O’Boyle’s Treasure
When he got home, Hawk was so excited he could hardly sit still. Luckily, his father put his behaviour down to the confrontation coming up with the Ferrets.
“You told your friends about that Charles’s bullying, like I said?” Jim asked.
“Yeah, they were shocked. They didn’t know anything about it.”
“Well, don’t you worry about a thing, son. I’ve got an appointment with Ms. Calloway before class even starts tomorrow. We’re going to knock this Charles for a loop. Tonight, you have to finish the outline for your history talk. Ms. Calloway wants to see it before you deliver it, right? She’s expecting it tomorrow, you told me.”
“Don’t worry, Dad, I’m nearly finished.”
“Okay. And you just leave this Charles business to me.”
Hawk got out the laptop he’d been using at his dad’s and went over his talk. It seemed fine to him, even though he had to leave a lot out. He printed it and put it in his schoolbag to take in the morning.
Sleep didn’t come easy that night, especially when his father came into his bedroom and told him he’d forgotten to pass on a message. Mr. Rizzuto had apparently telephoned earlier. He was going to pick up Hawk after school. “Something very important,” he’d told Jim.
“You have a pretty busy life these days,” his father said. Hawk thought guiltily that Jim didn’t know the half of it.
He woke up bleary-eyed the next morning. His father, who had put on a jacket and a fresh white T-shirt, said he had to drop in at the Native Centre office for a few minutes. He’d be at the school, though, before Ms. Calloway got started.
“She’s probably in for a shock,” his father suggested.
“Not as big a shock as Charles, I hope.”
When Hawk left for school a short time later he was both excited and a bit scared by his prospects — The Ferrets and Mr. Rizzuto, not to mention the Rippers hovering in the background. Hawk’s heart beat fast as he walked, quickly leaving The Pocket and its bustling everyday life behind. When he saw his solid old red-brick school rising up among the trees at the end of the street, it seemed to him for the first time a real place of adventure. This might be the biggest day of his life, he realized. He hurried his pace and glanced up and down the street, looking for but not spotting his father’s car.
When he arrived in the classroom everything seemed normal. Albert was busy doing something at his desk. Panny came over and asked if he’d finished his outline and he told her he had. Then Charles appeared, a confident smirk on his face. He slipped past Hawk’s desk, whispering as he passed, “Morning, Princess. You’d better have that dollar ready by the first recess.”
Ms. Calloway appeared at the door and the bell rang. The class settled down and Ms. Calloway asked if Hawk had the outline of his personal contribution ready.
He murmured a quite yes, and carried the paper up to her. She thanked him and placed it in her inbox. She hardly looked at him and Hawk wondered what was going on.
Minutes later, however, instead of the usual session of private “teacher talk,” Ms. Calloway made an unexpected announcement.
“Pay attention, class! I have to go to the principal’s office for a short while. Mr. Jackson is going to step in for me. Just do your work and pay attention to what he says. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Hawk waited with baited breath, and then she said it: “Oh, Charles, would you mind coming with me, please.”
At first the boy didn’t move, and just sat there looking puzzled. But after a few seconds he slowly got up and followed Ms. Calloway out of the classroom. Panny leaned over and whispered to Hawk, “Now the fat’s in the fire!”
Mr. Jackson, a burly young teacher from down the hall, entered, smiling, and waved for the kids to be silent.
Ms. Calloway came back after the first recess, thanked Mr. Jackson for stepping in, and then called Hawk up to her desk. “I’d like to talk to you privately at recess,” she told him. “I’d like you to tell me about all your conversations with Charles Wainright. Just tell me what he said to you and describe the contents of all of his messages. Don’t mention this to anyone else in the class right now, please.”
At the break, Hawk told her everything he could remember. She asked a few questions. After that, the day went on as usual. Charles didn’t come back to class. Hawk didn’t see his father. As he was leaving school, Panny approached him and said, “I wonder if Charles will be expelled.”
“I hope so,” Hawk said. “Otherwise I might get in big trouble.”
“Not a chance of that,” Panny said. “But look over there — isn’t that your friend Mr. Rizzuto in the big car, waving at you as if his arm will fall right off?”
Hawk sprinted down the sidewalk and jumped into Mr. Rizzuto’s car.
“Have I got news for you!” his friend said excitedly.
‘What is it? What’s happened?” All thoughts of Charles vanished from Hawk’s mind.
“Let’s go back to the shop and I’ll tell you there.”
They drove on in silence, although Hawk was bursting to ask questions. Only when they’d settled down in the back of the shop and Hawk was sipping a tall lemonade did Mr. Rizzuto go into action.
With a pleased smile and a few knowing nods of his head, he lifted a large manila envelope from a nearby shelf and spread out a bundle of papers, photographs, and computer scans on the big table in front of Hawk.
“It’s about Babe Ruth’s baseball,” he said. “I think we’ve got a breakthrough. I think it’s maybe a home run with the bases loaded in the last of the ninth.”
Hawk said nothing, but nearly choked on his lemonade.
“Take it easy, kiddo.” Mr. Rizzuto smiled. “This is no time for us to have to call 911. In fact, I’m going to give you 911 right there in your chair. You see, I heard from Mr. Wingate, and it’s dynamite news.”
“Did he find Babe Ruth’s baseball?” Hawk stammered out.
“Not quite, but, listen, here’s the story. Once upon a time — it was during the First World War, as I told you already — there was a baseball field out there at Hanlan’s Point on Toronto Island. And yes, on a fine June morning in 1914 a young player named Babe Ruth did hit his first home run there. Oh, it must have been quite a scene — an amusement park, families having picnics, and the baseball game going on right beside them next to the lake. And, as Mr. Wingate has figured out, a good number of home runs hit back then went right into the lake. He also figured out that there were always kids swimming around out there, eager to grab anything that floated. But there was also someone else …”
He paused and Hawk bent closer to catch every word.
“That’s right!” Mr. Rizzuto continued. “There was an enterprising harbour rat, an Irishman with a little motor boat, a fellow named Danny O’Boyle who hung out around there. He was called ‘Skimmer O’Boyle,’ in fact, because he cruised around the lake picking up anything he thought was of value. He also paid kids, swimmers, divers, anyone, to find things for him. There was actually an article about this in the Toronto
Star
newspaper — it had a different name then — and Mr. Wingate found it.
“Anything O’Boyle could dredge up, he did, and I suspect he wasn’t above helping some of the stuff get lost, if you see what I mean. Anyway, as the story goes, old Skimmer was on the lake almost every day. He had a great collection and was always hoarding things “for his old age,” as he told the newspaper. But you know how it happens, and one day he drowned trying to salvage some cases of whiskey. That was not long after the Babe’s home run in 1914.
“Skimmer’s whole collection went to his wife, and later to his son and grandson. His son ignored his dad’s treasures, but his grandson was pretty proud of old Skimmer — nice to have a colourful character in your family, so long as you don’t have to live with them! And his grandson was quite the man — he became a judge and got very rich. Turned most of his estate over to the church, but his sister, who was a nun, got a houseful of mementos and family treasures, most of which she put in a warehouse somewhere in Toronto.”
Hawk felt his pulse beat a little faster.
A warehouse somewhere in Toronto!
“Mr. Wingate even managed to get a partial list of the O’Boyle effects,” Mr. Rizzuto continued. The tally includes, it says, ‘miscellaneous sporting goods, including items connected with football, hockey, soccer, and baseball.’ Rumours have spread over the years — mostly since the judge’s death — that there might be some valuable things in the O’Boyle collection. It seems that old Skimmer was relentless. He went out almost every day, and even mentioned picking up baseballs from the lake in the newspaper article they did on him at the time. No question that he was active in 1914, and salvaging any souvenirs he could get. And the islands were his favourite haunt, and sports gear one of his favourite trophies.
“Babe Ruth’s baseball!” Hawk almost shouted. Then, in a calmer voice, he added, “But wouldn’t the judge have known the value of the baseball?”
“The judge never got around to having the warehouse stuff properly evaluated. It was sorted out, but experts haven’t seen it. He was thinking more of the family connection, and he probably assumed he had a stash of junk — old toys, sporting goods, beach umbrellas, bits of boating gear, with a couple of valuable items maybe shoved away in the boxes somewhere. And think about it. If one of those harbour kids picked up the baseball in the lake, or the Skimmer himself retrieved it, why should they make a fuss? The Babe only became famous later on.”
“I’m thinking about that warehouse in Toronto,” Hawk said. He thought of what he and his friends would be doing this very night, and shivered.
Could there be a connection? There had to be!
Elroy had mentioned the O’Boyle container. That’s what the Rippers were after!
“I’ve been thinking about it, too,” Mr. Rizzuto said. His face wore a serious expression. “You see, Mr. Wingate gave me this information early last Friday when I met him for brunch. And he also told me something a bit scary. Those other people he mentioned that were interested in the O’Boyle treasure — you remember, I told you about them before? He wouldn’t tell me who they were when I first consulted him, but this time he told me something that worries me a bit.”
Hawk sat up. “I think I know what it was,” he said. “He told you that it was a Chinese group, headed by a very nice gentleman who drives an expensive antique car.”
Mr. Rizzuto jumped from his chair. “Holy cow! How did you know that? What have you been up to, kid?”
“My friends and I have found out that there’s a Chinese gang working with the Rippers, and that they may be about to use those street kids to break into a warehouse in Toronto, a warehouse down near the Studio District! They’re after the O’Boyle container!”
Mr. Rizzuto gaped at him. “To steal the O’Boyle treasure? Maybe to get hold of Babe Ruth’s lost baseball? But it’s mine now! I just arranged to buy the whole package from Judge O’Boyle’s widow! I couldn’t take a chance that someone would beat me to it. I tracked her down and we made a tentative deal on Saturday morning. I’m about to become the rightful owner of that stuff and I want to know exactly
when
and
where
this robbery is going to take place! They haven’t told me where the stuff is being kept, and I won’t get all the final details until I meet with the widow and her lawyer later this evening.”
Hawk stood up. “Tonight, Mr. Rizzuto. In a few hours we can find out everything. My friends know the area where the warehouse is. You have to be ready to come right over there — and bring your proof of ownership.”
“Come right over where? Where do I have to show up?”
“Wherever I call you from, Mr. Rizzuto. And don’t worry, the police will be there to help you out!”
Walking into Trouble
A few minutes later Mr. Rizzuto led Hawk out to his car. “I don’t know about this,” he murmured. “I just don’t know. I still think we ought to call the police right away.”
Hawk smiled. “I thought you were supposed to stay clear of the police,” he reminded him. “Some of your family wouldn’t like it, remember?”
Mr. Rizzuto hung his head and looked a bit sheepish. “Well, yeah, that’s true. Maybe we don’t need the cops right away. But you tell me that your dad doesn’t know anything about this? Holy cow! Are you kids asking for trouble or what?”
The old man seemed very nervous. He frowned, shook his head, and pushed his straw boater to one side while he wiped his sweating brow with a paper towel.
“We’re not asking for trouble, Mr. Rizzuto,” Hawk assured him. “We’re just planning things so the other guys have all the trouble.”
“Yeah, yeah, I see what you mean, but you know the old saying — about how the best laid plans of mice and men can screw up something awful.”
“Sure, but that’s why Albert — he’s one of the kids — is going to get his cousin in on this. His cousin is a policeman. But we’ve got to do it at the right moment — otherwise things may really get messed up, and our friend Elroy could be in danger.”
“Well, let’s hope you guys can recognize the right moment when you see it. I hope the right moment doesn’t hit you in the face and give you a black eye. You get in touch with me as soon as you call the cops. I want to be there to check on my goods — maybe on
our
baseball!”
Not long after, Hawk stood on the sidewalk outside of his dad’s house. He waved goodbye to the still-doubtful Mr. Rizzuto, then went inside, only to find that his dad hadn’t come home yet. Hawk went up to his room and tried to read one of the books of Native legends that his dad had recommended, but he was far too excited to concentrate. Finally, just before dinnertime. Jim turned up. Hawk was relieved; his dad had a big smile on his face.
“Hey, Hawk, you should have seen that kid do some squirming. And his dad too! Ms. Calloway and Ms. Clarke are something else — a couple of powerhouses. And the principal went right along with them. That Mr. Wainright, Charles’s father, he’s some kind of big-shot lawyer and he tried to brush things off. He said his good little Charles was just bored in the class — not getting enough stimulation. Can you believe it? He tried to pass the buck to the teachers! But they shot that one down real quick. ‘We have an open program and if Charles needs more stimulation he should be able to find it,’ they told him. ‘And if he can’t find it in our classroom, then he might want to look for it elsewhere. It’s really up to him — and you.’
“That’s the kind of thing they told the guy, and he finally gave up. Charles is going to stay in your class, but he’s going to have to apologize to everyone, including you, and be closely monitored. If he tries any more nasty stuff, he’ll be out on his ear!”
Hawk felt a wave of relief as his father continued. “And you know something else, son. I think that kid was almost glad to be found out. I think the whole Ferret thing was bugging him, but he didn’t know how to get out of it. It was a monkey on his back, but he deserved to suffer. He made other kids suffer. I just hope it’s over now — for everybody.”
“That’s just great, Dad. I almost feel sorry for Charles. Maybe he’ll be a good guy after all. Anyway, that’s one gang taken care of!”
As soon as he said this, Hawk realized he’d made a mistake.
“You mean there’s more than one gang you’re dealing with?” his father asked.
“Yeah, of course.” Hawk gulped and stammered out an explanation. “I mean, don’t forget the Rippers. In fact, I promised to meet some of the kids tonight — one of them knows a lot about what the Rippers are up to. And Albert, one of my friends, has a cousin who’s a policeman. So we’re going to talk Elroy into telling the police about the Rippers.”
His father gave him a serious, searching look. “Who’s Elroy?”
“One of the kids who might join the Rippers.”
“So you kids are going to talk him out of it?? Hmmm, well, I guess that’s all right. I hope you succeed. But what about dinner? You can’t postpone it all night, you know. And don’t forget that you have school tomorrow. I don’t want to hear from your mother about how I’ve neglected you!”
“Oh, it’s okay, Dad. I had a sandwich. And I might have another when I get back. And I won’t be too late either.” Hawk squirmed a bit. He knew his dad would be contacted if things dragged on, and luckily he’d hidden the glove Elroy had returned to him under his bed. His father wasn’t likely to spot it there. Otherwise he’d have more explaining to do.
A few minutes later, Hawk was sprinting off in the direction of the nearest bus stop. Panny had decided they would meet down near the Studio District, not far from Lake Shore Boulevard. The warehouse that held the O’Boyle treasure was a short walk away. She’d gotten the warehouse address from Elroy and staked the place out on Google.
They would have to wait until dark for Elroy’s break-in, but Panny would call or text all the parents a little later and invent some excuse, just to reassure them all that their kids were okay. Once that was done they would go into action, then call the police, who would arrive, they hoped, just in time to catch the Rippers.
The bus roared up and Hawk jumped on. Flopping down in his seat, eyeing the weary commuters and watching the busy streets slip by through the smeared windows, he began to wonder if he had really been guilty of deceiving his own father. After all, he had told him
most
of the truth, which hopefully was enough. And once the police caught the Rippers and got Elroy out of there, all would be forgiven — at least he hoped so.
Hawk jumped off the bus just before it turned into the heart of South Riverdale. He walked down toward Lake Shore Boulevard, keeping a sharp eye out as he trudged along a dreary stretch of vacant lots, low dingy buildings, and shabby warehouses. The sunlight, which had been strong and bright all day, seemed to sink and dissolve into this dusty confusion of blank streets and faceless facades. There were a few parked cars, but they looked forlorn, as if they had been abandoned forever.
At last he came to an intersection of four narrow streets. A small, boarded-up building on an opposite corner caught his attention. As Hawk came closer, he could just make out through the dirty, cracked windows a half-fallen and faded sign advertising shaves and haircuts. The boy’s heart beat faster. This must be the place Panny had described — the place chosen for their “headquarters.” But the empty streets, the lack of any sign of life, made him hesitate. For a moment he was frightened. He suddenly realized the danger.
What if the Rippers appeared and recognized him? What if a police car came by and asked him why he was wandering alone through this deserted neighbourhood?
He shivered and had a strong impulse to turn and run. But just then someone called out his name, speaking in a kind of strangulated whisper that didn’t prevent him from recognizing Martin Schiller’s voice.
“Hey, Hawk! You idiot! Don’t just stand there — get over here!”
A hand reached out through one of the barbershop’s broken windows and waved a baseball cap at him.