents and even kings. At various times, I was called upon to save lives, to free hostages and to resolve potentially explosive situations. And, yes, there were occasions—after a crisis was averted, let’s say, or a loved one returned home safely—when I would be surprised with a gift, some sort of thank-you, from a foreign head of state or a grateful billionaire. But I honestly never paid much attention to these demonstrations of gratitude. I put those jewels and gold coins and engraved platinum watches into safekeeping and moved on to the next job. And the next one. And the next.

  “That was all my life was about back then. My job. My children would be the first to tell you that I was often . . . absent.” He stops for a moment, as though lost in a memory. Then he continues. “It wasn’t until my wife passed away and I found myself wondering what to do with the rest of my life that I took inventory of the gifts I’d received over the years.”