The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun

by Paul Gallico

  Marshall said, “Oh, Christ. Duck.”

  Julian, alarmed, cried, “What’s the matter?”

  Marshall said, “Shut up and get down. The fuzz. He may have spotted us.”

  The policeman, the driver and the attendant were now looking directly into the window where they were sitting.

  Julian obediently squidged down below window level, Marshall slid down in his seat as low as he could and pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes.

  However, he had to know and out of the side of his mouth he said, “Julian . . . I mean, Buffalo.”

  The boy replied “Yeah?”

  “Take a quick peek. What are they doing? The cop, I mean?”

  Julian popped up and down in the approved TV style and then said, “They’re all talking and looking over here,” and then he asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Are they on our trail?”

  Marshall replied, “I dunno, but keep down and don’t look any more. Here, pretend like you’re reading,” and he shoved a comic book over at him.

  Under his breath he said, “Oh, Christ, the goddamn bus driver,” for there was no doubt in his mind that something was up. He had caught a glimpse of the driver talking and twitching his head in the direction of the bus and seen the trooper, risen from the saddle of his cycle craning his neck and looking directly at him, Frank Marshall.

  It was just the last half-minute or so of this drama which the Coote sisters caught when Prudence happend to look to her right and saw the trooper craning his neck, staring, and its shattering effect upon the desperado across the aisle.

  She seized her sister’s arm and whispered, “Vera, did you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you suppose he recognized him?”

  “Oh, Prudence, how terrifying!”

  Prudence squeezed Vera’s hand again, “Look at him. If that isn’t the guilt of a hardened criminal.”

  Vera whispered, “Ssshhh. For heaven’s sake, Prudence, be careful. He might hear you.”

  At this point the meeting at the diesel pump broke up, the driver lifted his hand in a gesture of good-bye and got back into the bus.

  Prudence leaned closer to her sister, “Oh, dear, it doesn’t seem as if he’s going to do anything. The policeman, I mean.”

  Vera said, “Perhaps he didn’t recognize him after all. But you would think that after having his picture in all the papers . . .”

  Prudence said, “Don’t be stupid. That’s the other one. They caught him. Oh, dear, maybe he didn’t see him.”

  The noise of the bus in full swing again was providing cover for the whispers of the two.

  Vera said, “He’s acting guilty.”

  “Not like an honest man.”

  “I shan’t have another quiet moment.”

  Prudence now reached down and picked up her handbag which was actually a rather oversized reticule and heavy, and placed it between her and Vera remarking grimly, “I’m afraid the colonel was right.”

  This was how fear came to four of the inmates of Bus 150. This was how it had looked to them from inside the bus. From the outside the conversation, unfortunately inaudible to the four within, had been somewhat more innocent.

  The state trooper had opened with, “Hello, Fatso.”

  The bus driver said, “Hi, Tex.”

  The attendant said, “How many gallons?”

  Fatso replied, “Fill ’er. I don’t like goin’ over them mountains without I know I got plenty.” He turned to the trooper and said, “Whaddya know, Tex.”

  Tex replied, “Nuthin’. What’s with you?”

  Fatso said, “Same old load,” and then added, “No, I got a couple of limeys aboard. Sisters. Real kooks. Can they ask questions.”

  Tex said, “No kiddin’.”

  Fatso said, “One of ’em’s got Indians on the brain. Are we gonna be attacked by Indians?”

  Tex repeated, “No kiddin’, where are they?”

  Fatso motioned with his hand in the direction of the bus and said, “In the back there. You can just see their heads. They’re on the other side.”

  Tex hoicked himself up off the seat of his motor-cycle and craned his neck so that he could see better. The attendant stopped cranking the diesel pump and had a look for himself.

  Tex asked, “Them two with the hats?”

  Fatso said, “Yeah. Get a load.”

  Tex remarked, “It takes all kinds, don’t it. English you said they was?”

  “Uh huh. They talk like they got a hot potato in their kissers.”

  The attendant said “Sixty-three gallons.”

  Fatso said, “Okay, charge it.” And produced the bus line’s credit card.

  Tex was still standing looking over at the bus and suddenly found himself staring into four alarmed eyes as the heads of the two sisters were turned in his direction staring back.

  “Boy,” he said, “They’re a couple, ain’t they? Indians!”

  Fatso restored his credit card to his wallet, said thanks to the attendant and “So long, Tex, don’t fall off your bike.”

  Tex said, “Okay, Fatso boy, drive careful and watch out for Injuns.”

  Fatso got back into his bus, slammed the door shut, rolled her back on to the highway and they were off.

  After a few moments Marshall side-mouthed, “Take a look out the back window. Is that cop following us?”

  Julian got up, knelt on the seat and looked backwards to investigate. He said, “No, I can’t see anyone.” He withdrew his gun from its holster and aimed it through the back window and said, “If he comes I’ll shoot him with my Bubble Gun.”

  Marshall reached up in sudden panic and said, “Oh Christ, put that thing away, will you, and keep it away.”

  Julian regarded him reproachfully saying, “Okay, okay, I was only fooling,” and then added, “Were you scared again?”

  Marshall replied, “Not scared. Just careful. I’m trying to keep you from being grabbed. But even if he’d spotted you he wouldn’t have recognized you in that outfit, so let’s forget it.” He sat up in his seat again, shoved back his hat and mopped his brow.

  Prudence Coote had gone quite stiff and now shifted her reticule and put it on to her lap.

  She leaned to Vera, “Do you see? He’s armed. I knew it.”

  “Prudence, I shall die.”

  “He’s using the child as a decoy. We must do something at once.”

  “Oh please, Prudence, no. He would shoot us.”

  “Hush, he needn’t know.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Tell the driver at once.”

  Vera began to shake. “Oh Prudence, don’t leave me. I shall die of fright.”

  Prudence ran the Union Jack up to the masthead over the ramparts and ordered the bugles to blow the charge. She said, “Vera, remember that we are British.”

  She rose, holding her bag for a moment, then on second thought placed it carefully in Vera’s lap. “There,” she said, “and don’t hesitate.” She moved off, carefully refraining from bestowing so much as a glance upon Marshall, who was now sitting up reading a comic book again, or Julian, whose nose was flattened against the window pane.

  Her chin quivering with nervousness, Vera watched her sister, back of the bus. There was some further whispering after which the driver nodded his head. Prudence came marching down wheel and turn his fat baby face to look anxiously towards the back of the bus. There was some further whispering after which the driver nodded his head. Prudence came marching down the aisle again all flags flying and a look of satisfaction upon her face. She sat down, retrieved her carry-all and placed it firmly upon her lap. Her eyes were turned towards the front end of the bus and she craned her neck slightly to see better.

  Vera whispered, “Did you tell him?”

  “Ssshhh!” cautioned Prudence. She elongated her neck another centimetre and then relaxed as she saw the driver pick up his microphone.

  And thus the second hijack alarm came into the Oklahoma City dispatcher’s office whe
re the operator listened to a hoarsely whispered message from Bus 150 Los Angeles to Washington and then cried aloud, “What? Oh, for God’s sake, not again. Are you sure?”

  His exclamation attracted the attention of the chief dispatcher who queried, “What’s up?”

  The dispatcher with a look of disbelief on his face said, “What the hell is going on here? Bus 150 reports a suspicious character. Sounds like another hijacker. He’s armed.”

  The chief groaned, “I knew it, I knew it. There was bound to be another. Has he made his move yet?”

  “The driver says not yet.”

  “Where are they?”

  The operator waved for silence and then reported, “He says they’re east of Tucumcari, through Glenrio and just before Vega. That’s some pretty wild country. A passenger saw him take out a gun. He looks just like the other guy.”

  The chief dispatcher had already signalled his telephone switchboard shouting, “Get me police headquarters,” and then said to the man at the microphone, “Look, tell him to keep his shirt on and not to lose his nerve. Just pretend he doesn’t know anything and keep on driving. Get it? We’ll handle it. Get his exact position.” To the telephonist he yelled, “Get me Captain Russell.” The dispatcher queried the driver and then called to the chief dispatcher, who was already at the phone, “He’s three miles east of Glenrio, doing sixty. He ought to be near Wildorado in twenty minutes.”

  The chief dispatcher said, “Hello, Russ? Keegan, chief dispatcher, Inter-State. Our driver on Bus 150 L.A.–Washington reports there could be another hijack attempt. He just passed through Glenrio. Can you get a roadblock somewhere around Wildorado? He hasn’t made his move yet.”

  C H A P T E R

  1 1

  The roadblock had been installed efficiently and strategically around the corner of a large left-hand bend so that there was no chance of anyone in the bus seeing it until the very last moment when they came out of the turn where the straightaway began again. The fat driver, sweat pouring from him, sighed with relief as he saw the barrier across the highway, the police sign and the roadside swarming with men. State troopers and sheriff’s cars, pistols, shotguns and one submachine-gun were in evidence. A quick look into the rear vision mirror brought further relief to the driver. None of his passengers had stirred. He eased to a halt.

  Looking forward towards what appeared to be a small army, there was no longer any doubt in Marshall’s mind. He groaned, “Oh no! Son of a bitch! And I figured we had got away clean. That goddamn cop back at the gas station and the driver giving him the dope. Probably didn’t want to tackle it alone so he telephoned ahead.”

  He felt Julian’s searching gaze upon him and knew that the boy was looking to see whether he was scared. He wasn’t any longer. Nevertheless, he must give hope. He said, “Remember, you’re my kid brother and let me do the talking.”

  Julian asked, “Do I keep my beard on?”

  Marshall replied, “Yeah. And your hair too and remember, no stammer. Wait a minute, put that gun in your pocket—no, you better give it to me—hell, leave it where it is.” Marshall dropped his hand over the holstered Bubble Gun so as to conceal it.

  The Coote sisters saw him do it and exchanged glances.

  Vera asked, “Is he going to shoot?”

  Prudence replied, “I don’t think so. We’re saved.”

  For at that moment the driver had swung the door open and with the bus entirely surrounded by armed men, two burly sheriffs climbed aboard and positioned themselves at the head of the gangway, huge florid westerners with hands like hams, but with curiously innocent and almost cherubic and childlike faces that belied the great pistols slung from their hips. They needed no microphone and the leader of the two boomed forth.

  “Folks, I’m Sheriff Casper of Navajo County here speakin’ to you and this is my deputy, Williams. Jes’ to say there ain’t no need to git excited or upset-like. We’re jes’ carryin’ out a little routine investigation for someone maybe the law is lookin’ fer and we’re askin’ fer yer kind cooperation.”

  The phrase “someone maybe the law is looking for” was all the confirmation Marshall needed. He resorted to the side of his mouth again and said to Julian, “That’s us. Play it cool.”

  Sheriff Casper was announcing, “Me and my deputy here will now pass down though the bus jes’ askin’ y’all to produce any identification you might have and if anyone is packin’ any hardware, we’d appreciate it if you’d jes’ be so kind as to hand it over butt-end to.”

  The passengers stirred and rustled with unease and turned and looked about their immediate vicinity to see who the culprit or desperado might be who had brought out this army.

  Sheriff Casper queried the first man on his right, “Yer identification, suh?”

  The passenger said, “Harry Morrison. I’m a salesman. Bathroom fixtures. My car broke down at St Elmo. Here’s my social security card and driver’s licence.”

  “Much obliged, suh. You carryin’?”

  Harry Morrison reached into his right hip pocket and produced a flat .38 automatic which he first carefully turned around, then tendered grip end first.

  Sheriff Casper said, “That sho is a lotta gun.”

  Morrison said apologetically, “Well, when you do a lot of driving at night . . . Here’s my licence to carry.”

  The sheriff said, “Sho, sho, cain’t say I blame you. I’ll jes’ hang on to this fer a minute.” And then, removing his ten-gallon hat, he dropped the gun into it and went on to the next passenger, a woman who handed him a driving licence, “Mrs. J. R. McQuarey, 437 Elm Avenue, La Jolla, California.”

  “Very kind of you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. McQuarey explained, “I was just going to Oklahoma City to visit my mother. See, here’s my ticket.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I guess that tallies.” The sheriff indicated her handbag and said, “Now, what about that there little . . .”

  With a slight flush of embarrassment she produced a small, pear-handled, short barrelled .32. She said, “My husband . . .”

  Sheriff Casper lifted an eyebrow. He said, “You ain’t got nuthin against yer husband now, have you, ma’am?”

  “Oh no, sheriff, it’s just that when I travel alone, he thinks I ought to . . .”

  The sheriff said, “Well, now, ma’am, maybe he’s right. We’ll just have it for a moment.” He deposited in into his hat and moved on.

  By the time the two had proceeded the length of the bus and approached Marshall, Julian and the Coote sisters, they had unearthed no one whose bona fides was not impeccable. On the other hand, Sheriff Casper’s Stetson was now practically overflowing with weapons, pistols of every kind and calibre, including a .22 woodsman, .32’s, .45’s both in automatic and revolver, an old-fashioned double-barrelled gambler’s derringer, one bowie and one hunting knife in an ornate sheath. Marshall was sitting quietly and looking both wary and puzzled. Were they after him and Julian and, if they were, why didn’t they grab them immediately, and if they weren’t what the hell was this all about?

  Prudence had been watching the approach of the pair and suddenly turned to Vera and said, “Oh dear,” but she recovered quickly when the two men arrived at their station. Casper glanced at Marshall, then at the Coote sisters, and Prudence summoning all her courage gave him an almost imperceptible nod of her head in Marshall’s direction. The sheriff exchanged glances with his deputy and then said to Marshall, “Okay, young feller, what’s yer name?”

  Looking up from beneath the brim of his hat, Marshall appeared imperturbed, if anything, slightly derisive, “Frank Marshall.”

  “Identification?”

  Marshall reached inside his shirt and pulled out dog tags which were attached to a thin chain. They clinked faintly as the sheriff examined them.

  The sheriff nodded and said, “Oh, I see. How long you been back?”

  “Fourteen months.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Washington.”

  “What fer?
”

  “Guy promised me a job.”

  The sheriff indicated Julian, “Who’s he?”

  “My kid brother.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Marshall said the first name that came into his head, “Herman.”

  Julian looked up startled.

  The sheriff said, “Herman, eh? Looks like Buffalo Bill to me.” Then, to Marshall, “You heeled?”

  “No.”

  “Any objection to a frisk?”

  Some mockery had come into Marshall’s voice as he replied, “Yes, but go ahead.”

  He stood up and raised his arms and Casper nodded to his deputy who gave Marshall a quick professional going-over.

  Deputy Wiliams reported, “He’s clean.”

  Marshall sat down again. As he did so, Prudence in a quick gesture pointed to Julian.

  The sheriff caught it and said to Julian, “Okay, Herman Buffalo Bill, let’s have a look at that cannon.”

  Julian extracted the Bubble Gun from its holster and with the same care and grown-up gesture he had seen adopted by the others handing over their weapons, he held it by the muzzle and handed the butt end to the sheriff. He said, “Be careful.”

  The sheriff asked, “Loaded, is it?”

  Julian replied, “It isn’t a real one. It’s a Bub—”

  Before he had finished the sentence, a hand dropped on to his leg, cutting him off.

  Marshall said, “Oh, for God’s sake, sheriff, it’s a kid’s toy.”

  The sheriff gave it only a cursory examination, shook it once and then handed it back, saying, “Okay, Buffalo,” and then to Marshall, “Sorry about the frisk, brother. No offence.” He then turned to the two Coote sisters. “Well now, what about you two ladies here?”

  Almost in unison, Prudence and Vera replied, “We’re British.” And then Prudence added, “The Misses Vera and Prudence Coote, Vine Cottage, Birdsfeather Lane, Little Eggham, Dorset.” She opened her reticule partly and then quickly closed it again just sufficiently so that she was able to get her hand in to fumble and produce their two passports.