Home for the Holidays (15 page)

“Yeah!” Nicky said back at him.

“Woo-hooo,” Donna yelled.

Nicky, pleased with himself, closed his eyes and let himself go.

Peter Van Allen dropped Mrs. Van Allen and Dirk at the front doors of the Carrington Country Club. He gave his wife a peck on the cheek and said, “I'll be along just as soon as I take care of this piece of business. If I'm running late, make my apologies, won't you, dear? Tell them to go on without me.”

“But, Peter! What will people—”

“Just do it!” he barked. “I mean, please. Just—cover for me.”

Van Allen pulled his car into the club parking lot and shut off the engine. Then he pounded the steering wheel and said, “Damn! Damn! Damn!
Why?
Why did this have to happen? And why
now!
One more day to get everything signed, and now
thisl”

He had to
think.
He couldn't let that Borelli outsmart
him. The double-crosser! He had probably been planning this all along. Italians!

Van Allen looked at his watch. Nine o'clock. In thirteen hours, the bank, the notary public and the escrow company would be open. If he didn't have Borelli there, and the papers weren't signed, the whole thing would be lost. And if Borelli knew who he was and went public with it, Van Allen would go to prison.

Well, Peter Van Allen was not going to prison. Patrick Arlen was
definitely
not going to prison.

He leaned over and opened the glove compartment. Inside, wrapped in black cloth, was a shiny black Beretta 9 mm handgun. Van Allen tucked the weapon into his waistband and closed the glove compartment. He let out a laugh and started the car.

After three more songs, the music stopped and Stanley Smoot, the president of the Carrington Country Club, spoke to the dancers through a microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for joining me tonight for this Seventy-third annual Snow Ball,” he said. “I'm delighted to see all you young people here, too, and to see so many of you already enjoying this fine music. Like you kids say, it's
hell-o
good. Heh-heh.”

There was no laughter. Smoot continued without interruption.

“As you all know, the Snow Ball dance committee presents prizes to the best dancers—best individual dancer,
best dance couple, and best slow-dance couple. Our judges are already on the floor, making notes. The names of the winners will be announced by our own treasurer, Mr. Peter Van Allen, at eleven o'clock, and the winners will receive their prizes—generously donated, I might add, by Carring-ton Clock and Watch, and by the Village Hobby Shop. I wish you all good luck, and ‘dance, dance, dance’!”

“Do you have to live around here to win?” Tommy asked. “'Cause otherwise it's in the bag.”

“I wouldn't get too cocky,” Amy said. “Now that Nicky's such a good dancer …”

“I taught him everything he knows!”

“Come teach me, then,” Amy said.

The music started again. Nicky, self-conscious now that he knew judges were watching, pulled Donna onto the floor and began to move around carefully.

“You're doing it again!” Tommy yelled at him.

“Doing what?”

“Dancing like you got Jell-O in your pants. Relax!”

The next song was slow. Donna took Nicky's hand and said, “I don't really know how to do this, but I bet you do.”

“It's nothing,” Nicky said. “Just follow me.”

Across the room, Nicky saw his mother and father step onto the dance floor. He saw uncle Frankie and Marian Galloway near them. His uncle looked as graceful as a gorilla. Behind him, he saw Grandma Tutti dancing with some old geezer. It appeared to be Dr. Feldman—Carrington's only resident psychiatrist.

Nicky was wondering what in the world his grandmother and a psychiatrist would talk about when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Passing close to him were Tommy and Amy, dancing nicely.

“Look at me! Doing the box step!” Tommy said. “I'm gonna win the slow-dance prize, too.”

“Go for it,” Nicky said.

The songs alternated slow and fast. Nicky saw a judge making notes. Looking around, he realized he couldn't possibly win. There were too many dancers, and too many of them were good dancers—smooth, light on their feet, polished. Nicky decided to forget about the prizes, and the judges, and the other dancers, and just try to have a good time.

For the next song he was free and abandoned. He grinned at Donna. He felt the music. He
danced.

When the song ended, there was another tap on his shoulder. Nicky said, “Tommy! Can't you leave me alone for five minutes?”

“No, I can't, Nicholas. I can't live a moment without you.”

Nicky turned and stared. There was Dirk Van Allen, wearing a sports coat over a pair of low-slung rapper jeans.

“Dirk! What are you— Where's your dad?”

“Shut up, Borelli,” Dirk said. “I'm here for your little friend. It's payback time.”

“Forget it, Dirk, unless you want him to beat you up again.”

“Not quite, squirt,” Dirk said. “This time it's me that's going to beat
him
up.”

Tommy was over by the punch bowl, standing with Uncle Frankie, Grandma Tutti and Nicky's parents. Tommy saw Dirk facing off with Nicky and said, “Uh-oh. That monkey Dirk is back again.”

“That's okay,” Frankie said.

“It's not,” Tommy said. “Nicky's gonna need some help.”

“No,” Frankie said, taking Tommy's arm and holding him back. “Let him settle it himself.”

“But listen,” Tommy said. “The kid's dad—”

“That's the bully from school?” Tutti asked. “Nicky's no match for a boy like that.”

“That's enough, Ma,” Nicky's father said. “Let's leave Nicky alone.”

“But Dirk's bigger than him, and he fights dirty,” Tommy said. “Besides, there's—”

“Nicky needs to settle this now, by himself,” Frankie said. “Nicky has to live here. You don't. Let him sort it out.”

Dirk had already pushed Nicky in the chest once. Now he pushed him again.

“But maybe before I take care of Tommy, I should take care of you,” Dirk said. “Because I'm sick of you. I've been sick of you since kindy-garten. Little Nicholas with the perfect grades. Little Nicholas, the teacher's pet. Look at you! You're nothing but a … a … a little nerd!”

Dirk pushed Nicky in the chest again. This time Nicky pushed back. Dirk stumbled and fell.

“Hey! Are you crazy?” Dirk said. “Why did you do that?”

“I'm tired of you pushing me around, Dirk,” Nicky said. “I don't like it.”

Dirk grinned. “Get used to it, Borelli. 'Cause I'm just getting started.”

He struggled to his feet, holding up his baggy gangsta pants with one hand. Suddenly, to Nicky, he was a joke. Nicky saw the big bully in a way he'd never seen him before.

So he laughed at him. “You pathetic, pea-brained primate! Do you really think anyone is going to let you fight me here, at the Snow Ball? All you'll do is get us both in trouble.”

“Okay, then,” Dirk said. “Come outside and fight like a man. Unless you're chicken.”

Nicky blushed. Now it was less funny. A crowd had gathered. Nicky could feel everyone staring at him.

“I'm not a chicken,” he said. “I'm not any kind of animal. And I'm not going to fight you. Fighting is stupid.”

“You're a chicken!” Dirk said, and began making chicken noises. “Puck-puck-puckety-puck. Here, chicky-chicky-chick.”

“Let's see who's chicken,” Nicky said. “Let's see if
you
are. If you think you're so tough, I'll challenge you right now to a dance-off.”

“A
what?”

“A dance-off. A dance competition. You and me. Two songs. We'll do it like follow-the-leader. I'll do a move. You copy it. If you can't do it, you lose.”

“That's stupid!” Dirk said.

“Then you're the chicken,” Nicky said.

Dirk raised his fists. “Take that back! And take back that thing about the primate! You think I don't know what those big words mean? Well, I
dol
Put 'em up!”

“Dirk Van Allen! Nicholas Borelli!” President Smoot stood staring at them. “Put your hands down at once. What's going on here?”

“Dirk wanted to fight,” Nicky said. “I challenged him to a dance-off instead.”

“There won't be any fighting here,” Smoot said. “Whatever the problem is, you can settle it some other way.”

Nicky and Dirk stared at each other. Dirk said, “Let me get this straight. It's a dance-off with
you
, not your little friend, right?”

“That's right,” Nicky said. “With me.”

Dirk looked at his friends, at Nicky, at Tommy and then at the ground. His face began to redden, and his fists balled up again.

“Dance!” someone in the crowd called out. “Dance!”

Other voices joined in. Soon it was a chant. “Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance!”

Dirk turned to Nicky. “Okay, little nerd man,” he said. “Let's boogie.”

Van Allen dialed Borelli's cell phone number from the car. When he answered, Van Allen said, “Hey, it's me. Listen, something has come up. Something urgent. I need to see you right away. I'm waiting for you at the clubhouse side entrance—
now.
Come quick. And come alone.”

Nicky's father put his cell phone back into his pocket and turned to his wife. “I have to step outside for a minute,” he said. “It's Van Allen. Something has come up.”

“But Nicky is about to—”

“I'll be right back.”

He went out the front door of the clubhouse and around the side of the building. He was a little nervous. Could something have gone wrong? Had Van Allen changed his mind? He checked his watch. In less than thirteen hours, the bank would be open and this would all be over. If he could only hold on to Van Allen for thirteen hours …

He found Van Allen at the side entrance.

“Hey!” Van Allen said. “I'm sorry to drag you away from the party. But something has come up. Do you have a car here?”

“Of course.”

“We'll need it to run a quick errand. Do you have the keys?”

“Sure.”

“Let's take a drive, then. It'll just take five minutes.”

They walked together to the parking lot and got into the Navigator. Nicky's father started the engine.

“You like these big guys, huh?” Van Allen said.

“I never drive it,” Nicky's father said. “It's the car my driver uses. But tonight, with all the kids, and my brother, and my mom …”

“Sure, sure,” Van Allen said. “I get it. You got a lot of people depending on you.”

“I'm a lucky man,” Nicky's father said. “I got a great family.”

“Sure you do,” Van Allen said. “And if you ever want to see them again, you'll do exactly what I tell you to do. Get me?”

Nicky's father turned to stare at Van Allen, who was now aiming a nasty-looking gun at him.

“What the—”

“That's right, it's a gun,” Van Allen said. “Now shut up and drive, and I won't have to use it. We're going to Fairport.”

A team of judges—three adults and three kids—was assembled. One of the kids was Walter.

“That's not fair,” Dirk said. “You can't use
Walter.”

“If we're not allowed to choose kids you've picked on, we'll be here all night,” Nicky said. “Are you backing out?”

“No,” Dirk said. “Start the music.”

Nicky started off slowly—a little move, a little spin. Dirk was a clumsy dancer, but he had no trouble keeping
up. Then the music changed. Nicky decided to go for it. He shook his arms and swung his feet. Dirk looked lost but tried to copy him. So Nicky fired it up all the way. He clapped his hands and spun around and shot his arms into the air. Someone in the crowd said, “Yeah! Go!”

Dirk was getting really lost. Nicky felt confident. He also felt the song coming to a close. When the last verse began, he closed his eyes, spun, turned, shot his arms into the air again and went down
hard
into the splits—just as he'd seen Clarence do.

The crowd roared and clapped. Dirk stared. He spun around, waved his arms idiotically in the air and fell onto the floor with a crash. There was a terrible ripping sound. His baggy pants split right up the middle.

Dirk stood up, grabbed his trousers in two hands and went running, red-faced, for the exit.

The music ended. The judges reached their verdict. It was Nicholas Borelli, five votes to one.

Walter pumped his fist in the air, then very quietly said,
“Yes!”

Nicky, breathing hard, said, “Five to one? Someone voted
against
me?”

“Don't be greedy,” Tommy said. “You won! Let's get something to drink.”

Twenty minutes later, Stanley Smoot took the microphone. “May I have your attention, please? It's time to present the awards for the best dancers. Our judges have made their decisions. It is a tradition here at the
Carrington Country Club to have the prizes awarded by the club treasurer. But Mr. Van Allen seems to have been delayed.”

Nicky stared at Tommy. “Is that bad?” he asked.

“Who knows?” Tommy answered.

“So I will make the presentations myself,” Smoot continued. “The first award, for best slow-dance couple, goes once again to last year's winners, Mr. and Mrs. David Marsh. Dave! Edna! Come on up!”

That was no surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Marsh were amateur ballroom dancers. They won every year.

“Our second award, for best dance couple, goes to Dr. and Mrs. John Cunningham. John and Carol? Come on up here.”

“It's fixed,” Tommy said. “I didn't even see them.”

“They're good dancers,” Nicky said. “They won a couple of years ago, too.”

“Our final award, for best individual, well—this is a first!” Smoot said. “This has never happened before, but the contest for best individual dancer has ended in a tie, between Nicholas Borelli the Second and a young man whose name no one seems to know. He's Nicholas' friend from Brooklyn. Boys, come up and claim your prizes!”