Nickel Bay Nick (11 page)

“He's got the prettiest dog,” Ivy says. “Sometimes I see them over at Bayside Park.”

“That's Hoko,” I say.

“
Ho-Ko
?” Jaxon makes a sour face. “What kind of dumb name is Hoko?”

“It's not dumb,” I insist.

“
Ho-o-o—Ko-o-o
.” Jaxon stretches the name out into one long whine. “Bet you could get quite a bundle for that mutt.”

I stop in my tracks. “What did you say?”

“I'm talkin' about big bucks. Cha-ching!” he says, rubbing three fingers together. “My dad has a bunch of super-rich clients, y'know? And these guys collect all sorts of exotic animals.”

“Like what?” Ivy asks.

“Like hairless cats and poisonous snakes. This one guy bought a huge lizard the size of a coffee table.”

Ivy's eyes light up. “That was probably a Komodo dragon. They're enormous.”

“Hey, Hoko is not for sale!” I snap.

“I never said he was!” Jaxon snaps back, but his flash of anger is gone in a second. Next thing you know, he's laughing and punching me playfully in the arm. “You're a tough little guy, aren't you?”

I smile tightly, trying to play along, but he's starting to push my buttons.

Ivy asks, “Jaxon? Your dad's clients . . . where do they get the lizards and snakes from?”

He drops his fists and shrugs. “I dunno about the lizards and stuff, but one of 'em was telling my dad about how much he wanted this really rare breed of cat he'd seen on TV. So my dad happens to mention it to Crummer.” He turns to me. “You know Crummer? The dogcatcher?”

“Everybody knows Crummer Sikes,” I say.

“Then, like, two weeks later, Crummer picks up that exact cat wandering the streets of Nickel Bay. No name tags or nothin'. Crummer made a nice chunk of change on that one.”

Something in Jaxon's story bothers me. “Crummer just
happened
to find that same cat wandering around?”

“That's what he says.” Jaxon pounds me on the back and chuckles. “Maybe Crummer's just lucky.”

“If he were actually lucky,” Ivy points out, “his parents wouldn't have named him Crummer.”

They roar with laughter, but I'm not in a laughing mood anymore. “Y'know what, guys? I think I'm gonna head home.”

Ivy groans, “Aw, come on, Sam,” and Jaxon throws up his hands in exasperation. “
Now
what's wrong?”

“I just remembered,” I lie, and hang my head for dramatic effect. “I don't have any money for dinner.”

“Oh, please!” Jaxon snorts. “Since when do we pay? Let's go to that bowling alley where we ordered at the counter that one time. And when the food comes, we'll grab it and run like we did before, remember?”

The memory makes my stomach turn.

“That bowling alley's out of business,” Ivy says.

“Maybe it's because of customers who didn't pay,” I say sarcastically.

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Jaxon sniggers. “That was a really good scam. We'll find someplace else and try it again.”

But the thought of stealing my next meal doesn't seem like such an appealing idea.

• • •

“You've only been gone thirty minutes.” Dad's puttering around in the kitchen when I get back. “Something wrong?”

“I didn't feel like hanging out,” I say. “How come you're not with Lisa?”

“She got called in to work,” Dad says. “After the news about Nickel Bay Nick, Dillard's stayed open tonight, so they temporarily rehired her.”

I deliver my finest acting performance by simply grunting, “Cool.”

Dad's always most relaxed when he's cooking at home, so while he makes chicken stew, I sit on the counter and we talk.

When he was still a firefighter, Dad got a lot of experience inventing recipes and preparing meals for the crews at the firehouse. After he was laid off, he figured he'd try to be a chef full-time, but once he realized that Nickel Bay wasn't a good place to start a restaurant, he bought a bakery for a good price and built a reputation for delicious breads and awesome cupcakes. “Cupcakes make people happy,” he's always saying.

As we're eating Dad's stew, he casually says, “Your mom called right after you left. Checking in.”

I don't look up.

“I told her you know about Phil.”

My neck muscles tighten. “What did she say?”

“She wanted to know how you handled it. And if you'll ever forgive her.”

“I haven't decided yet,” I mutter, nudging a chunk of potato around on my plate.

“No rush,” he says.

My chest burns, and I push my food away.

“Something wrong with the stew?” Dad asks.

“Nah,” I say softly. “I'm just not very hungry.”

Dad doesn't try to persuade me to finish my dinner. Instead, he picks up our plates and crosses to the sink. “If you ever want to talk about your mom—” he starts to say.

But I cut him off. “Yeah, yeah. I can always come to you. Whatever.”

As exhausting as the day has been, I still lie awake later, wrestling with so many thoughts. Questions about Mom and her new life are pushed aside by questions about Mr. Wells and whatever secrets he's keeping. Jaxon's joking and Ivy's smile replay again and again. The great taste of Dad's stew still lingers on my tongue, and the cheering of those Town Hall workers rings in my ears until I finally drift off.

THE
CHALLENGES
OF
CARJACKING

December 30

On Sunday, the fifth day of Christmas, the cease-fire between Dad and me doesn't last through breakfast.

“Tomorrow night's New Year's Eve,” he announces. “Lisa's having a few people over, and I told her we'd be happy to be there.”

“What do you mean,
we
?” I ask. “
I
won't be happy to be there.”

“Well, you can't stay home,” he says forcefully. “We both know what happened the last time I left you here alone on a holiday night.”

“You mean Christmas? Christmas was different.” I practically throw my cereal bowl in the sink. “That's when I found Mom's wedding picture you hid from me. And besides, I won't know anybody at Lisa's, and what if I have to work for Mr. Wells, and—”

“Stop!” Dad shouts. “You're coming. End of discussion. Did you take your meds?”

Defiantly staring him in the eye, I stick out my tongue and shove the pill to the back of my throat. On his way out of the kitchen, Dad adds, “And pick out something nice to wear to welcome in the New Year.”

• • •

“Don't bother taking your coat off,” Mr. Wells says when I arrive at eight thirty. “We're leaving immediately.”

Dr. Sakata pulls on his gloves and helps Mr. Wells into a winter coat as Hoko gapes at all the activity with his tongue hanging out.

“Where're we going?”

“If you've been watching the news this morning,” Mr. Wells says, tying a scarf around his neck, “you'll know that people are guessing about where Nickel Bay Nick will next appear.” He turns to me with a wink. “Or, rather,
not
appear, if we do our job correctly. And I'm pleased to see there's one section of town that everyone's overlooking.”

“Where's that?”

“The waterfront,” he announces. “On the shores of Nickel Bay.”

Back when Nickel Bay used to attract tourists, they'd all want to visit the area called Bay Front. From Bay Front Drive, you can get great views of the islands out in the water and the mountains on the opposite shore. Once the economy went south, though, even the most popular section of town lost a lot of businesses and residents.

As we pass through the kitchen, Dr. Sakata speaks quietly to Hoko, who immediately goes to curl up in his crate. Mr. Wells gathers maps and notepads on his way to the garage, where Dr. Sakata lifts him from his wheelchair into the front passenger seat of a hulking black SUV. I climb into the backseat and fasten my seat belt.

As we drive through the heart of town, I notice that, even though it's a super-cold, overcast Sunday, there's a lot more activity in the streets than I had seen only twenty-four hours earlier.

“Do you believe all these people?” I ask. “Nickel Bay Nick did that.”

“But Nick still has two more missions ahead of him,” Mr. Wells points out. “Now, tomorrow is December thirty-first, and you know what that means.”

“New Year's Eve,” I answer.

“Exactly. We can work early in the day, but I'm sending you home by mid-afternoon so that you can celebrate with your father.”

“
Celebrate
?” I moan. “He's dragging me to his girlfriend's house.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“Lisa's got two little girls. They're five and six, and they hang on me like monkeys on a banana tree.”

“You're a brave man,” Mr. Wells says, and I laugh. “Then Tuesday, the day after tomorrow,” he continues, “you'll stay home.”

“Do I have to?”

“Sam,” Mr. Wells says, “nobody works on New Year's Day.” I understand his point. “So,” he continues, “we'll next see each other in the afternoon of Wednesday, January second.”

“Why not Wednesday morning?”

“I'm having you start later that day because the Green Mission can only be carried out after dark.”

“And what
is
the Green Mission?”

By now, we're rolling through Bay Front, only a couple blocks from Dad's bakery. This neighborhood actually comes to life—what little life there is anymore—after dark, when the neon signs flicker on and people gather in the bars and restaurants along the water's edge. But now the streets are sleepy, and
FOR RENT
signs are in the windows of a lot of empty shops.

“Three nights from now,” Mr. Wells explains, “you will start at one end of Bay Front and work your way to the other. As you sneak along your route, you will slip fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills into fifteen parked cars.”

“But what about cars that are locked?” I try to lean forward, but my seat belt yanks me back. “Or cars with alarms?”

Mr. Wells swivels in his seat to face me. “Didn't I see something in the police records about you stealing a car?”

“I already told you! It was my dad's car, and all I did was take his keys. Jaxon did the driving.”

“What a shame. I thought you had more experience.” He shrugs. “If you're going to be breaking into cars, you're going to have to learn the basics of being a car thief.”

As Dr. Sakata drives up and down the side streets and narrow alleys of Bay Front, Mr. Wells gives me a crash course in how to spot unlocked cars and how to avoid tripping burglar alarms. We pick out a street corner at the north end of Bay Front Drive where I will begin the Green Mission. “On the evening of January second, you will walk to this spot,” Mr. Wells explains.

“Can't Dr. Sakata drive me?” I ask.

“He will pick you up when you're done,” Mr. Wells says, “but I don't want this car to be observed in the area twice on the night of the Green Mission. I'm sure you can understand that.”

“I guess,” I grumble.

About a mile south, Mr. Wells points out another location—under the arch of a long-deserted church—where Dr. Sakata will meet me at the end of my mission. After more driving, Mr. Wells finally directs Dr. Sakata to pull into a garbage-strewn, snow-filled alley and stop.

“I want you to take the next few hours, Sam, to walk every possible route and make note of hazards and hiding places on this,” he says, handing me a pencil and a map of Bay Front. “Now, do you have your cell phone with you?”

“Yeah, why?” I pull the phone from my jacket. “Who am I calling?”

“Please program this information into it,” he says, holding up a piece of paper with a phone number on it. I do as he says, and then he tears up the paper. “When you've finished your scouting expedition, call that number, and I'll send Dr. Sakata to meet you at your pickup point.”

“But it's cold out there,” I protest.

“Then I suggest you zip up and start walking to keep warm.”

It's only after the SUV pulls away that I realize I've been here before. In this exact spot. How do I know? On the brick wall in front of me, in letters three feet high, a slash of graffiti declares
S.B. ROCKS!!!!!

Right where I spray-painted it two years before.

I only used my initials after Ivy pointed out that my full signature would probably earn me a visit from the police. Above my scrawl is a viper that Jaxon drew, and to the right is the pig with wings that Ivy did. I'd almost forgotten about that summer afternoon when the three of us swiped cans of spray paint from Hopkins Hardware and ran all over town, leaving our marks on any available surface. On that day, we couldn't stop laughing because we thought our tags looked so super-cool.

Now they just look dumb.

Did Mr. Wells let me out of his car right here because he wanted me to see my old graffiti?
I wonder.
Is he deliberately rubbing my nose in my past? And if he is, how does he know so much about my life?

I shiver, but this shiver has nothing to do with how cold it is.

• • •

By the time Dr. Sakata picks me up two hours later at our rendezvous, my fingers are stiff and my eyebrows are growing little icicles.

Back in Mr. Wells's kitchen, Dr. Sakata feeds me a bowl of clear soup with mushrooms and tiny shrimp floating in it. Normally, I'd turn up my nose at any meal that includes mushrooms and tiny shrimp, but I'm so cold that, at that moment, I'd be willing to drink lava.

Afterward, in his office, Mr. Wells spreads out my map of Bay Front and studies the route I traced between the buildings and down the side streets. As he does, I consider asking him whether he's deliberately sending me to the scenes of my previous crimes, but I'm not sure I want to hear his answer. Instead, I lean across the desk.

“I tried to avoid restaurants with bright lights out front,” I point out, and he nods silently. “And if you look there”—I jab my finger at a spot on the map—“I'm gonna cut through the parking lot at Pirro's Pasta Palace. You think that's a good idea?”

“I'll trust your judgment.” He looks up. “After all, this mission is a first for Nickel Bay Nick.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have never done what I'm asking you to do.”

I blink in surprise. “You've never tried this?”

“Even seven years ago, when I first acted as Nickel Bay Nick, I was not a young man,” Mr. Wells explains. “I never had the speed or agility to slip in and out of shadows or crouch in dark doorways, waiting to strike.”

Now he's got me worried. “How do you even know it can be done?”

“I don't,” Mr. Wells says with a shrug. “But I do know that the job requires”—he counts on his fingers—“someone small in stature, someone fast on his feet and someone with the cold-blooded cunning of a cat burglar. You're more than qualified.”

We spend the next few hours reviewing and revising the route that I devised through Bay Front. After that, I spend an hour practicing my miserable pickpocketing skills with Dr. Sakata, and by the end of the afternoon, my shoulders are slumped again.

“Tired, Sam?” Mr. Wells asks.

“This whole business of being mysterious,” I say, “it's actually kind of exhausting, isn't it?”

“Ah!” Mr. Wells exclaims. “Now you know the dirty little secret about espionage. For every moment of hair-raising excitement and breathtaking adventure, there are ten thousand hours of mind-numbing preparation.”

“Give me an example.”

“Excuse me?”

“You owe me a story,” I remind him. “You promised.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Mr. Wells protests. “It's late.”

I throw my arms wide, the way I've seen him do, and flop back into a high-backed leather chair. “I've got all the time in the world.”

So Mr. Wells clears his throat.

“Years ago, while I was stationed at the U.S. Embassy in a war-torn dictatorship, which shall remain nameless, one of our operatives—”

“
Operative
? Isn't that a fancy way of saying ‘spy'?”

“
Spy
is . . . another word for what he was, yes.” Mr. Wells nods. “Anyway . . . the identity of this operative had been—how should I put this?—compromised—”

“You mean somebody ratted him out,” I suggest. “His cover was blown.”

Mr. Wells scowls.

“I've seen spy movies,” I say with a shrug. “I know how these things work.”

“Do you want to tell the story?” Mr. Wells sounds annoyed.

I pull an imaginary zipper across my lips, and he continues.

“As I was saying, when our spy's cover was blown, he was in fear for his life. After narrowly avoiding capture by the dictator's army, he managed to slip into the capital city and take refuge in our embassy. The ambassador at the time was a cheerful but rather daffy older gentleman who spent more time obsessing about his six Saint Bernard dogs than he did worrying about matters of state. After the spy arrived, enemy soldiers surrounded the embassy and maintained surveillance twenty-four hours a day, determined to capture him. They checked every vehicle that entered and left the grounds. Then they began to confiscate all our food deliveries, and within just a few days, we were down to our last supplies and feeling like prisoners.

“The spy was desperate to flee to safety, and the ambassador was equally impatient to get him off the property. But how could we manage that? All the generals and diplomats on staff, all of us were stumped, until I came up with a suggestion that sounded so crazy—”

“That it just might work,” I chime in. Mr. Wells glares at me, and I immediately regret my words. “Sorry. They say that a lot in movies, too.”

Mr. Wells goes on. “While in the country, I had made the acquaintance of a particularly gifted local tailor, a cheerful little man with one gold tooth and an amazing way with fabric. Through one of our kitchen workers, I sent a message to the tailor, who arrived the next day, bringing with him a large crate of toilet paper.”

“Toilet paper?” I ask. “How are you supposed to save a spy with toilet paper?”

“Oh, the toilet paper was merely a fake-out,” Mr. Wells answers. “Hidden in a false compartment at the bottom of that crate was a small sewing machine and twelve yards of a very special fabric the tailor had managed to smuggle in.