Read Nickel Bay Nick Online

Authors: Dean Pitchford

Nickel Bay Nick (6 page)

BOOK: Nickel Bay Nick
11.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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.

I've never felt so mysterious in my life.

At 8:20, I tuck Mr. Wells's brown envelope under my sweater, pull on my new gloves and zip up my winter coat. At the bottom of the stairs that go from our apartment down to the back of the garage we live over, I pause to scope out my surroundings.

All clear on the left?

Check.

All clear on the right?

Check.

I'm getting good at this spy stuff.

I slide through our back fence and head down the alley to my first assignment as Nickel Bay Nick.

Oh-one-oh-five,
and I'm in Mr. Wells's backyard. A quick dash and I'm up on the porch, punching the bell. Inside, Hoko answers the chimes with a racket of his own, and then Dr. Sakata is suddenly filling the doorway. As he lets me in, he glances quickly around the backyard to make sure nobody's seen us.

From another part of the house comes the sound of Hoko's nails clicking as he races down stairs and gallops across wood floors, snarling and woofing on his way.

“He's coming!” I yell to Dr. Sakata. “Do something!”

Maybe he can't understand my words, but Dr. Sakata can't miss the panic in my voice. He shouts, “Hoko! KO-ra!” and in the next room, the clicking stops as Hoko hits the brakes. Like a car skidding on a wet street, Hoko slides around the corner of the doorway and slams into Dr. Sakata's leg. He looks up at me and, with his black tongue, he licks his chops as if to say,
Next time, you're mine.

Dr. Sakata holds out a hand, and I pass him my coat and gloves. When he points to my shoes, I slip them off as well.

“We've got our own special sign language going, huh?” I ask, but he doesn't even blink before he's striding down another hallway. I rush to keep up with him, slipping on the waxed wood in my socks as Hoko follows close behind. We turn into a whole new wing of the house, one that I'd never have guessed was here, and we pass a few closed doors before we enter what appears to be another office.

Unlike the freaky living room, this place looks as modern as a command center at the Pentagon. At a steel table that runs down the middle of the room, Mr. Wells, surrounded by piles of papers and folders, is thumbing through a stack of file cards. I quickly look around for any clues to his life—family photographs, framed diplomas, stuff like that. The wall behind Mr. Wells is covered up by a map of the world, and gray file cabinets line the walls to the right and the left. Up high, around the perimeter of the room, twenty-four small clocks are arranged to show the time of day in cities all over the globe. But that's about it, as far as decorations go.

I pull the brown envelope from under my sweater and lay it on the desk in front of Mr. Wells. “Brought your stuff back.”

Without looking up, he glances at his wristwatch. “What time have you got?”

I check. “Eight thirty-one.”

“Actually, it's eight thirty-five. You're late.”

He hasn't even said good morning yet, and already he's giving me grief! “But I've got a Rolex,” I protest. “How can it be wrong?”

“I'm going to guess that the clock by which you set your wristwatch is incorrect,” he answers. “Be sure to reset
that
clock this evening.” He rolls out from behind the desk and indicates the wall behind me. “Let's get started, shall we?”

I quickly reset my wristwatch and then turn around to face a huge cork bulletin board. In the center of it is a street map of Nickel Bay that's stuck all over with green, red and white pins. A banner across the top of the corkboard reads
OPERATION CHRISTMAS RESCUE
.


Operation Christmas Rescue
? Is that what we're calling this?” I ask, and, yeah, maybe I sound a little sarcastic when I do.

Mr. Wells ignores my question and instead asks one of his own. “Did you read the pages I sent home with you last evening?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you learn anything that you didn't know before?”

“I didn't know Nickel Bay Nick is world-famous.”

He nods. “Anything else?”

I squint in concentration. “Oh! He makes three visits every year, always four days apart, and the last one's always on Christmas Eve. Until this year.”

For the first time ever, Mr. Wells looks at me with an expression that is almost admiring.

“What?” I ask.

“That's correct,” he murmurs before continuing. “Now, it's too late to send greeting cards or secretly deliver Christmas gifts, so we're going to have to get creative if we hope to deliver the usual forty-five Nickel Bay Bucks in time.”

Pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves, he unzips a small canvas bag in his lap, pulls out a stack of crisp green bills and runs a thumb across the edges. “Four thousand five hundred dollars,” he announces as they flip past. When I feel the breeze on my face, I gulp. I've never seen so much money. Not up close.

Mr. Wells replaces the cash and removes his gloves before turning back to the map. “In keeping with tradition, between now and January sixth, Nickel Bay Nick will perform three missions.” From a pocket he pulls what looks like a silver lipstick tube. When he twists it, a long metal wand telescopes out. “As you can see,” he says, tapping on the bulletin board with the pointer, “I've assigned a color to each mission—red, green and white.”

“Christmas colors,” I note.

“Exactly,” he says crisply. “Today, we will commence with the Red Mission.”

I stand on tiptoe to study the cluster of red-headed pins stuck into the map. “Looks like they're all downtown.”

“Very observant,” he says as he spins his chair and returns to the steel table. He points at the empty chair across from him. “You may sit.”

Once I do, he slides a writing tablet and a pen over to me. Down the left-hand margin of the tablet he has written
FIRST, SECOND, THIRD, FOURTH
. He holds up a wall calendar, and with his pointer, he whacks each day as he mentions it.

“Yesterday, as you will remember, was the first day of Christmas.”

Whack!
He hits December 26.

“Today is the second day . . .”

Whack!

“. . . which I will use to explain the Red Mission. Tomorrow, on the third day of Christmas . . .”

Whack!

“. . . we will lay the groundwork and make all preparations for you to make the first distribution on December twenty-ninth . . .”

Whack! Whack!

“. . . the fourth day of Christmas. Nickel Bay Nick's return. Any questions so far?”

“Yeah,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Could you please stop smacking that stick around? It's really irritating, and it's kind of insulting.”

My bluntness seems to catch him by surprise.

“Oh.” He collapses the pointer down into its tube.

“And one more thing?” I figure that while I have him off balance, why not shoot for the moon? “Can you please not talk to me like I'm a subhuman life-form? I may be a problem kid, but I'm not a stupid one.”

Mr. Wells looks at me a long time before he twists his neck as if he were working out a crick.

“Fair enough, Sam,” he says. “Let's begin.”

• • •

The morning flies by. At noon, the desktop between us is covered with fifteen advertisements that Mr. Wells and I have clipped from the sales pages of the
Nickel Bay News.
Each ad is from a different store, and each one is for a different, everyday product that's been drastically marked down for post-Christmas clearance. Toothpaste. Shoe polish. A pack of playing cards. Stuff like that.

“According to my research,” Mr. Wells explains, “these items are among the most likely to be purchased when they go on sale.”

We've labeled each ad with Post-its numbered from one to fifteen, and on a map of Nickel Bay, we've assigned each number to a store where that ad's product is sold.

“So talk me through this,” Mr. Wells says. “Tomorrow, how will you start?”

I push back my sleeves and point to a spot on the map. “I guess I'm going to pick up item number one—the box of women's hair dye—in store number one, which is . . . Colodner's Drugstore.”

“Correct.”

I look up. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods.

“Is there any particular reason I'm starting at Colodner's?”

Mr. Wells looks puzzled. “Why would there be?”

If he doesn't know, I'm not going to tell him, but I once got arrested at Colodner's. Until Mr. Colodner wised up and put in surveillance cameras, his store was where Jaxon and Ivy and I used to “shop” for all of our back-to-school supplies. Then one day, after slipping a three-ring binder under my jacket, I turned around to find Mr. Colodner with a cop at his side. I haven't been back since.

I fake a smile for Mr. Wells. “Nope, no reason,” I say quickly as I walk my fingers across the map. “Then, for item number two—a package of four double-A batteries—I cross the street to store number two. Hopkins Hardware.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Wells declares. “And if you simply follow the sequence of numbers on the map, you'll never waste a step. Once you're done with your route, what do you do with the items you've collected?”

“I bring them all back here, and then, I guess, we stick Nickel Bay Bucks into them?”

“So far, so good. You'll need this.” He slides a white letter-size envelope across the table to me. I open it to find a stack of paper money—ones, fives and tens—and rolling around at the bottom of the envelope is a bunch of coins.

“What's this for?”

“That is exactly as much cash as you will need to purchase all these items tomorrow.”

“Wait a second!” I blurt out. “I'm supposed to
buy
all these things?”

“How did you think you were going to get them out of the stores?” Mr. Wells asks.

“I thought I was going to . . . y'know . . .” I pretend to pick up an imaginary object and slip it into my pocket.

Mr. Wells wrinkles his brow. “You think I'd ask you to steal?”

“Well, you're the one who said you needed a thief!”

“But I'm not going to have you shoplift on Day One of the Red Mission!” he insists. “What if you got caught? Operation Christmas Rescue would have to be scrapped.”

I sulk for a moment. “Well, what do you need a thief for, then?”

“Ah.” Mr. Wells holds up a finger. “I need a thief for the day
after
tomorrow.”

“December twenty-ninth?”

“Exactly. The fourth day of Christmas is when you will retrace the route we have plotted today and return everything where you got it. Same exact shelf. Same exact position.
That
will take the cunning and concentration of a thief. Are you up to the challenge?”

I scowl and shrug. “We'll see, won't we?”

Mr. Wells keeps ignoring all the attitude I'm tossing his way, and we work through the rest of my assignment in agonizing detail.

At one o'clock—according to my Rolex—Dr. Sakata serves us each a bowl of really good tomato soup and a chicken salad sandwich. He and Mr. Wells talk for a few minutes in that language I don't understand, and then Dr. Sakata leaves us to eat in silence. Looking down the table at the mounds of notes and cards and clippings, I suddenly feel overwhelmed by the task ahead of me.

“It's not the job you imagined, is it?” Mr. Wells asks, and I look across to find him studying me.

“Hardly,” I say. “I thought that, y'know, being Nickel Bay Nick, all I'd have to do is run around town, giving away money. But this . . .” I jerk a thumb at the clutter around us. “All this mapping and memorizing, this is worse than being in school.”

“Keeping a secret is very tough work,” he says, and returns to his lunch.

I'm getting so warm from the soup that I pull my sweater over my head and toss it aside. Mr. Wells looks at me, and his eyes narrow.

“That object around your neck,” he says, pointing to his own throat. “I haven't noticed it before.”

“Oh, this?” I rub the little stone carving between two fingers. “Maybe cuz it's always been under my sweater.”

“Is there a story behind it?” he asks.

BOOK: Nickel Bay Nick
11.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Black Angus by Newton Thornburg
Raveling by Peter Moore Smith
Bound to Her by Sascha Illyvich
Finder's Shore by Mackenzie, Anna
The Blue Book by A. L. Kennedy
We Float Upon a Painted Sea by Christopher Connor
Traitor's Kiss by Pauline Francis
A Knife in the Back by Bill Crider
A Dance of Blades by David Dalglish