Nickel Bay Nick

by Dean Pitchford

  “By then you must’ve had a pile, huh?”

  “A pile?” He smiles. “You could say that. And without a family to provide for any longer, I made the decision to share my”—he nods in my direction—“pile with the good people of Nickel Bay. Did that answer your question?”

  I shrug. “Do you see your kids much?”

  Mr. Wells freezes, staring across the table at me. Then he picks up his spoon and quietly announces, “Our soup is getting cold.”

  As we finish eating in silence, I begin to suspect that Mr. Wells is keeping more secrets than just Nickel Bay Nick. What other mysteries, I wonder, has he got locked away behind the walls of this big old house? I decide I’m going to stay alert and pick up whatever clues I can while I’m working for him. After all, what did he just say to me? “Information is power”?

  I’d like to feel some of that power.

  Once the lunch dishes are cleared, Mr. Wells makes me practice put-pocketing with Dr. Sakata, and as usual, I’m terrible. When we finally knock off at five thirty, I’m pretty discouraged, and as I’m pulling on my coat and grumbling under my breath, Mr. Wells asks, “What are you moping about, Sam?”

  I sigh. “When I got here earlier, y’know? I was feeling awesome. I mean, Nickel Bay Nick is back, and I’m part of the reason people are jumpin’ for joy. But after screwing up so badly at put-pocketing, now”—I lift my arms and let them drop to my side—“now I’m feeling I can’t do anything right.”

  “That’s why we keep training.” He wheels closer to me. “But you should know, Sam, that your performance on the Red Mission was”—he searches for the right word and comes up with—“commendable.”

  I squint. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Commendable? It’s a good word to know,” he says. “It means ‘worthy of praise.’”

  For the first time since I’ve been working with Mr. Wells, he’s said something that gives me a warm glow in my chest.

  “‘Worthy of praise,’ huh?” I nod my head. “Okay. I’ll take it.”

  “So, tomorrow, on the fifth day of Christmas,” he says with vigor, “we’ll begin laying the groundwork for the Green Mission.”

  “What’s that going to be?”

  “When you arrive in the morning, you’ll find out,” Mr. Wells says. “Meanwhile, you have the evening off. Enjoy yourself. Maybe even celebrate a little.”

  • • •

  Whenever Nickel Bay Nick makes his first annual appearance, people go shopping. I’m sure some of them are hoping they’ll score their very own Nickel Bay Ben, but most of them are just in a good mood, happy to get out and mingle. Even Dad had a good day at the bakery.

  “Not great,” he says when he gets home, “but better. Definitely better.” He’s so cheery that he doesn’t even mind when Jaxon and Ivy show up.

  “We heard that stores are staying open late on account of this Nickel Bay Nick thing,” Jaxon explains to my dad, “so we figured we’d go hang out, y’know? Soak up some of that holiday spirit.”

  When he’s around adults, Jaxon talks like a salesman on TV demonstrating steak knives.

  “Can’t,” I announce. “I’m grounded.”

  “Why?” Jaxon turns to Dad with a curious smile. “Mr. Brattle? What’d Sam do that was so bad he got grounded?”

  Dad turns to me. “Did I actually ground you?”

  He hadn’t, not really. But after what Jaxon pulled yesterday with the hair dye, I’m not feeling particularly chummy toward him. Then Ivy speaks. “But Nickel Bay Nick has come back! Can’t you get un-grounded for one night?” One smile from her, and I usually melt like a sno-cone on a July sidewalk. This time is no exception.

  As we head downtown, Jaxon wraps an arm around my shoulder. “You are just about the most awesome fifth-grader in history,” he says in that charming way that always sucks me in.

  “I am not,” I scoff, and cast a sideways glance at Ivy.

  “I’m serious! And you know what I admire most about you, Sammy?”

  I shake my head.

  “You know how to take a joke. Like that thing yesterday . . .”

  And then he proceeds to reenact the scene outside Colodner’s—doing all the parts, racing from the sidewalk into the street, playing keep-away with an imaginary box of hair dye and finally hurling it like a Hail Mary pass into my open, flailing arms. He’s so funny that Ivy’s laughing hysterically, and I’m finding it hard to stay mad. When Jaxon shouts, “And then remember—SPLOOJ?!” and makes the exact exploding sound of the bus rolling over the plastic dye bottle, I finally crack up, too.

  “So, how’s work going?” Ivy wants to know once we all stop giggling.

  “Boring,” I say quickly, anxious to change the subject. “What about you guys? How’s your Christmas vacation been?”

  But Jaxon doesn’t want to talk about anything but my boss.

  “That guy, Mr. Wells, he’s pretty freaky deaky, huh?”

  “Not really,” I answer. “He’s just quiet, that’s all.”

  “He’s got the prettiest dog,” Ivy says. “Sometimes I see them over at Bayside Park.”

  “That’s Hoko,” I say.

  “Ho-Ko?” Jaxon makes a sour face. “What kind of dumb name is Hoko?”

  “It’s not dumb,” I insist.

  “Ho-o-o—Ko-o-o.” Jaxon stretches the name out into one long whine. “Bet you could get quite a bundle for that mutt.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What did you say?”

  “I’m talkin’ about big bucks. Cha-ching!” he says, rubbing three fingers together. “My dad has a bunch of super-rich clients, y’know? And these guys collect all sorts of exotic animals.”

  “Like what?” Ivy asks.

  “Like hairless cats and poisonous snakes. This one guy bought a huge lizard the size of a coffee table.”

  Ivy’s eyes light up. “That was probably a Komodo dragon. They’re enormous.”

  “Hey, Hoko is not for sale!” I snap.

  “I never said he was!” Jaxon snaps back, but his flash of anger is gone in a second. Next thing you know, he’s laughing and punching me playfully in the arm. “You’re a tough little guy, aren’t you?”

  I smile tightly, trying to play along, but he’s starting to push my buttons.

  Ivy asks, “Jaxon? Your dad’s clients . . . where do they get the lizards and snakes from?”

  He drops his fists and shrugs. “I dunno about the lizards and stuff, but one of ’em was telling my dad about how much he wanted this really rare breed of cat he’d seen on TV. So my dad happens to mention it to Crummer.” He turns to me. “You know Crummer? The dogcatcher?”

  “Everybody knows Crummer Sikes,” I say.

  “Then, like, two weeks later, Crummer picks up that exact cat wandering the streets of Nickel Bay. No name tags or nothin’. Crummer made a nice chunk of change on that one.”

  Something in Jaxon’s story bothers me. “Crummer just happened to find that same cat wandering around?”

  “That’s what he says.” Jaxon pounds me on the back and chuckles. “Maybe Crummer’s just lucky.”

  “If he were actually lucky,” Ivy points out, “his parents wouldn’t have named him Crummer.”

  They roar with laughter, but I’m not in a laughing mood anymore. “Y’know what, guys? I think I’m gonna head home.”

  Ivy groans, “Aw, come on, Sam,” and Jaxon throws up his hands in exasperation. “Now what’s wrong?”

  “I just remembered,” I lie, and hang my head for dramatic effect. “I don’t have any money for dinner.”

  “Oh, please!” Jaxon snorts. “Since when do we pay? Let’s go to that bowling alley where we ordered at the counter that one time. And when the food comes, we’ll grab it and run like we did before, remember?”

  The memory makes my stomach turn.

&nb
sp; “That bowling alley’s out of business,” Ivy says.

  “Maybe it’s because of customers who didn’t pay,” I say sarcastically.

  “Oh, boo-hoo,” Jaxon sniggers. “That was a really good scam. We’ll find someplace else and try it again.”

  But the thought of stealing my next meal doesn’t seem like such an appealing idea.

  • • •

  “You’ve only been gone thirty minutes.” Dad’s puttering around in the kitchen when I get back. “Something wrong?”

  “I didn’t feel like hanging out,” I say. “How come you’re not with Lisa?”

  “She got called in to work,” Dad says. “After the news about Nickel Bay Nick, Dillard’s stayed open tonight, so they temporarily rehired her.”

  I deliver my finest acting performance by simply grunting, “Cool.”

  Dad’s always most relaxed when he’s cooking at home, so while he makes chicken stew, I sit on the counter and we talk.

  When he was still a firefighter, Dad got a lot of experience inventing recipes and preparing meals for the crews at the firehouse. After he was laid off, he figured he’d try to be a chef full-time, but once he realized that Nickel Bay wasn’t a good place to start a restaurant, he bought a bakery for a good price and built a reputation for delicious breads and awesome cupcakes. “Cupcakes make people happy,” he’s always saying.

  As we’re eating Dad’s stew, he casually says, “Your mom called right after you left. Checking in.”

  I don’t look up.

  “I told her you know about Phil.”

  My neck muscles tighten. “What did she say?”

  “She wanted to know how you handled it. And if you’ll ever forgive her.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I mutter, nudging a chunk of potato around on my plate.

  “No rush,” he says.

  My chest burns, and I push my food away.

  “Something wrong with the stew?” Dad asks.

  “Nah,” I say softly. “I’m just not very hungry.”

  Dad doesn’t try to persuade me to finish my dinner. Instead, he picks up our plates and crosses to the sink. “If you ever want to talk about your mom—” he starts to say.

  But I cut him off. “Yeah, yeah. I can always come to you. Whatever.”

  As exhausting as the day has been, I still lie awake later, wrestling with so many thoughts. Questions about Mom and her new life are pushed aside by questions about Mr. Wells and whatever secrets he’s keeping. Jaxon’s joking and Ivy’s smile replay again and again. The great taste of Dad’s stew still lingers on my tongue, and the cheering of those Town Hall workers rings in my ears until I finally drift off.

  THE CHALLENGES OF CARJACKING

  December 30

  On Sunday, the fifth day of Christmas, the cease-fire between Dad and me doesn’t last through breakfast.

  “Tomorrow night’s New Year’s Eve,” he announces. “Lisa’s having a few people over, and I told her we’d be happy to be there.”

  “What do you mean, we?” I ask. “I won’t be happy to be there.”

  “Well, you can’t stay home,” he says forcefully. “We both know what happened the last time I left you here alone on a holiday night.”

  “You mean Christmas? Christmas was different.” I practically throw my cereal bowl in the sink. “That’s when I found Mom’s wedding picture you hid from me. And besides, I won’t know anybody at Lisa’s, and what if I have to work for Mr. Wells, and—”

  “Stop!” Dad shouts. “You’re coming. End of discussion. Did you take your meds?”

  Defiantly staring him in the eye, I stick out my tongue and shove the pill to the back of my throat. On his way out of the kitchen, Dad adds, “And pick out something nice to wear to welcome in the New Year.”

  • • •

  “Don’t bother taking your coat off,” Mr. Wells says when I arrive at eight thirty. “We’re leaving immediately.”

  Dr. Sakata pulls on his gloves and helps Mr. Wells into a winter coat as Hoko gapes at all the activity with his tongue hanging out.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “If you’ve been watching the news this morning,” Mr. Wells says, tying a scarf around his neck, “you’ll know that people are guessing about where Nickel Bay Nick will next appear.” He turns to me with a wink. “Or, rather, not appear, if we do our job correctly. And I’m pleased to see there’s one section of town that everyone’s overlooking.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The waterfront,” he announces. “On the shores of Nickel Bay.”

  Back when Nickel Bay used to attract tourists, they’d all want to visit the area called Bay Front. From Bay Front Drive, you can get great views of the islands out in the water and the mountains on the opposite shore. Once the economy went south, though, even the most popular section of town lost a lot of businesses and residents.

  As we pass through the kitchen, Dr. Sakata speaks quietly to Hoko, who immediately goes to curl up in his crate. Mr. Wells gathers maps and notepads on his way to the garage, where Dr. Sakata lifts him from his wheelchair into the front passenger seat of a hulking black SUV. I climb into the backseat and fasten my seat belt.

  As we drive through the heart of town, I notice that, even though it’s a super-cold, overcast Sunday, there’s a lot more activity in the streets than I had seen only twenty-four hours earlier.

  “Do you believe all these people?” I ask. “Nickel Bay Nick did that.”

  “But Nick still has two more missions ahead of him,” Mr. Wells points out. “Now, tomorrow is December thirty-first, and you know what that means.”

  “New Year’s Eve,” I answer.

  “Exactly. We can work early in the day, but I’m sending you home by mid-afternoon so that you can celebrate with your father.”

  “Celebrate?” I moan. “He’s dragging me to his girlfriend’s house.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “Lisa’s got two little girls. They’re five and six, and they hang on me like monkeys on a banana tree.”

  “You’re a brave man,” Mr. Wells says, and I laugh. “Then Tuesday, the day after tomorrow,” he continues, “you’ll stay home.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Sam,” Mr. Wells says, “nobody works on New Year’s Day.” I understand his point. “So,” he continues, “we’ll next see each other in the afternoon of Wednesday, January second.”

  “Why not Wednesday morning?”

  “I’m having you start later that day because the Green Mission can only be carried out after dark.”

  “And what is the Green Mission?”

  By now, we’re rolling through Bay Front, only a couple blocks from Dad’s bakery. This neighborhood actually comes to life—what little life there is anymore—after dark, when the neon signs flicker on and people gather in the bars and restaurants along the water’s edge. But now the streets are sleepy, and FOR RENT signs are in the windows of a lot of empty shops.

  “Three nights from now,” Mr. Wells explains, “you will start at one end of Bay Front and work your way to the other. As you sneak along your route, you will slip fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills into fifteen parked cars.”

  “But what about cars that are locked?” I try to lean forward, but my seat belt yanks me back. “Or cars with alarms?”

  Mr. Wells swivels in his seat to face me. “Didn’t I see something in the police records about you stealing a car?”

  “I already told you! It was my dad’s car, and all I did was take his keys. Jaxon did the driving.”

  “What a shame. I thought you had more experience.” He shrugs. “If you’re going to be breaking into cars, you’re going to have to learn the basics of being a car thief.”

  As Dr. Sakata drives up and down the side streets and narrow alleys of Bay Front, Mr.
Wells gives me a crash course in how to spot unlocked cars and how to avoid tripping burglar alarms. We pick out a street corner at the north end of Bay Front Drive where I will begin the Green Mission. “On the evening of January second, you will walk to this spot,” Mr. Wells explains.

  “Can’t Dr. Sakata drive me?” I ask.

  “He will pick you up when you’re done,” Mr. Wells says, “but I don’t want this car to be observed in the area twice on the night of the Green Mission. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “I guess,” I grumble.

  About a mile south, Mr. Wells points out another location—under the arch of a long-deserted church—where Dr. Sakata will meet me at the end of my mission. After more driving, Mr. Wells finally directs Dr. Sakata to pull into a garbage-strewn, snow-filled alley and stop.

  “I want you to take the next few hours, Sam, to walk every possible route and make note of hazards and hiding places on this,” he says, handing me a pencil and a map of Bay Front. “Now, do you have your cell phone with you?”

  “Yeah, why?” I pull the phone from my jacket. “Who am I calling?”

  “Please program this information into it,” he says, holding up a piece of paper with a phone number on it. I do as he says, and then he tears up the paper. “When you’ve finished your scouting expedition, call that number, and I’ll send Dr. Sakata to meet you at your pickup point.”

  “But it’s cold out there,” I protest.

  “Then I suggest you zip up and start walking to keep warm.”

  It’s only after the SUV pulls away that I realize I’ve been here before. In this exact spot. How do I know? On the brick wall in front of me, in letters three feet high, a slash of graffiti declares S.B. ROCKS!!!!!

  Right where I spray-painted it two years before.

  I only used my initials after Ivy pointed out that my full signature would probably earn me a visit from the police. Above my scrawl is a viper that Jaxon drew, and to the right is the pig with wings that Ivy did. I’d almost forgotten about that summer afternoon when the three of us swiped cans of spray paint from Hopkins Hardware and ran all over town, leaving our marks on any available surface. On that day, we couldn’t stop laughing because we thought our tags looked so super-cool.