Nickel Bay Nick (12 page)

“Two days later, a pickup truck was stopped as it was leaving the embassy grounds, and it was searched by the dictator's soldiers. In the bed of the truck was a large, wooden dog crate, and through the slats of the cage, the soldiers could see one of the ambassador's Saint Bernards.

“‘Why,' they demanded to know, ‘is this dog leaving the property?'

“‘Because,' I explained to the soldiers, ‘she is pregnant and about to give birth.'”

I sit up. “Wait! What do you mean,
you
explained? Were you driving the truck?”

“I was.”

“Were you in disguise?”

“From head to foot.”

“Cool!” I exhale, and sit back.

“The dog was experiencing complications, I told the soldiers, and we were on our way to the animal clinic. ‘So be careful,' I warned them. ‘She might be disagreeable.' Of course, they ignored me and leaned in for a closer look. But when the dog lunged at them, growling and snapping, they quickly jumped back and waved me through.”

“Did you get to the hospital in time?”

Mr. Wells wags a finger. “I was never headed for the hospital.”

“You weren't?”

“Oh, no. Instead, I drove to a checkpoint at the country's border, where we transferred the crate to another of our government's trucks waiting just on the other side of the border crossing.”

“Why did you send that poor, pregnant dog out of the country?”

“Because as soon as that crate crossed the border, our agents on the other side opened it and released . . . our spy.”

I couldn't believe my ears. “You put your spy in a crate
with an angry, pregnant Saint Bernard
?”

“Sam,” Mr. Wells chuckles, “our spy
was
the Saint Bernard.”

My jaw drops. “Huh?”

“The tailor I had summoned to the embassy was actually the costume designer for a famous theatrical troupe in that city. He smuggled in yards of synthetic fur as well as bottles of dye and jars of paint. He even managed to conceal a box of glass eyeballs. Once he arrived at the embassy, he set about sewing and painting and clipping the furry fabric until he had created a Saint Bernard suit, complete with a mouth that opened and eyes that blinked.”

“No way!” I gasp.

“Way! And while the tailor was building the costume, I had our technical staff record the growls and barks of the ambassador's dogs. We transferred those sounds onto a playback device that was controlled from inside the dog suit and connected by wire to mini speakers hidden inside the wooden kennel.”

“So what did the soldiers think when you returned without a dog in your truck?”

“Oh, we had anticipated that,” Mr. Wells says. “After leaving the border, I drove to the cargo hangar at the local airfield, where I picked up two Saint Bernard puppies that the ambassador had just purchased from a breeder in Switzerland. When I returned to the embassy, the soldiers, of course, crowded around the crate to look at the cute newborns.”

“Didn't they wonder where the puppies' mother was?”

Mr. Wells nods. “When they asked, I lowered my chin and shook my head sadly. And do you know? Every one of those enemy soldiers bowed his head, pulled off his cap and observed a moment of silence for that poor, departed dog.”

“Wow.” I sigh. “When I grow up, I want your job.”

“There is one final chapter to the story,” Mr. Wells says. “As a favor to the tailor for his invaluable help, I arranged to smuggle him, his wife and their little boy out of that war-torn country and into Japan, where I supplied them with passports and a new family name.”

“That was a pretty nice favor,” I say.

“Perhaps,” he says with a shrug, “but that tailor's little boy grew up, entered the field of medicine and has more than adequately repaid my favor over the years.”

He turns and nods to Dr. Sakata, who makes a deep bow in return.

THE
BAD NEWS
OF
BOOKKEEPING

December 31–January 1

The sixth day of Christmas is December 31, the last day of the year. As if to remind us of what a rotten year it's been, the weather is especially lousy. A cold rain has been falling for hours by the time Dad is ready to leave for the bakery.

“I don't know why I'm even bothering,” he grumbles as he slips his coat on. “Nobody's going to be out buying cupcakes in this weather.”

When I get to work, Dr. Sakata leads me into the first-floor office, where Mr. Wells is studying the map of Bay Front that I marked up the day before. I move toward the chair opposite him, but Mr. Wells suddenly looks up. “Don't sit,” he orders. “We have another job to do.”

Hoko pads along behind us as Dr. Sakata pushes Mr. Wells's wheelchair out of the office and down to the end of a hallway I've never been in. We stop in front of a carved oak door, and Dr. Sakata presses a button that's hidden in the dark wood molding. Instead of swinging open, though, the door slides away to reveal—

“An elevator?” I gasp. “You've got an elevator?”

“The house came with it,” Mr. Wells explains as he rolls in. “Normally, I take the stairs to stay in shape, but it sure comes in handy now that I'm in this chair.”

We descend to the basement and make our way to the large workroom where Dr. Sakata and Mr. Wells had loaded the money into all those items I'd bought for the Red Mission. Again, fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills are arranged down the middle of the steel worktable. The marble chop with the carving of the phoenix and the bottle of purple ink are carefully laid out, too.

As he pulls on a pair of white cotton gloves, Mr. Wells says, “I thought that it was time you acquire another of the many skills in Nickel Bay Nick's arsenal.”

“What skill is that?”

“The preparation of the money,” he says, holding out a smaller pair of gloves to me.

I'm surprised. “You got gloves in my size?”

“An operative is only as good as his equipment.” Mr. Wells rolls up the sleeves of his sweater and gets down to business.

First, he explains, I have to learn the proper technique of inking the chop. Too much ink and the image smudges. Too little ink and the image is faint. Once the stamp is properly inked, Mr. Wells demonstrates how to apply it—with one smooth rolling motion. He sits at my elbow as I practice stamping thirty or forty small squares of scrap paper. Then, with the magnifying eyeglasses strapped to his forehead, Mr. Wells inspects each one as carefully as if he were examining a cut diamond. Finally satisfied, he declares, “I think we can move on to the real thing.”

He nods to Dr. Sakata, who gathers up my test pages, piles them in a corner fireplace and sets fire to them. All of us, including Hoko, watch the flames consume the papers until all that's left of my practice sheets is a smoking pile of black ash. Then slowly, carefully and—if I do say so myself—expertly, I stamp fifteen purple phoenixes onto fifteen crisp hundred-dollar bills.

Over lunch, Mr. Wells is all business. “The next time we see each other will be Wednesday, January second. Be here at one o'clock. You and Dr. Sakata can continue your pickpocketing exercises, and then, just before sunset, you'll take the cash and leave for Bay Front. By the time you walk across town, it'll be dark, and you can begin the Green Mission.”

In the middle of the afternoon, Mr. Wells calls Dad at the bakery. He starts the conversation by going on and on about how impressed he is by my filing skills and how “invaluable” my help has been. Once he's got Dad all buttered up, he makes his request.

“So, Dwight, listen. I've got a favor to ask. The day after tomorrow . . . yes, Wednesday . . . I've got an appointment that's going to take me out of the house all morning. Sam and I have been working at such a good clip that I'd hate to lose eight hours of work, especially with tomorrow being a holiday and all.”

From where I'm sitting, I can hear Dad through the phone exclaiming, “No, no! Of course not.”

“So what I'm hoping,” Mr. Wells continues smoothly, “is that Sam can start work that afternoon—say, about one?—and we'll knock off at about nine. Is that okay with you?”

I don't have to hear his exact words to know that Dad is thrilled to have an evening to himself. And Lisa, probably.

Mr. Wells hangs up and says, “I like your father.”

“Try living with him,” I grumble.

“Why is that so hard?”

“Where do I start?” I ask. “First of all, he expects me to be perfect, like him. And I'm not.”

“You think your father is perfect?”

“He was a state champion football player!” I exclaim. “He was a fireman who saved lives! And what am I? A pasty-white, scrawny punk made out of spare parts. And all I ever do is disappoint him.”

“Is that how
he
feels?” Mr. Wells says quietly. “Has he said that you're a disappointment to him?”

I look away before I answer, “He doesn't have to.”

“Well, before you beat yourself up,” he says, “perhaps you should ask the question.”

• • •

Hoko sleeps in a corner and snores loudly through the next three hours of my frustrating pickpocketing lesson with Dr. Sakata. At the end of the afternoon, I gloomily pull on my sweater and shoes at the back door. As I reach for the knob, Mr. Wells stops me. “Aren't you forgetting something?” he asks.

I turn to find him, Dr. Sakata and Hoko lined up.

“What?”

“Happy New Year, Sam,” Mr. Wells says with a little nod, and Dr. Sakata bows and says something in his language. Hoko simply yawns.

“Oh, yeah.” I sort of nod, sort of bow. “Happy New Year, you guys.”

• • •

After he gets home from work, Dad showers before getting dressed for Lisa's New Year's party. When I walk out in ripped blue jeans, he shakes his head.

“You're not wearing those.”

“Apparently I am.”

He sighs. “Don't be difficult, Sam.”

“I'm not being difficult,” I insist. “I'm being comfortable. If I'm going to have to go to a party that I don't want to go to, at least let me wear what I want to wear.”

Dad folds his arms. “Is this about Lisa?”

“What?”

“Has Lisa ever done anything to make you dislike her?”

“No! But—”

“Have you got a problem with me seeing Lisa?”

“You can see whoever you—”

“Answer the question: Are you upset that I'm dating someone who isn't your mother?”

“Mom got remarried!” I spit out. “Or did you forget?”

“How could I forget?” Dad shouts, throwing his hands up. “I think about her every day.”

That hits me like a sucker punch. “You do?”

“Sam,” Dad says gently, “your mother was my high school sweetheart. We started a family together. When she left, she broke my heart.” His voice cracks a little on that last part.

Outside, the last winds of the year rattle through the eaves as Dad and I face each other, neither one moving. Finally I groan. “All right.” I trudge into my bedroom, announcing, “I'll find something uncomfortable to wear.”

• • •

Surprise, surprise. Lisa's party doesn't suck.

“You look very nice tonight, Sam,” she says as she welcomes me with a hug.

“Thanks,” I say. “You, too.” And I mean it. Lisa's wearing a dark green velvet dress that looks good with her curly red hair, and when Dad kisses her hello, her smile lights up the room.

Lisa's small apartment is crammed with people in a holiday mood, drinking happily and loading their plates from the platters of food on the dining room table. There are some other kids there, so Lisa's two little girls have enough playmates that they leave me alone. I pour myself a cup of the eggnog (“From the nonalcoholic punchbowl,” Dad warns), and I wander around, eavesdropping on conversations. And guess what they're all talking about?

Nickel Bay Nick.

I stand behind a bald guy who's suspicious that the latest visit was pulled off by a fake. “Think about it,” he says. “Nickel Bay Nick has never waited until after Christmas before.”

Others wonder when Nick will strike again. Or whether he
will
strike again.

Just wait!
I want to shout.
Wait till Wednesday!
But, like any good operative, I keep my mouth shut.

What's causing the most buzz is the news that some microchip company has decided to build its new factory in town. “I was giving the president of Micro-Marvel a tour of Nickel Bay,” a well-dressed woman is saying, “and it happened to be the very day that Nick made his return. Well!” She throws her head back and laughs. “When Mr. Micro-Marvel saw our citizens literally dancing in the streets, he decided right then and there that Nickel Bay is the
perfect
community for his new facility.”

All around her, people jabber excitedly. “Isn't that amazing, Sam?” Lisa asks when she sees me. “All those new jobs?”

“I guess,” I mumble, and fade back into the crowd, afraid that even a tiny, proud smile might betray my secret identity.

Much later I'm sitting on the pile of coats on Lisa's bed, watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV, when I hear the countdown start out in the living room. “Three . . . two . . . one . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!” shout fifty or sixty voices, followed by laughter and the sound of glasses clinking.

“There you are.”

I look up, and Dad's in the doorway.

“Am I not supposed to be in here?” I ask.

“No, you're fine, Sam,” he says. “Just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year.”

I get the feeling he wants a hug, but that hug we shared at Town Hall was way more hugging than I'm used to.

“Yeah,” I mutter, and fold my arms across my chest. “You, too.”

He starts to go, but I stop him by saying, “You know I'm never going to be a football star, right?”

He turns and looks at me for a long time before he answers. “Football stars are a dime a dozen. You, Sam . . . you're one in a million.”

He's never said that before.

Despite the lump in my throat, I manage to say, “Thanks.”

• • •

When my alarm goes off the next morning at seven thirty, I half sleepwalk to the bathroom and take my pill, but then I go right back to bed and wake up at about noon. By the time I shuffle into the kitchen, scratching and yawning, Dad is already deep into his bookkeeping.

It may be New Year's Day for the rest of the world, but for Dad, it's the day he does the Nickel Bay Bakery and Cupcakery's year-end accounting. I know better than to try to speak to him as he punches numbers into the calculator and works his way through the piles of receipts and stacks of bills covering the kitchen table. After eating my Cap'n Crunch standing over the sink, I take a shower.

As the afternoon drags on, I miss my routine with Mr. Wells and Dr. Sakata. I even miss Hoko. Since Dad took my video games away, restricted use of the computer to school nights and canceled the Internet because it costs too much, I don't have anything to do. Every TV channel is showing football, but none of my teams are playing, so I am truly, totally bored.

When I announce, “I'm gonna call Jaxon, okay?” Dad grunts, “Fine.” But Jaxon's at some fancy country club with his lawyer father and the rest of his family, so he can't get away to hang out.

I think about calling Ivy. I've never had the nerve to speak to her without Jaxon around, but when I remind myself that I
am
Nickel Bay Nick, I somehow find the courage to dial her number. The call goes to voice mail, and I almost hang up, but at the last second I take the plunge.

“Yeah. Hi, Ivy. It's me. And by ‘me,' I mean Sam,” I stammer. “Just calling to say ‘Happy New Year.' Cuz it's New Year's Day, right? So . . . be happy, okay?” As the words leave my lips, they sound so amazingly stupid that I wish I could reach into the phone and pull them back. I squeeze my eyes shut and mutter, “Stop talking, Sam.” But when I suddenly remember that I'm still connected, I shout, “That's all! Bye!” and snap the phone shut. Then I use it to whack myself on the forehead.

How dumb did I just sound?
I ask myself over and over.

For about five minutes I consider calling back to say, “Ivy?
Please
ignore my previous message,” but I'm sure I'd only get tongue-tied all over again. My brain keeps replaying my humiliating blunder until I pass the kitchen and see Dad. His back is to me, and he's holding his head in his hands.

“Dad?” I say softly. “Everything okay?”

He lifts his head and blows his nose in a paper towel. Without turning, he says, “I don't know, Sam. I don't know.”

And just like that, the sinking feeling I got after leaving Ivy's message disappears, and I start to worry about what's making my dad cry.