Nickel Bay Nick (10 page)

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 ask 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.”

“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.”