Johnny Get Your Gun

by John Ball

“Thank you very much,” Johnny said.

  “You’re welcome. It’s nice to meet a boy who has been trained to be polite. What’s your name?”

  “Johnny.” He said it before he stopped to think.

  “Enjoy the game, Johnny. Have you money for your ticket?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He got out of the car intent on making his escape because now the man knew his name. He was not sure where he should go, but as he walked closer to the huge stadium he was certain that he would somehow find out how to buy a ticket and get inside. He had been to baseball games once or twice before, but that had been in small wooden grandstands which did not compare with what was before him now.

  Keeping his eyes open he watched for the pattern of traffic. It was still early and not too many people had as yet arrived. Although he knew that he was now in Anaheim, far from Pasadena where the police were looking for him, he was also dangerously far from home. If some guard were to notice that he was alone, he might ask some very bad questions. It would be safest, therefore, to do as he had been doing and keep in the crowd as much as possible.

  He began to walk around the perimeter to the right, he could sense that there was more activity in that direction. Ticket windows came into view and Johnny discovered that, as in Disneyland, there were different prices. The first sign he saw was $3.50 and his heart quickened; that was far more than he could afford. Then he saw some windows marked $2.50 and felt that he had saved a whole dollar already. He walked on, anxious to see everything before he invested his money in a possible mistake.

  Presently he saw a scattering of boys. As he continued to walk around the sweeping curvature of the stadium he found that there was a large gathering of boys, and some girls too, many older than himself and some of his own age. He knew immediately that here was where he belonged. He hurried to join the crowd which, he saw, was being slowly filtered through two gates into the ball park. Most of the others had small cards in their hands. By looking at two or three of them which were being held in different ways he was able to make out the words “Junior Angels.” He did not have a card, of course, but he slowly worked his way up to the entrance just the same. He had his money and in some way he hoped that he could get in.

  Then he was funneled into a single line, the boy ahead of him went through, and it was his turn. “Got your pass?” The gateman asked.

  Johnny turned a properly stricken face up to him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he explained, “I forgot to bring it.”

  For a moment the man hesitated, then he waved him through. Immensely grateful for this wonderful and unexpected blessing from heaven, Johnny passed inside and walked toward the ramp to which an usher was directing the traffic. He turned, looked, and saw the playing field, the perfectly kept base paths, the many vast tiers of seats, and the whole spectacle of the great baseball park. Towering over it all was the gigantic A-frame with the halo on top, the symbol of the stadium he had seen pictured so many times. An almost violent thrill of fulfillment took hold of him, he had never known such a sensation. On the field players in gray uniforms were casually warming up; the first real big league players he had ever seen.

  Confident now that once he was in this wonderful place nothing wrong could happen to him he pulled out his little plastic wallet, extracted the well-worn letter that it contained, and with it in his hand approached the usher. “I’ve got a letter from Tom Satriano,” he announced proudly. “He says that I can come and see him.”

  Indulgently the stadium man read the brief communication. “All right son, you’ll have to go around to the other side,” he directed. “The home team clubhouse is over by third base. Go downstairs, through the tunnel, and then ask the guard to direct you from there.”

  The talisman had worked! With surging anticipation Johnny hurried down the ramp into the concrete interior of the stadium. The tunnel was long and grim, but he knew that it was taking him in the right direction. Twice he became confused and had to orient himself, but at last he stood before the door of the clubhouse, facing the guard who was posted there, ready for his moment of destiny.

  He held out the letter. “Please, sir, I’d like to see Tom Satriano.”

  The guard read the letter, said, “Just a minute,” and disappeared inside.

  Desperate, anxious moments passed; Johnny hardly dared to breathe for fear that in some way he would upset the delicate balance of the greatly privileged position he was in. As the seconds passed and nothing whatever happened, he could have screamed from sheer inner tension.

  Then the door opened and the guard reappeared. Behind him there was a tall, breathtaking figure in a white baseball uniform. As the man turned to close the door behind him Johnny read the electric number 2 and knew that this was absolutely and truly Tom Satriano himself. When his idol turned toward him, he was so overwhelmed he found that he had lost the power of speech.

  And then Tom Satriano held out his hand. Silently Johnny took it; as he felt the strong firm fingers he knew a sudden complete revitalization. Here was the man to whom he could give his complete trust.

  “Hello there, cowboy.”

  His voice was just wonderful; his hero was everything that Johnny had so wanted him to be.

  “Hello, sir,” Johnny managed. “Can I talk to you for just a little bit?”

  “I’d like to very much, but I’ve got to get out onto the field. I tell you what—you come back here after the game and I’ll see what I can do. OK?”

  “Yes, sir!” Johnny answered.

  He knew that no power on earth could hold him from keeping that appointment. He would be there to talk to his wonderful friend, and to ask his advice, even if the stadium itself were to fall down. And if anybody tried to stop him—well, they wouldn’t stop him for long, not while he had his gun ready if he needed it.

  13

  In the small living room of his apartment Mike McGuire sat, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying to fight down a growing sense of rebellion against the inaction which was being forced upon him. He was tired of going to the door every few minutes to see if his son, by some miracle, might be coming up the steps. Once more he considered, and rejected, the idea of calling the Hotchkiss home; they knew that Johnny was missing and if they found out anything, his common sense told him that they would let him know.

  He got to his feet and in pure frustration slammed his fist against the wall. Conflicting thoughts battered him. He was fearfully worried about his son, about what further damage he might wreak with the gun in his possession. He hated to remain at home while others did his searching for him, but he did not know what else to do. Simply to go out and walk the streets, looking for Johnny, offered little hope; there was a far better chance of news if he remained near the telephone. When it seemed to him that he could endure no more, when his raging spirit could no longer remain disciplined within his body, the phone rang.

  He answered it almost savagely. While Maggie watched with frightened hope, he carried on a brief conversation and then hung up. “That was that colored cop Tibbs,” he reported. “He doesn’t know yet where Johnny is, but he thinks he may have an idea where he might have gone.”

  “Where?” Maggie asked wide-eyed.

  “He didn’t say, he just asked if I wanted to come with him while he checked it out.”

  “I think you’d better go,” Maggie advised. It was a godsend; she was terrified of her husband in his present dangerous mood—he might do anything.

  Mike glanced at the stove and then spoke almost mildly. “Got anything to eat?”

  Maggie was engulfed by the guilty knowledge that she had not thought to prepare anything for his lunch. Hastily she took a saucepan of soup she had on the stove and poured it out for a first course. She had been keeping it ready for Johnny in case he came home, but she could not think of that now.

  Her husband sat down and began to spoon the soup noisily into his mouth. In the few moments of grace that she had been granted she searched the small refrigerator; it yielded a piece of hard-
cooked meat that she was able to slice up into a sandwich. She added mustard, cut the offering into quarters, and added a handful of leftover potato chips. Johnny liked potato chips and she tried to keep some in the house for him when she could.

  Mike ate silently, his jaw muscles working with a steady rhythm while he stared at the wall before him. Maggie set a glass of milk before him and then stood back, afraid almost to breathe. She realized that she had not eaten herself, but that could wait until he was safely on his way. For some undefined reason she had never been as frightened of him as she was now.

  There was a step outside and a knock on the door. Wiping her hands quickly on her apron, Maggie answered and admitted Virgil Tibbs. The Negro detective was clearly not overconfident, but there was something about him that made her believe in him. His color still disturbed her a little, but his very neatness, and the way in which he carried himself, suggested that there was within him a kind of strength that she desperately needed to help her in her frightened, fearful, and near frantic situation. She knew very little about him, but she was glad that he was a policeman. Perhaps he might be able to bring her son back to her after all.

  She wanted to signal him somehow that her husband was not at his best, but the way in which he greeted them both made it clear that he had grasped that immediately. This time he did not offer to sit down, instead he delivered what news he had to give standing up. “I believe that I may have picked up your boy’s trail,” he said. “I can’t be certain, but there is a good chance that he may be on his way to Anaheim.”

  “To Anaheim?” Maggie asked, not understanding.

  “Yes, that’s where the California Angels have their baseball stadium.”

  “But it’s a long way, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mrs. McGuire, it certainly is, but there is bus service. We’ve almost certainly established the fact that Johnny showed up at an all-night filling station early this morning and used the washroom. Then he asked for instructions as to how to get to Anaheim.”

  “Was he all right?” Maggie asked anxiously.

  Before Tibbs could answer Mike cut in. “But he wouldn’t go oil just to see a ball game like that, not when he’d know that me and his ma would be sitting here worried sick about him!”

  “No, sir, I don’t think he would. But you told me something last night that may explain his actions. I don’t want to go into it now, but I believe that it would be a very good idea if you would come with me to Anaheim. If we find your boy there, he may need his father’s comforting presence very much.”

  Maggie looked at him swiftly, aware quite suddenly that he understood her husband much better than she had expected.

  “I’ll come,” Mike responded. He picked up a sweater which was across the back of a chair and then looked at his wife. “What if Johnny comes home while we’re away?” he asked.

  Maggie drew breath, but Virgil answered for her. “If that happens, Mrs. McGuire, call the police department immediately. They’ll get in touch with us by radio. I have a set in the car.”

  Relieved, Maggie saw the two men to the door and watched while they got into the official car parked at the curb below. When she had seen them drive away she returned to the kitchen, carefully opened another can of soup, and put it on the stove over a low flame. If her boy came home, she was not going to let him go hungry a minute longer than necessary. The police would have to arrest him, she understood that, but he was going to get a warm meal first.

  The ball game which was underway at Anaheim was going forward with more than usual speed. Both pitchers were effective, which kept the batters coming up to the plate in a steady succession. The defensive play on the part of both California and Detroit was sparkling. By the end of the sixth inning there had been no errors on either side, while Bobby Knoop had definitely saved a run by a sensational play at second base.

  As the game progressed, a number of isolated events began to shape themselves into a pattern. On the Santa Ana Freeway Charles Dempsey in his rebuilt car was making all reasonable speed toward Anaheim and the baseball stadium. There were events likely to take place there in which he was vitally interested. The more that he could witness and later describe firsthand, the greater would be the impact he would be able to make upon his return.

  A notice to appear in traffic court was mailed to Mike McGuire at his home. At the same time the attorney for the man whose car he had forced into the center freeway divider sent him a stiff letter demanding payment for all damages under threat of an immediate lawsuit.

  At Disneyland the security force was on the sharp lookout for a boy carrying a shoe box, or any apparently unaccompanied youngster of the proper age who might be Johnny McGuire. It was considered likely that he might have disposed of his dangerous weapon at some convenient opportunity. In response, an intensive search for it was put on with every possible part of the grounds being combed for the gun. Despite the thoroughness of the effort, it was so skillfully done that literally none of the thousands of visitors who were enjoying the park had any idea that something might be amiss.

  Several young boys were spotted who at first seemed to be alone. When no parents or other escorts appeared three of them were quietly questioned. All three were able to establish their identities to the satisfaction of the security personnel concerned. Four shoe boxes were discovered to be in the park; cautious investigation disclosed that two of them contained bona fide lunches, the other two held shoes brought along for the relief of aching feet. At the end of two and a half hours the Disneyland authorities considered it most likely that if the gun was anywhere on the grounds, Johnny McGuire had probably managed to throw it unnoticed into one of the many ponds and waterways which crisscrossed the grounds. If this were the case, then its prompt recovery would be almost impossible.

  Then a positive break came through: the Los Angeles Police Department located the off-duty plainclothes officer who had been stationed in the bus depot that morning. He recalled at once having seen a boy, apparently unaccompanied, carrying a shoe box. The boy had purchased a ticket and then joined a group headed for Disneyland. He had not been wearing a red jacket and there had been nothing about him at the time to excite any undue suspicion, other than the fact that he had been briefly alone. He had had none of the earmarks of a runaway.

  As soon as this information reached him, Captain Lindholm notified the Anaheim authorities that the probabilities were now strongly increased that Johnny McGuire was in their jurisdiction. The word was immediately passed to the stadium police detachment and to Disneyland, then it was put on the air and an acknowledgment was received from Virgil Tibbs, who was en route near Downey.

  Armed with this additional fact, the Disneyland security chief put additional measures into effect. He was considerably concerned that if a child accidently found the gun, and mistook it for a cap pistol, a very serious accident could occur. Apart from the immediate danger, there was also the threat of the damage such an event could do to the park’s reputation. As part of the renewed search, a special crew began a recheck of all of the trash and waste receptacles located anywhere on the grounds.

  On the Santa Ana Freeway a minor traffic accident temporarily blocked one lane. Immediately cars and trucks began to pile up behind the stalled vehicles as some motorists fought to get around the obstruction while hundreds of others slowed down to a crawl to see what was going on. Caught in this unexpected congestion Virgil Tibbs accepted it as one of the facts of life; Mike McGuire, his passenger, fumed impatiently and had difficulty understanding that the Pasadena police car could not simply make use of the red lights and siren with which it was equipped somehow to force a way through the stalled traffic.

  Eighteen minutes later the shoe box was discovered. The intelligent guard who found it realized immediately that it and its contents had undoubtedly been kept in one of the lockers nearby. He was decidedly disappointed that the box did not contain the gun, but the crumpled paper towels which were inside suggested what their purpose might have been. At
the security office the box was expertly examined and a faint trace of what might have been gun oil was detected. Disneyland notified the Anaheim police that it was practically certain that Johnny McGuire’s shoe box had been recovered, but that no trace of the weapon it had contained had as yet been found. A crew was then dispatched to search the parking lot which was now the most likely place where the gun might have been discarded. In the comparative privacy between the closely parked cars it would have been easy to slide the weapon somewhere out of sight behind a tire. The fact that he had discarded the shoe box pointed to the likelihood that the missing boy was tired of carrying the gun and anxious to dispose of it. How he might have carried it undetected out of the front gate remained an open question.

  In the bottom half of the eighth inning the Angel center fielder got a pitch to his liking and lifted it into the bullpen down the left power alley. It was enough to win the game. Eight pitches disposed of the Detroit hitters in the top half of the ninth and the game was over.

  With the final out the stadium underwent an almost immediate transformation. A departure message flashed on the huge scoreboard. The organist swung into the exit music which reached every corner of the stands through the powerful public address system. A row of ushers on each side of the field took up stations where they could prevent any enthusiastic fans from running out onto the playing area. A maintenance mechanic unlocked the elevator car on the side of the big A-frame which supported the scoreboard and the angel halo at the summit. As he went back for replacement light bulbs he mixed with the players who had spent the nine innings of the game in the bullpen.

  Through the many wide exit gates the thousands of patrons poured out and spread over the extensive, municipally owned parking lot. A steady stream of cars began to line up for the left turn toward the freeway while dozens of officers assigned for the purpose separated the traffic lanes and let each row move a certain amount in turn.

  Johnny McGuire took it all in as part of the splendid spectacle of big league baseball; he did not want to miss one bit of what was going on. Against formidable odds he had made his way to Anaheim, he had seen the Angels play, he had seen them win gloriously. No matter what happened now, this could not be taken away from him. And, in a few minutes, he had an appointment to talk with Tom Satriano. That would solve all of his remaining problems, because Tom Satriano would tell him what to do.