The Falls (16 page)

“You just have to know how to talk to these people,” Timmy said to me.

We pushed in through the doors and found ourselves in a store. There were shelves filled with the usual assortment of Niagara Falls paraphernalia. Mugs and plates and decorative spoons and glass balls filled with scenes from the Falls that snowed when you shook them, and dozens and dozens of other things . . . all ugly, all stuff that nobody could possibly use but everybody seemed to want anyway. There were four people browsing the merchandise and a girl standing behind the counter at the cash register, waiting for them to purchase something.

The old man from the ticket booth tottered into the room. “Where'd you boys find that newspaper article?” he asked.

“Same place we found the barrel . . . in his basement,” Timmy said, pointing at me.

“Let me have a look,” the old man said.

“We'll show it to the owner,” Timmy said, and he clutched the book tightly against his chest.

“That's who I am.”

“You're the owner?” Timmy asked. “I thought you were just the ticket-taker.”

“In an operation like this, the owner does practically everything. Now, let me have a closer look at that book.”

Timmy handed it to him.

“I gotta go and get my reading glasses,” he said, and walked off.

“Should we be letting him walk away with the book?” I hissed at Timmy.

“Even if he runs away, how far do you think he could get? Come on, let's look at the displays.”

We wandered out of the store and into the back. There were pictures on the walls—black-and-white shots of men and their barrels and the Falls in the background. Underneath each picture was a write-up of what happened. It was a history of all the Niagara daredevils— those who rode the rapids, balanced on tightropes, or tumbled over the Falls.

Then came the first barrel. It was wooden and looked just like the one in my basement. I read the plaque on the wall. It described the first person who went over the Falls and lived—Annie Taylor, a woman! It said she was a retired schoolteacher, sixty-three years old, and she had decided that the way to riches and fame was to stuff a mattress and a pillow into a barrel and go over the Falls. She even took her kitten with her.

“This isn't the real barrel,” Timmy said. “It says right here . . . it's a reproduction.”

“But that one looks real,” I said, pointing to another barrel . . . a massive aluminum one that was painted red and white with a Canadian flag on one end.

“That one
is
real,” the old man said as he came back into the room. “Belonged to Rick Munday. He went over the Falls in 1985. At least, that's what he used the
first
time he went over.”

“He went over more than once?”

“He tried four times. He got caught twice and made it over twice.”

“Twice . . . unbelievable,” I mumbled.

“But true. I should know. I'm the guy who pulled him out both times.”

“You?” Timmy asked.

“Yeah, me. I wasn't born old, you know, young fella.”

“I didn't mean anything,” Timmy said.

“That's okay. Tell me about this scrapbook.”

“It's from my basement,” I said. “It belonged to my grandparents.”

“What's your name, son?”

“Jayson, Jayson Hunter. But my father's name was Jamison.”

“Jamison? You're a Jamison?”

“I'm a
Hunter
, but my father was William Jamison, and his grandfather was—”

“Harold Jamison,” he said, cutting me off.

“You know him?”

“Anybody who knows anything about Niagara knows about your great-grandfather. He was probably the second-best riverman of all time.”

“Second-best? Who was the first?” Timmy asked.

“You're looking at him,” the man said.

“You?” I exclaimed. “Sorry, I just . . .”

“It says in one of those articles that his great-grandfather pulled out a whole lot of people from the river. I don't remember the numbers, but it's in that book . . . somewhere.”

“I know the numbers,” the old man said. “At the time of his death, your great-grandfather had saved fifteen people from the rapids and recovered close to a hundred and thirty bodies. My totals are seventeen people saved and
over
a hundred and thirty bodies recovered.”

“What's your name?” Timmy asked.

“Fred Williams, but they call me Boomer.”

“Boomer Williams . . . I've heard of you,” Timmy said. “But I thought you were dead.”

“Do I look dead?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I said, jumping in before Timmy could answer. “I know you know about my great-grandfather, but did you actually know him?”

“I'm old, but I'm not that old. I knew his son, your grandfather. Course I never did like him very much. He was a drunk and a loudmouth and a bully.” He stopped. “Maybe I shouldn't be saying any of this to you. It's not nice to speak bad of the dead, especially to their kin.”

“I didn't know him,” I said, although all of those things did sound like what I'd already heard.

“And I remember your father,” he said. “Big guy. Didn't he rescue some people from some sort of roller coaster or something?”

“A Ferris wheel.”

“That's right. I remember reading about it. Thought to myself he was gonna turn out to be like his grandfather. Whatever happened to your dad?” Boomer asked.

“He died in a motorcycle accident.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said.

“That's okay. I didn't really know him that well, either. I was pretty young.”

“Sorry to hear that, too. A boy should know his father. Lets him know about himself. So, tell me about this barrel.”

“It's in my basement—the basement of the house me and my mom live in.”

“And you're sure it's this barrel,” he said, tapping the book.

“Positive . . . well, almost positive, I guess. Do you want to come and have a look at it?”

“That would be a fine idea. I'll drive you over there. Course I have to wait until the place closes down for the night. Why don't you two look around . . . help yourselves to a T-shirt or something.”

“Gee, thanks,” Timmy said.

“Yeah, thanks, but you don't have to do that.”

Timmy shot me a dirty look.

“It's the least I can do,” he said, and Timmy made a beeline for a rack of T-shirts. “Especially with you donating the barrel to the museum.”

Timmy spun around on his heels. “Hold on here. Nobody said anything about
donating
nothing.”

“What did you have in mind?” Boomer asked.

“The opposite of donate, as in sell, like you get the barrel and we get money.”

Boomer turned to me. “I know who
you
are, but who is this guy, anyway?”

“I'm the manager. My name is Timmy . . . Timothy, and I handle all of the business negotiations.”

Boomer chuckled. “You're letting
him
make the decisions?”

That did seem like a good question. Was I really letting Timmy make decisions for me? “I guess so,” I said reluctantly.

“So what amount are you looking for?” he asked.

“You're the expert. Make us an offer,” Timmy said.

“It's hard to put a price on this sort of thing.”

“But that price would be a lot,” Timmy said.

“Look around.” Boomer gestured around the museum. “Does it look like people are beating down the door to see the things I already have?”

There were no more than a half dozen people milling around the museum. He certainly wasn't making a fortune.

“Maybe there would be a crowd if you had our barrel,” Timmy said. “Make us an offer.”

“I'm not offering anything until I've looked at it. I have to make sure you're not trying to sell me some old pickle barrel.”

“It probably is an old pickle barrel,” Timmy said, “but one that went over the Falls.”

“I guess we'll find out once I see it. First, I've got business to take care of.”

“That's cool,” Timmy said. “Do you have a bag we can use to put our stuff in?” He was holding a T-shirt.

“No, but the girl behind the counter can give you a bag when she rings in your purchases.”

“Purchases? I thought you were
giving
us stuff.”

“Giving? Wouldn't that be like making a donation? I was only giving you something when I thought you were giving me something. Business is business.” The old man walked away and disappeared behind a door.

“Who'd want one of these T-shirts anyway?” Timmy asked.

“Up until ten seconds ago,
you
did.”

“That was because it was for free. I'll take almost anything for free. But that's okay, because the price of the barrel has just gone up by at least the price of two T-shirts.”

Timmy looked over at the salesgirl. She sat on a stool behind the counter, filing her nails, working on a big wad of gum, oblivious to us or anybody else in the store.

“Maybe we won't have to wait for this, though,” Timmy whispered. He turned away from the salesgirl so his back blocked her view and started to stuff the T-shirt down the front of his jeans.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“What do you think I'm doing?”

“You could get us in trouble . . . you could get caught,” I whispered.

“I
will
get caught if you don't
shut up
.”

I watched out of the corner of my eye, helpless, as the T-shirt disappeared down his pants. I moved away. I couldn't stop him, but at least I could get away from him. Being arrested for shoplifting didn't seem like the best way to start negotiating a business deal.

I picked up a book from the shelf,
The Daredevils of Niagara
. I started flipping through the pages. Right there on
the first page was a picture of the first person who went over the Falls, Annie Taylor, that teacher I'd just been reading about on the plaque over the barrel. She looked like a tough old bird. I turned a couple more pages and there, staring back at me, was my great-grandfather. He was standing beside his barrel—the barrel he'd used to go over the Falls—the barrel that was sitting in my basement. Wow . . . my relative.

“You two ready to go?” Boomer asked as he reappeared.

I was startled out of my thoughts. “I thought we had to wait until you closed?”

He turned to the salesgirl. “Crystal, when you finish up with those nails I want you to close up, okay?”

She looked up and gave him a bored nod of agreement.

“Let's go,” he said.

“Wait,” I said. “I want to buy this book.”

“Don't worry, it's yours. You two head out through the front. I'm parked in the back. I'll swing around and get you.”

“Sure, meet you out front.”

Timmy flashed me a smile as Boomer walked off. “He's desperate,” he whispered. “This is gonna be like taking candy from a baby . . . or an old man. Same thing. Neither has any teeth and they both need a diaper.”

Timmy laughed at his own joke. I didn't. I was just grateful he'd kept his voice down and Boomer hadn't heard him. Boomer was old, but there was something about him that didn't
seem
old. I could picture him balling his fingers into a fist—a wrinkled fist covered with age spots—and busting Timmy in the nose.

 

 

 

 

I
OPENED THE BACK DOOR
and Timmy, followed by Boomer, walked in. My mother was at the sink washing up the dinner dishes.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hello boys. I was on the phone with Sarah Bayliss and she said you were very welcome to come to the next meeting and …” She turned around and stopped mid-sentence when she saw Boomer. I could tell by the look on her face that she was wondering who he was and why he was there with us.

“This is Mr. Williams,” I said.

She dried her hands on her apron. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Williams,” she said as they shook hands.

“My pleasure, ma'am. Let's forget that Mr. Williams stuff, though. You can just call me Boomer. Everybody else does.”

“Sure. I'm happy to meet you, Boomer . . . Boomer Williams.
You're
Boomer Williams?
The
Boomer Williams?” Her look of confusion returned.

“That's me. I don't suppose they made a second one.”

“I'm
really
happy to meet you. I thought that you were . . . I mean . . .”

“I thought he was dead too,” Timmy said, completing her thought.

My mother now looked embarrassed. But Boomer just laughed. “That's okay. Obviously I'm not getting out enough if everybody thinks I've kicked the bucket. The boys came by the museum to talk to me about a barrel.”

“They told me that's what they were going to do. Are you here to see it?”

He nodded. “To see if it's authentic . . . if it's okay with you that I look at it.”

“Of course! Please, feel free. I'll put on a pot of coffee . . . would you like some coffee?”

“Never said no to a cup and I'm not about to start now.”

“Great. You go downstairs and I'll put on the coffee and clean up.”

“You don't have to clean up by yourself. I'll help,” I offered.

“No, you go downstairs. I'd just as soon stay up here anyway . . . that basement has spooked me since I was a kid. Don't laugh, but there's something about that furnace that unnerves me.”

“I promise I won't laugh,” I said. But I also wasn't going to tell her that it had the same effect on me— especially not in front of other people. “Come on, let's go and have a look at the barrel.”

I led the way down the stairs with Boomer and Timmy trailing behind. I flipped on the main switch and then pulled on the other lights as I got to them.