Nickel Bay Nick (9 page)

I gulp. “You're trusting me with all this money overnight?”

He looks me in the eye. “I will trust you until you give me a reason not to. Do I make myself clear?”

And though my stomach tightens at the thought of all those Nickel Bay Bucks in my care, I meet his gaze and answer, “Crystal.”

“Good.” Mr. Wells pulls on his cotton gloves, I slip on my own winter gloves, and together we carefully load my backpack with more money than I have ever dreamed of having in my possession.

THE
RETURN
OF A
LEGEND

December 28–29

The second I walk in the front door, my cell phone goes off. It's Jaxon. “What do you want?” I bark as I remove my Rolex and hide it—along with my full knapsack—in the back of my bedroom closet.

“Yo, yo, Samwich!” Jaxon starts in, like he doesn't have a care in the world. “Ivy and me, we're gonna crash the new three-D movie at the Angel Street Cinema tonight. Wanna come be our lookout?”

“Be your own lookouts,” I snarl.

That makes Jaxon laugh. “Whoa! You're not upset about that thing with the hair dye, are you?”

“I had to buy a second box and pay for it myself!”

“So, sue me!” Jaxon squeals. “My dad's a lawyer, and he'll kick your butt all over the courtroom.”

People in Nickel Bay whisper that Jaxon's dad got famous and rich by keeping a lot of bad guys out of jail. Jaxon loves to drop that fact about a jillion times in every conversation.

Just then, I hear Dad come through the front door. I close my closet and say, “I gotta go,” as I snap the phone shut.

“Hey, Sam,” Dad calls. “How was your day?”

“Oh, y'know,” I yell back.

He leans into my bedroom. “No, I
don't
know. That's why I'm asking.”

“Well, let me tell you, then,” I say, folding my arms. “Today I moved and alphabetized all the files starting with
F
and
G.
The
F
boxes were a real snooze, but, man! Those
G
files were mind-blowing!” I smile sweetly. “And how was your day?”

“No need to be snide,” Dad grumbles as he walks away.

That night we eat mac 'n' cheese without saying a word. After I take my seven-thirty pill, I hang out in my bedroom, pretending to read, but my gaze keeps drifting to my closet door. I'm so distracted that when Dad pops in just before bedtime and says, “Don't forget . . .” I jump about three feet out of my chair.

“Jeez!” I yelp.

“Sorry,” Dad says. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn't,” I sniff. “What did you say?”

“Don't forget,” he says, “we've got Mrs. Atkinson tomorrow.”

“I didn't forget.”

The truth is, I had totally forgotten. The same way I forgot our last appointment in early December. And then, when Dad called me and I showed up late, he started in on me. I got so upset that I ran out of the room and climbed through the little trapdoor in the elevator ceiling. Then I spent the next two hours on the roof of the elevator, riding up and down in the shaft, while security guards scoured the building looking for me. My snickering finally gave away my location. Mrs. Atkinson is still furious.

“But tomorrow's Saturday,” I point out. “How come she's working on a weekend?”

“Everybody at Town Hall's working Saturday,” Dad explains. “It's to make up for the Christmas holiday.”

“What a drag,” I grunt, and turn back to my desk.

“Do I need to call Mr. Wells?” Dad asks.

“Call him?” I whirl around. “For what?”

“So you can get off work. For our appointment.”

“Oh.” For a second there, I was certain my cover was blown. I was sure Dad had somehow figured out I'm hiding a small fortune about four feet from where he's standing.

“Mr. Wells? Nah. I'll tell him.”

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. And 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!
”