Johnny Get Your Gun

by John Ball

  The hospital visit concluded, Tibbs drove to the address he had been given for the boy called Jeff. When he arrived, he found a modest home where the whole family was gathered, clearly in anticipation of an official visit. In the course of his work his racial heritage had often been a handicap to him. This time it might make things somewhat easier.

  The parents of the boy greeted him as well as could be expected; they were obviously respectable, decent people who were seriously upset and fearful of the fact that their son was involved in a case of manslaughter. Jeff himself was there together with three sisters of varying ages who seemed content to remain still and unnoticed.

  “All I can say, Mr. Tibbs,” Jeff’s mother began, “is that I’m thankful to God that the white boy didn’t shoot our son. It’s Jesus’ grace that he didn’t.” She was a big woman, well over two hundred pounds, but when she gathered her boy to her, she became only a relatively helpless mother striving to protect what was nearest and dearest to her.

  Following the usual preliminaries Virgil turned his attention to Jeff. “What’s your full name, son?” he asked gently.

  “Jeffrey William Howell.”

  “All right, Jeffrey, as far as I know now you aren’t personally in any trouble and you don’t need to worry.”

  “Thank God,” his father said in an unexpectedly rich bass. He was a thin man whose face and hands both testified to many years of physical labor. He stood quietly in the corner of the humble room.

  Virgil was glad at that moment that he was a Negro, that he could establish empathy with these people who had been caught in the crossfire of a serious police case. At least to them the law did not have an exclusively white face.

  The boy’s mother picked up the reins. “Mr. Tibbs, I’ve been worried sick about his running around in that hopped-up car. I know they’re his friends, but it isn’t right. It could have been him; it could have been our boy.” She hastily wiped her eyes.

  “In your opinion, why does he go with that particular crowd?” Tibbs asked.

  The fleshy woman recovered enough to answer. “Because of the boy they call Sport. He’s older; he owns the car. He’s the big man and they all want to run with him. And then there’s Luella.”

  “Luella?”

  “Yes. As far as I know she’s a nice enough girl, not wild or anything like that, but the boys all like her maybe a little too much.”

  “Oh, ma,” Jeffrey said.

  “Well you know that it’s true enough, you told me so yourself.” She returned her attention to her visitor. “Let’s just say that Luella’s popular. She’s sort of Sport’s girl, but she gets along with all the boys in the crowd, sometimes she goes out with them.”

  “That sounds very reasonable,” Tibbs commented.

  “I guess that it is—what I meant is that Jeffrey, like all the other boys I guess, likes her and that’s one reason he goes with Sport and the others.”

  “Thank you. Now, Jeffrey, tell me all about it, just as it happened.”

  In the presence of his parents and of the law the boy was in a chastened mood. He told his version without ornamentation, hesitating from time to time as he realized the gravity of the circumstances in which he had been involved.

  He had little that was new to offer; his story closely paralleled the one given to Tibbs by Charles Dempsey. In a few minor details he differed; Tibbs was well aware that the mark of a truthful witness is agreement on major points mixed with disagreement on smaller ones. Few people have perfect memories, especially concerning occasions when they were under unusual stress.

  In one particular area Tibbs was explicit in his questioning—the moment when the first shot had been fired. It was most important to determine if Johnny McGuire had pulled the trigger of his own volition or if he had done so involuntarily as a result of having been unexpectedly grabbed from behind.

  Jeffrey did his best to answer. “Well, Beater, he was standin’ still like, he wasn’t goin’ for the kid at all. Then Sport, he grabbed him real quick. The white kid, he twisted like, fightin’ to get away. That’s when it happened.”

  “Exactly what happened then?”

  “Beater, I mean Willie, he grabbed himself in the guts, I knew right then he’d been hit.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not then. After maybe a second or two he made a noise, like he was hurt.”

  “Now, Jeffrey, I want you to think carefully, because this is very important. Exactly what did the white boy do after he fired the gun and hit Willie in the abdomen?”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was awful scared. I’d been right by Willie, I only just got away in time.”

  “Did anything else happen that you noticed, anything at all?”

  The boy collected himself. “I don’t remember exactly. Sport, he yelled to watch out and let go of the kid, or the kid got away, I ain’t sure. I think the white kid he shot again, but like I said, I ain’t sure—it was all so fast. Anyhow, Willie he fell down and the white kid, he run like hell. I didn’t want to chase him.”

  “I can understand that,” Virgil agreed.

  “Then Sport, he said we’d have to take Willie to the hospital right away. He picked him up.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah, Sport, he’s strong. Willie, he was cryin’ when Sport put him in the back o’ the car. Then he told us to beat it before any cops come and he drove off.”

  “Why did you call him ‘Beater’?”

  “’Cause he was a real good drum man. He had a beat, he had.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I came home.”

  “Did you tell your family what had happened?”

  The boy hung his head. “No. I figured Willie would be maybe all right and I didn’t want to get into no trouble.”

  With that interview behind him Tibbs drove to the home of the boy called Harry, the fourth member of the group which had accosted Johnny McGuire. He was not there; his mother reported that he was working in a car wash a few blocks away. With the cooperation of the wash rack manager he spent a half hour with the last of the witnesses and found him slightly more articulate than Jeffrey had been. Once again he heard substantially the same story, the only significant addition came when Harry timed the second shot as having followed almost at once. He was also definite that Johnny had been still struggling with his captor at the time.

  After close questioning designed to get behind the ingrained hostility which the boy had allowed to build up massively in his mind, Tibbs determined that Harry was grudgingly of the opinion that both of the shots had been accidental. He was relieved that he had been able to develop this information. While Harry’s opinion would not be admissible in court, it being a conclusion of the witness, a good defense attorney would be able to bring it out.

  Grimly satisfied that he had learned all that he could from Harry at the moment, Tibbs got back into his car. He had to go now and find Johnny McGuire. He had to calm him down, get his gun away from him, and bring him safely into the police station. He also had to do something about the McGuires, by now Johnny’s mother would be frantic.

  Hopefully he had to do all this before any militants could arrive on the scene. If they and their followers were to pour in and start their own search for the McGuire boy, disaster and tragedy would hang in the balance. Johnny McGuire had already fired his gun three times and was probably in a near crazed state of mind. He would no longer be in the heat of rage, but he was now outside the law and old enough to grasp that fact. To avoid capture he might in desperation fire again, and there were still bullets in his gun.

  8

  Johnny McGuire awoke early in the morning. As soon as the full light of day began to penetrate the thicket in which he had taken refuge he opened his eyes, remembered, and then lay still.

  For a few moments he felt terribly alone and had an almost overwhelming urge to rush to the wonderful shelter of his mother. Then an even more powerful voice told him that
to do that might mean disaster.

  He relived again the nightmare that had happened to him on that dark, silent street. Once more he saw the four older boys approaching him, felt the weight of their size, and the pressure of their number. He had never intended to fire the gun, he had not done it on purpose, but it still had been his hand that had pulled the trigger.

  Like a hypnotic dream in which every normal motion is slowed to an agonizing pace that will not be hurried, he felt again the unexpected hands gripping his arms from behind. He felt himself trying to lunge forward, but his movements were torturously slowed. Then his hands tightened into fists in order to fight back, that involuntary motion had pulled the trigger.

  He heard again the terrible blast of sound and felt once more the mighty kick of the gun in his hand. He saw once more the boy standing before him, then watched as he folded his arms across his abdomen and began to sink to the ground.

  He lived again the paralyzing terror of that moment: the shocked seconds of confusion; the sight of the boy he had shot crumbling to the ground and he was aware of nothing else until he knew that he was running away. It seemed as though he were running through water up to his waist; he was not wet, but some unseen force was holding him back so that he could not move except very, very slowly. It was a battle each time he lifted a knee high enough to run….

  Abruptly he came back to the present as he realized that he could not remain where he was much longer undiscovered. People were not up yet, but they would be soon and he would have to make good his escape. He wanted desperately to go home, and he thought about it carefully. He had seen the police cars in front of Billy Hotchkiss’s house and he knew that the goddamn cops were after him. They would also know who had shot the black boy in the street. Of course it was not as serious as it would have been if he had been white, but they would be mad at him just the same. They might even arrest him for it.

  Just like the shows on TV, they would wait for him at his home. That meant he could not go there now, he would have to wait until evening and after they had quit for the day. Conscience prodded him with the bitter fact that his mother would be terribly worried, he had never stayed away from home overnight before. He drew in a quick sob of breath when he thought of her, he wanted her so much! Bitterly he forced himself to realize that he couldn’t see her for several more hours, it was part of the price he had to pay for shooting into Billy Hotchkiss’s home.

  He had to have somewhere to go, somewhere to stay that the goddamn cops couldn’t find him. They would know him right away by his jacket because everyone did, they kidded him about it at school. It was warm on him now, but because it was his only jacket, and the only one he could remember ever having had, he loved it. Then he reasoned it out. Carefully he took it off, folded it inside out so that the red color would not show, and tucked it into the base of the thickest bush. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would come and get it back.

  He wondered if he should leave the gun too. If he did, he would be free of it at last and the danger it would represent if he were caught. Then he remembered the black faces he had seen only dimly in the dark, one of them was sick now, but the other three would be out for his blood. If one of them found him, and he didn’t have his gun, he might be killed.

  As best he could he considered the matter, weighing one danger against the other. He could not decide until he remembered the evening when he had sat beside his strong and wise father and had first been shown the gun and had it explained to him. “A gun is a good thing,” his father had said. “Because sometime you might have to protect yourself or your ma. Maybe sometime two or three of ’em will come at you and you won’t have a chance. Then the gun makes you the boss; when they see a gun they stop real quick. When you’ve got a gun, nobody’s gonna give you no trouble.”

  The decision to keep the gun made for him, he wondered now where he could go. He had all day to spend, but if he just walked the streets it would be too dangerous. He had no relatives he could go to, no friend he could trust. Then, out of the clear blue, a sudden and wonderful idea rushed upon him, an idea charged with electric possibilities. He could go to the baseball game!

  He could go and see the Angels themselves, the real players, the big league stars in action. It almost took his breath away, but it was possible. He had more than fifteen dollars in his pockets and it was his own money. He had no idea where Anaheim was, but thousands of people went there every day to the great stadium.

  Then, as though his own dedicated guardian angel had spoken to him, he remembered that he did have a friend after all, a great and powerful friend! With shaking fingers he pulled out his little plastic wallet and extracted a worn piece of paper. He had carried it so much, and had read it so many times, it barely held together at the folds. With great care he opened it and read once more the words he could easily have repeated from memory:

  Dear Johnny:

  Thank you for your nice letter. I’m glad you want to become a catcher for the Angels, the best thing to do is to drink your milk and practice every day that you can.

  I’m very flattered that you want to meet me so much. The next time that you are at the ball park, bring this letter to the clubhouse door and show it to the guard. He will let me know and I’ll be glad to come out and shake hands with you.

  Your friend,

  Tom Satriano

  Now he knew what to do. Somehow, some way, he must get to Anaheim. With the precious letter he would get to meet Tom Satriano himself. He might have all of his equipment on, his shin guards, the big pad across his chest, and the mask behind which he watched every motion of the game. And he would see Tom Satriano play! He would see him crouching behind the plate, signaling the pitcher what to throw, running back to catch foul balls, and cutting down base stealers with the whiplike power of his arm.

  Another wonderful thought tumbled into his mind: when he met Tom Satriano he could tell him what had happened and Tom would help him and tell him what to do. He would know, because he was the catcher and ran the whole baseball team on the field. Tom Satriano was a big leaguer, a very important man, so important that he probably knew Gene Autry himself.

  Now time was beginning to press him, if anyone saw him leaving his hiding place, it could be the end of everything right there. He would have to go now, while he still had a chance. He listened, then peeked through and looked, but he saw or heard nothing which threatened danger. Pushing the shoe box ahead of him he crawled from underneath the bushes, brushed himself off, and looked for a path that would take him back to the streets of Pasadena.

  Ten minutes later the attendant at an all-night filling station was mildly surprised to see a small boy with a shoe box under his arm come trudging up the driveway. “You’re up awful early, aren’t you?” he asked, amused at the boy’s slightly bedraggled appearance.

  Johnny knew one reason why a boy might be up at that hour and he was quick to use it. “I’ve got a paper route,” he explained. “May I use the bathroom?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  In the momentary shelter of the rest room Johnny relieved himself and then washed carefully. When he picked up his shoe box again, the gun inside slid over and made a noise. Although the door could open and someone could come in at any moment, Johnny knew that something would have to be done. From the waste container he retrieved a number of crumpled paper towels. With these he padded the inside of the box and then laid his gun on top. He replaced the lid and shook the box experimentally; there was no heavy clunk to give him away.

  Satisfied with his work, he returned to the service area and asked, “Can you tell me which way is Anaheim?” Then, quickly, he added, “My dad is going to take me there today.”

  “Anaheim?” the attendant said. “I bet I know where you’re going. You’re going to Disneyland, aren’t you.”

  Johnny nodded. “Yes, but we aren’t sure how to get there.”

  The man stepped inside the office and returned with a map. “Here, let me show you.” He spread it out across his k
nee. “Here’s Anaheim, down off the Santa Ana Freeway. Do you live near here?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Good, then the best way will be for your father to take the Pasadena Freeway to the interchange and then go through the slot until the Santa Ana branches off to the right. Can you remember all that?”

  Johnny took the map. “I can remember, but sometimes our car doesn’t run so good. Can we take the bus?”

  “Yes, if you want to. Catch a number fifty-eight on Fair Oaks Avenue into Los Angeles. You can change there for a bus direct to Disneyland; it’ll drop you off right at the main gate.”

  “Is that close to where the Angels play?”

  The attendant nodded. “Sure, maybe a mile.”

  “Thanks a lot, mister.”

  “You’re welcome, son.”

  Johnny’s spirits rose rapidly as he turned back in the direction from which he had come. He knew now where Anaheim was and how to get there. He also had learned that every other human hand was not against him, he had talked with the man at the filling station and had had no trouble at all. His confidence grew despite the realization that his mother would be wondering where he was and that his father, if he found out, would be awful mad about his taking the gun.

  In the bright new daylight the thing that had happened the night before seemed to be far away. The darkness and the fears that it had harbored were gone; the streets did not look the same and traffic was beginning to flow in a normal manner. For a slim moment he considered the possibility of trying to go home, then a host of considerations swept the thought away. The cops might be there, but what was much more important, he would lose his one chance to go to the ball game. In his whole life he might never have another.

  When he reached Orange Grove Avenue no bus was in sight. With his shoe box still tucked carefully under his arm he stood at the bus stop for a minute or two, then decided it would be better if he could keep moving. He was too close to the place where he had fired the gun the night before; there was too great a risk that someone might spot him standing there.