Home for the Holidays by Steven R. Schirripa

wrong. The meatballs were perfect.
    “Good,” Grandma Tutti said. “Now help me make the
pizzettas.”
    Before dinner, Nicky went to his bedroom and looked up the
Ridgeway Register
in an online telephone book. When he had it, he turned on his cell phone and dialed.
    “Ridgeway Register,”
a voice said. “How may I direct your call?”
    “Uh, Mr. O'Farrell?”
    “Hold on,” the voice said. The phone rang twice and another voice said, “Yeah, O'Farrell.”
    “Hello?”
    “Yeah,
hello.
We covered that already. Who is this?”
    “This is Nicholas—uh, Smith. Ington. Smithington.”
    “Sure it is. And?”
    Nicky took a breath. “And, and I'd like to ask you aquestion about Patrick Arlen. I might have some information about his disappearance.”
    “Is that a fact?” Nicky could hear O'Farrell's heavy Irish accent. He sounded like the leprechaun on the Lucky Charms commercials. “Well, let me think. If I remember correctly, Mr. Arlen disappeared about twenty years ago. Is this new information?”
    “I don't know,” Nicky said. “But I think Patrick Arlen was murdered. And I think I know who did it.”
    “Great John O'Groats!” O'Farrell said. “That
is
interesting. Would you come down to the paper and talk to me about it?”
    “I don't know,” Nicky said. “I want to, but I have to be careful.”
    “Why is that, son? Are you in some kind of danger?”
    “No, but someone I know might be—from the same person who I think killed Patrick Arlen.”
    “Okay, laddie,” O'Farrell said. “Listen to me. It's New Year's Eve, or it will be shortly. I'm leaving the office. But tomorrow, or anytime after, if you want to stop by the office and chat, I'll be here. It's Sean O'Farrell, at the
Register.
You won't forget that, will you?”
    “No, sir.”
    “All right then,” the leprechaun said. “Ta-ta for now.”
    Nicky hung up. His palms were sweaty and he felt a little dizzy. Was he making a mistake talking to some newspaper reporter about this?
    He didn't know. But he didn't know what choice hehad. He needed more information before he could go to the police. He needed to know who Arlen was, and if Peter Van Allen really killed him. He also needed to know, for sure, that his dad wasn't doing anything against the law. He wanted to get rid of Peter Van Allen if he was a criminal. But what if he got his dad in trouble at the same time?
    That was why he had to see O'Farrell. He had the information. And the reporter couldn't go to the police unless Nicky told him the whole story … which Nicky didn't have to do until O'Farrell agreed to help.
    Nicky told Tommy everything O'Farrell had said.
    “Do you know this guy?” Tommy asked. “Can we trust him?”
    “I don't know,” Nicky said. “But we have to go see him. For now, let's just keep our eyes open. And keep quiet.”
    The Borellis' guests started arriving around seven. By eight, the Borelli house was filled. Here came Jimmy the Iceman, Charlie Cement, Oscar the Undertaker, Bobby Car Service and of course Sal Carmenza, with wife and daughter. Donna was wearing a black velvet dress, and her hair was up. To Nicky, it was like he'd never seen her before. He'd known she was pretty, but
wow.
She looked so grown-up that he got shy and tongue-tied when he said hello to her. That funny feeling returned to his stomach.
    “Uh, hi,” he said.
    “Uh, hi,” she said back, and laughed. “Uh, what's wrong with you?”
    “Uh, nothing. I mean, nothing,” Nicky said. “Can I get you a soda?”
    “Uh, yeah!” Donna said, and laughed again. “Where's your hoodlum?”
    “My
whatl”
Nicky asked. “Oh. I think Tommy's still getting dressed.”
    Nicky took Donna to the back of the living room, where the caterers had set up a bar, and got her a soda. He showed her the tent in his backyard. Then he stood with his hands in his pockets and found he had nothing to say.
    Luckily Donna had plenty. The marathon poker game had gone on so late, the owners of the