Nickel Bay Nick (5 page)

I look away as Mr. Wells continues. “So the Nickel Bay police want to help him out. They know you're on thin ice with Mrs. Atkinson and Family Services, so they've stopped reporting your most recent . . .
activities.
”

Now he's blowing my mind. “They've really done that?”

“For almost a year now. You don't know it, but you're
this
close”—he holds up two fingers, an inch apart—“to being shipped off to juvie hall. If any one of these folders or videos were to make its way into the hands of Mrs. Atkinson, it would be buh-bye, Sam Brattle. Buh-bye, Nickel Bay.”

My eyes sting, but I squeeze back any tears. “Why are you doing this to me?” I'm practically choking now. “Why are you spying on me and threatening me?”

“Because, Sam,” Mr. Wells says, sitting back in his wheelchair, “I intend to blackmail you.”

“You
what
?” I jump up, knocking my chair over. “Why?”

He shrugs. “It's quite simple, actually. I need your help with something, and I can't take the chance that you might say no.”

We stare at each other for what feels like forever. Finally, I rattle my head to clear it. “
You
need
my
help?”

“I do.”

“And I can't say no.”

“I hope that you won't.” He indicates the chair I'd just knocked over. “Sit back down.”

As I pick up the chair and sit, Mr. Wells rolls back behind his desk. He pulls a ring of keys from his coat pocket and selects a tarnished silver one, which he uses to unlock a drawer. Out of it, he lifts a small strongbox with a combination lock.

“Please turn away,” Mr. Wells says, so I look over my right shoulder. I hear the spinning of the combination dial and the creaking of the box's hinges. Then Mr. Wells speaks. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

I turn back to find him offering me a crisp, new piece of paper money. I take it and study the portrait of Benjamin Franklin.

“It's a hundred-dollar bill,” I say. “So? You're rich. Big deal.”

“Turn it over.”

On the back, stamped in purple ink, is what looks like a carving of a bird in a circle. I squint. “Is that a phoenix?”

Mr. Wells smiles for the first time that afternoon. “Yes, a phoenix. The giant mythical bird that lives five hundred years.”

“And then doesn't he build a bonfire and dive into it and burn up into ashes?” I ask. We studied Roman and Greek myths in fourth grade.

“He does. And after that, what happens to him?”

I'm supposed to be on Christmas vacation, but I feel like I'm back in school. “He . . . what's that word? He gets
reborn
again, and then he gets to live another five hundred years. Isn't he a symbol of hope or something?”

“Very good. So sometimes you actually
do
listen in class.”

I don't even react to his dig, because I suddenly gasp, realizing what I'm holding in my hand. “I've seen this phoenix before!” I exclaim. “On TV. In newspapers. Nickel Bay Nick gives away money like this every year, and it's always stamped with the same purple phoenix so everybody knows it's really Nick and not some copycat.”

“Clever, isn't it?”

“It's . . . it's genius!” I stop and squint at Mr. Wells. “Wait. But Nickel Bay Nick never showed up this year. People say he's given up on this lousy town and moved away.”

“That's what I've heard.”

I wag the money in my hand. “So why would Nickel Bay Nick give you one of these? Doesn't he know you're loaded?”

Instead of answering, Mr. Wells pulls a four-inch cylinder of green stone from the strongbox and slides it across the desk in front of me. “Please don't touch this,” he warns.

“What is it?” I ask, studying the object.

“It's called a chop,” Mr. Wells explains. “In ancient China, chops were carved from rare jade—as this one is—and used by emperors and dignitaries to stamp documents with an official seal. It was their way of preventing forgeries.” Very carefully Mr. Wells tilts the chop onto its side, exposing its bottom surface. I lower my face to desk level for a closer look. Carved into the pale green jade is the figure of a phoenix, stained purple. When I realize what I'm seeing, fireworks explode in my brain.

“But . . . but this . . . ,” I stammer, pointing to the chop, “this is the stamp on that.” I point to the hundred-dollar bill. “And that's the signature of . . .
oh my God!
”

From across the desk Mr. Wells stares at me, unblinking. It's a good thing that I went to the bathroom earlier, otherwise I'd probably wet myself.

“You're not just a spy,” I whisper. “
You're Nickel Bay Nick.
”

THE
SURPRISE
IN THE
SONG

“WHERE WERE YOU THIS YEAR?”

As stupid as it sounds, that's the first question that flies out of my mouth. And I don't just ask it. I shout it.

“Why?” Mr. Wells looks startled. “Did you miss me?”

“No! I mean . . . I mean, yes!” My words can't keep up with my thoughts. “I mean, not just
me
! The whole town. Didn't you see the news? Everybody's all, ‘Where's Nickel Bay Nick?' ‘When's he gonna show up?' Then that turned into, ‘Is he
ever
gonna show up again?' And finally it was, ‘Looks like Nick's forgotten us.' It was horrible! People stopped smiling. They stopped shopping. My dad's business has been awful. Heck, everybody's business has sucked. Christmas didn't feel like Christmas.” I'm really getting angry. “Don't you care about this town anymore?”

“Sam, please!” Mr. Wells gives a little laugh. “For one moment, stop and think about what it means to be Nickel Bay Nick.” He polishes his glasses as he talks. “Every year for the last seven years, I have withdrawn thousands of dollars in crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from a variety of accounts I keep in banks around the country. But I never take too many from one bank. Why, do you think?”

“I dunno.” I shrug.

“Use your head, Sam! Why not make one enormous withdrawal from one single bank?”

The answer hits me. “Because a big withdrawal would attract attention?”

“Exactly.” He seems pleased. “Once the money arrives, I stamp each bill with the sign of the phoenix using this purple ink”—from the strongbox, he pulls a small, square bottle—“that I import from Cambodia. Nobody will ever be able to test it and trace it back to me.” He replaces the ink and continues. “Then, as you know, in the weeks before Christmas, I set out to distribute my gifts. Some I send in anonymous Christmas cards, which I mail from post offices I visit across the state. Others I wrap in packages—packages without fingerprints on them, I might point out—that people find on their front porches alongside the morning paper. Or—and I think this method gets the most attention—I blend into a crowd of holiday shoppers and slip my gifts into the pockets and purses of unsuspecting citizens.”

“I've seen those people on the news!” I interrupt excitedly. “They're always waving their money around and hugging each other and stuff.”

“I've seen them, too. For years. But when this happened”—Mr. Wells thumps his plaster cast—“I had to face facts. I couldn't very well drive around to dozens of post offices, tiptoe onto people's porches in the dead of night or sneak around town undetected when I couldn't even walk down a flight of stairs, now could I?”

“Guess not.”

“And, as much of a help as Dr. Sakata is, I couldn't ask him to perform the duties of Nickel Bay Nick. For one thing,” Mr. Wells chuckles, “he's not going to blend into any crowd in this town, is he?”

I look Dr. Sakata up and down and shake my head. “No way.”

“So I made the difficult decision to skip my visit this year,” Mr. Wells says, “and I'm very sorry to see what that did to Nickel Bay. I never intended to cause such pain.”

“Wait a second,” I say, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you telling me this? All these years, you haven't told a soul, and now suddenly you're spilling your guts to me?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Are you going to have to kill me now?”

Mr. Wells throws back his head and roars with laughter. “Nobody's killing anybody, Sam,” he says. “You obviously have the wrong impression of my past. I never jumped from a burning plane or crashed a speeding car or disarmed a ticking bomb. But all my years of training, all the tricks I acquired and all the schemes I hatched during my career, those come in very handy when I assume the role of Nickel Bay Nick.” He lowers his voice when he asks, “Can you understand, Sam, how challenging it is to do what I've done for as long as I've done it and still remain a mystery?”

“It's tough, huh?”

“Nearly impossible. Being Nickel Bay Nick requires a quick and devious mind. It requires the ability to move in the shadows, never attracting attention or leaving clues behind. In short, it requires the skills of a thief.”

“So? I still don't get it.” I shrug. “Why am I here?”

“You are here, Sam”—he looks me in the eye—“because you already
are
a thief.”

I stare back until I realize what Mr. Wells just said. Then my heart starts thumping like a jackhammer. “Wait a sec. Are you saying . . . ?”

“I am.”

I gasp. “You want me to be Nickel Bay Nick?”

“Think of yourself as my understudy.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I wave my hands. “That's crazy!”

“I've seen your police files, Sam,” Mr. Wells says. “You want to talk about crazy?”

“But, I'm . . . I'm just a kid,” I stutter. “And besides, it's too late now! Christmas is over.”

“Far from it,” Mr. Wells says. “Have you ever heard the carol about the twelve days of Christmas?” He starts to sing, “
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I interrupt and sing the rest of the line. “
A cartridge in a pear tree.
”

“A what? A
cartridge
?” Mr. Wells sputters in surprise. “It's ‘a partridge in a pear tree.' A
partridge,
Sam, not a
cartridge.
It's a bird, not a bullet.”

“Hmm,” I grunt. “So all this time, I've been singing it wrong.”

Mr. Wells holds up a calendar that's open to the month of December. “Take a look at this,” he says as he runs a finger over the first three weeks. “Nowadays we celebrate Christmas
before
December twenty-fifth. But hundreds of years ago, people actually began their festivities at sunset on Christmas Day, which makes today”—he taps December 26 on the page—“the
first day of Christmas.
Like in the song. Celebrations would then continue for the last six days of the old year and”—he flips the calendar page—“the first six days of the new one. Twelve days of Christmas, ending at sunset on the sixth of January.”

“January sixth?” I scrunch up my face. “That's the last day of my Christmas vacation.”

“Good. Then you're available to work for me.”

I don't like the way this guy is taking over my life. “What if don't want to do this?” I ask. “What if I don't want to be your understudy Nick?”

Mr. Wells sits back and studies me. “I thought that you'd be intrigued by a secret mission. I thought you'd jump at the opportunity to bring a little Christmas cheer back to Nickel Bay and help your father's business in the bargain. But maybe I was wrong. So, if that doesn't persuade you, then please remember this.” With one bony finger, Mr. Wells points at me. “You vandalized my property,” he growls. “Either you work off your debt, or your father can pay me for the damage you caused.”

I have to admit this guy is creeping me out. “And what do you expect me to do, exactly?”

“You'll receive your assignments as we go along.” He picks up a manila envelope and extends it across the desk. “This evening, you will go home and study the pages in here. Then you'll bring that back when you report for work tomorrow.” As I take the envelope, he adds, “The contents are for your eyes only.”

That sounds like something a spy would say, and despite my annoyance, a prickle of excitement runs down my spine.

“Should your father ask,” he says, “tell him that my storage rooms and files are in far worse shape than I originally thought and that you'll be working every day for me until your vacation ends.” He looks down at his calendar and announces, “Tomorrow morning, be here at eight thirty sharp.” He looks up. “Do you have a wristwatch? We'll need to coordinate timetables as we go along.”

“Yeah, I have a wristwatch,” I say with more than a little attitude. “A Rolex, actually.”

Mr. Wells's eyebrows arch. “A Rolex? What's a boy your age doing with an expensive timepiece like that?”

“My mom sent it to me after I got my new heart,” I answer. “After she forgot that she'd promised to visit me in the hospital and then never showed up.”

“Your mother never visited you?”

“She had things to do. Out of town,” I snap, feeling an unexpected heat rising up my neck. “Why's that your business?”

Mr. Wells is silent for a moment, then he puts his glasses back on.

“It's not.” He waves a hand impatiently. “That's all for now.”

With one eye on Hoko, I stand, clamp the manila envelope under my arm and turn for the door that I came in through.

“Not that way!” Mr. Wells spits out. I turn back to him. “From now on, you will use the back door,” he says, pointing to a hallway leading off the far corner of the living room. “I can't risk having a neighbor notice your comings and goings. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” I mutter.

Dr. Sakata steps forward holding not only my shoes but my jacket and gloves as well. As I put them on, Mr. Wells says, “At the northeast corner of my backyard, you'll find a security gate. The combination is oh-one-oh-five. Can you remember that, or should I write it down?”

“Oh-one-oh-five,” I repeat. “I'm not an idiot.”

Mr. Wells pretends he doesn't hear me. “The gate is engineered to close slowly, so do not walk away until it shuts firmly. I don't want anyone sneaking onto my property. You will then find yourself in the alley that runs the length of the block and wraps around behind your place. You know the alley I mean?”

Slipping into my shoes, I grumble, “Yeah, I know it.” I straighten up and glare at him one final time. “You know, I bet there are a few reporters in Nickel Bay who'd pay to hear everything you told me here today.”

He tilts his head. “What are you saying?”

“I'm just saying it might be worth it to toss a couple of those Benjamins my way. To keep me quiet.”

“Are you now trying to blackmail
me,
Sam?” Mr. Wells spreads his arms over the files and videos on his desktop. “Because, you know, two can play that game. In which case”—he gives a little wave—“buh-bye, Sam Brattle. Buh-bye, Nickel Bay.”

I jut my chin, determined not to let him see that he's won this round.

“Sam,” says Mr. Wells, “anyone ever tell you that you've got a cold heart?”

“So what?” I sneer on my way out. “It's not mine.”