Free Home for the Holidays by Steven R. Schirripa

do anything stupid.”
    There was a fence around the old ticket booths, but someone had cut through it and left a gaping hole leading down to the old midway. Nicky and Tommy slipped inside and walked among the buildings. Hand-painted signs, faded almost to white, promised a sideshow with a bearded lady, an India rubber man and someone called Sealo the Seal Boy. Next door to that was a haunted mansion. Next to that was a house of mirrors.
    At the end of the row of ruined buildings was an old Ferris wheel, creaky and rusted. Tommy climbed into the lowest cart, then climbed up to the next one. The metal groaned when he stepped onto it.
    “Come on,” Tommy said, and put his hand down to drag Nicky inside. “Look at the view. I bet you could see Manhattan if it was clear.”
    “And not so cold,” Nicky said.
    “I wish we had another hot chocolate,” Tommy said. “Whoa—get down.”
    The boys got low in the Ferris wheel carriage. Nicky whispered, “What?”
    “Don't look now, but three guys just walked through the fence, and they're coming this way.”
    “Oh, great,” Nicky said. “Is it my dad?”
    “No,” Tommy said. “It's a man in a suit and two wiseguys.”
    Nicky peered over the edge of the carriage. “It's Peter Van Allen,” he said. “The father of the kid who hit you with the snowball.”
    “What's he doing here?”
    “He's supposed to be my dad's partner on the brewery building.”
    The three men came closer. Nicky and Tommy scrunched down low. The footsteps stopped just beneath them.
    “What a place,” a heavy voice said. “When I was a kid, this was paradise.”
    “And look at it now,” another voice said. “Destroyed.”
    “We're going to change all that—me and my ‘partner.’”
    The three men laughed. Nicky raised his eyes at Tommy. He whispered, “That's Van Allen talking.”
    The men moved a few feet away. Nicky strained to hear what was being said.
    “What's the deal with this Borelli guy anyway?” the heavy voice said. “You know I hate doing business with Italians.”
    “He's not Italian—not like you mean,” Van Allen said. “He's just a lawyer. But he's the guy who's making this deal look legal.”
    The three men laughed again.
    “He's got big plans—first the brewery building, then the old cannery, then the old city hall,” Van Allen said. “There's a fortune for us here. So once we get the building permits, he's out.”
    “Just like the old days, Patty,” the other voice said.
    “Don't call me that,” Van Allen said.
“Ever.
The old days are gone, and Patrick Arlen is dead and buried. Don't go digging him up now—or the next guy I kill and bury will be
you.”
    “Don't worry—
Peter,”
the heavy voice said. “Soon as the deal closes, we'll take care of Borelli. We'll make him an offer he can't refuse.”
    The three men moved away, their footsteps heading back toward the amusement park gates. Nicky and Tommy stayed low. When a minute had passed, they heard a car door slam and an engine start. They peeked out in time to see a black town car pull away from the boardwalk.
    “Wow,” Tommy said. “That was intense.”
    “Yeah,” Nicky said. “I gotta warn my dad.”
    “I don't think so,” Tommy said. “We'll get a licking because we went into the amusement park. Which he said don't.”
    “You're right,” Nicky said. “He'll be mad. I'll get grounded. Or he'll take away the BP
Two.”
    “He'd do that?”
    “Or worse,” Nicky said. “When he says don't, he means
don't.”
    “Then what are we gonna do?”
    “I don't know,” Nicky said. “I have to think.”
    That night, lying in his bed, Nicky felt scared. His father was in business with a crook who was going to double-cross him. His mother was doing something she had to hide from him—and maybe from his father, too.
    Nicky had to do something but had no idea where to begin.

7
    T he following day was filled with preparations for the big Borelli bash. The catering company delivered food. The