Nickel Bay Nick by Dean Pitchford Page A

his work.
    â€œThen, as the town started to grow, Phineas Wackburton framed the four nickels he won in that poker game and hung them in the first saloon he opened here. That’s when people started calling the place Nickel Bay. And those nickels became famous.”
    â€œAre they still around?” Mr. Wells wonders.
    â€œA few.” I count on my fingers as I talk. “One was given to President William McKinley when he came through Nickel Bay back in 1900. But a couple days later he mistakenly mixed it in with his pocket change and used it to buy a hot dog in Philadelphia.”
    â€œA hot dog!” Mr. Wells barks. “Imagine.”
    â€œThe second nickel was sent away to some ginormous museum in Washington, DC . . .”
    â€œThe Smithsonian?”
    â€œYeah, probably,” I quickly agree. “The third coin is on exhibit in a bulletproof case at the Nickel Bay Historical Society. And the fourth one . . . the fourth nickel is . . . I mean
was . . .”
    My voice cracks, and I suddenly stop talking. Mr. Wells, Hoko and Dr. Sakata all look to me.
    â€œWhat is it?” Mr. Wells asks.
    Everyone else in town knows where the fourth nickel went, so I’ve never had to tell this story before. I don’t know why I’m choking up, but I cough like I’ve got something in my throat and continue.
    â€œYou remember I told you how Dad saved all those people in the fire, and everybody was calling him a hero?”
    Mr. Wells nods.
    â€œWell, to honor him, the town council threw a huge ceremony. Seriously, thousands of people were there, and the mayor gave my dad the fourth nickel. All framed and everything.”
    â€œYou must have been very proud.”
    I shrug. “I was too little to remember.”
    â€œSo this fourth nickel,” Mr. Wells says, “where does your father keep it? In a safety deposit box, I bet.”
    â€œHe lost it.”
    â€œ
Lost
it?”
    â€œLet’s just say: It got lost. After Dad was laid off by the fire department, and after the divorce and after my operation, Dad and me, we kept moving as the money ran out. And somewhere along the way . . .
poof!
” I explode my hands. “Gone.”
    â€œWell, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Wells says before slipping a Nickel Bay Buck between the pages of a popular novel I bought at Brandt Brothers Bookstore. He slides the book to the middle of the table, and I can see that he and Dr. Sakata have finished hiding all fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills inside my purchases.
    He removes his magnifying-glass headgear and says something foreign to Dr. Sakata, who leaves the room. Mr. Wells pushes his wheelchair back from the table and stretches his arms above his head.
    â€œTime for lunch, don’t you think?” he asks.
    â€œWhat about your story?”
    â€œMy story will have to wait, Sam,” Mr. Wells says. “After lunch, you’ve got a full afternoon of pickpocket training.”
    The good news is that Hoko no longer seems focused on eating me. During lunch, he sits attentively at my elbow, watching every spoonful of soup travel to my mouth, but he doesn’t growl once.
    The bad news is that I still suck at pickpocketing.
    â€œWe should have begun this training at Thanksgiving,” Mr. Wells finally grumbles in the late afternoon, shaking his head. Then he turns to Dr. Sakata, and I know he’s repeating himself because the sentence he speaks ends with “Thanksgiving.”
    Dr. Sakata glances my way and nods gravely.
    I shout, “I’m in the room, you know!” and the frustration that’s been building bubbles over. “Maybe I’m not an expert pickpocket yet, but don’t forget—this morning I got you
every
item you asked for! But do you appreciate it? Apparently not. Do I get one word of encouragement? Not one that I heard!”
    Mr. Wells lets my anger subside before he speaks