Johnny Get Your Gun

by John Ball

  From the end of the stands where the Junior Angels had been seated he ran down the ramps full of excitement, then he slowed down a little in order to savor more of the great event which was about to occur. So that he could see all of the ball park, and view it from as many different angles as possible, he remained on the field box level and walked around to the third base side against the flow of thinning traffic. This was different than the route through the tunnels, but he could see more and he was sure that he would be able to find the clubhouse. He stopped when he was squarely in line with the pitcher’s mound and home plate to visualize for a moment the wonderful role he would someday play, crouching behind the plate, signaling to the man on the mound, ready to cut down the runner at first if he dared to attempt to steal.

  Glowing with the thought of himself as a big league baseball player, he tore himself away and looked for a way down into the tunnel system which led to the players’ clubhouse. His attention was diverted for a moment when he saw the small car begin to climb up the side of the scoreboard frame. He hoped to see it go all of the way, but it stopped after only a short distance. The mechanic changed a bulb and then came down again.

  When he turned back and found an entrance to the lower level disaster overtook him—an usher was standing squarely in the middle and waving people to the left and to the right. Johnny ran up to him and said, “I’ve got to see Tom Satriano.”

  The usher looked down at him and shook his head. “I’m sorry, you aren’t allowed down in the clubhouse area. You can see the players after they’re dressed; go out back where their cars are parked.”

  “He’s expecting me,” Johnny protested. “I made a date with him. He wrote me a letter.”

  “May I see it, please?”

  Johnny reached for his wallet and then was stricken—he remembered that he had given the precious letter to the guard at the clubhouse door. He had taken it inside and it had not been returned. “I don’t have it any more,” he admitted. “I gave it to the guard downstairs before the game.”

  “I see. Then the best thing for you to do is to wait back on the parking lot; I can’t let you down here now.”

  Johnny knew that if he tried to bolt past, the usher would catch him; the only solution was to find another entrance. In apparent obedience to the recommendation he had been given he walked away, intent now on letting nothing divert him from his purpose. If he had not stopped to watch the man fixing the sign he could already have been downstairs.

  He went all of the way to the end of the left field stands before he found another way to get below. Mercifully, this staircase was not guarded. He walked down step by step to keep his appointment with the man who would help him to overcome all of his problems. He adjusted the angle of his new hat to improve his appearance, made sure of the snug fit of his gun in its holster, and began to walk down the long concrete tunnel which the foresight of the designers had provided. He passed a group of two or three golf carts which were parked in a small alcove as he walked on in the direction which he knew led to the Angels clubhouse.

  Meanwhile up above, not far from the main gate, Virgil Tibbs was in a hurried consultation with the sergeant in charge of the stadium police. “I’m damn sorry,” the sergeant said. “We had the word out for quite a long time to watch for a boy with a shoe box. Every gateman was on the alert and all of my men on the inside. It’s just our hard luck that the game was one of the shortest ones this season—just about two hours.”

  Virgil pressed his lips together and thought for a moment. “Let’s play it this way: the McGuire boy is dead serious about the Angels team, he may try to see some of the players.”

  “The kids usually wait for them outside,” the sergeant advised. “They know where they park their cars.”

  Tibbs shook his head. “This boy wouldn’t know that, he’s never been to a major league game before. He might even try to see Gene Autry if he’s here.”

  “Mr. Autry has an office here and, of course, he’s got a private box.” The sergeant turned toward the phone. “Let me try the clubhouse; I’ll see what I can find out there.”

  Mike McGuire, who had been standing tensely in the background, gave vent to his feelings. “It’s that damn accident that held us up. We’d have been all right if that hadn’t happened and everybody had to stop and gawk.”

  Virgil answered him with a nod; he had no intention of wasting critical time with a useless discussion.

  The phone conversation with the clubhouse was agonizingly slow, the sergeant leaned heavily on the counter and waited while someone at the other end of the line apparently took twice as long as necessary to do a simple thing. At last there was a response, he listened for a moment and then passed the phone to Tibbs. “Tom Satriano is on the line,” he advised. “He may have something for you.”

  “Tom Satriano of course!” He took the phone in one swift motion, chagrin on his features. “Mr. Satriano, this is Virgil Tibbs of the Pasadena police. What can you tell me?”

  “A young boy came to see me before the game; he had a note that I had written to him some time ago. He must have carried it for weeks. About eight or nine, dressed in a cowboy outfit.”

  “A cowboy outfit?”

  “Yes, at least he had on a cowboy-type hat, the kind that kids like to wear.”

  “Did it appear to be a new one, Mr. Satriano?”

  The catcher thought a moment. “Yes, I’d say so. He seemed like a nice youngster. I couldn’t talk to him then, but I told him I’d see him after the game.”

  “Good! Was he carrying anything—any bag, any sort of a container?”

  “No, sir, not that I saw. I’m sure of it because I noticed when I shook hands with him.”

  “Thank God for that,” Virgil said—he could not help himself.

  “Why, what was he supposed to have?”

  “A gun—a real one. He shot a boy with it last night.”

  “Wait a minute—I told you this boy had on a cowboy outfit.” Satriano’s voice was tighter now and more hurried. “I remember now, he had a toy gun belt too.”

  Tibbs tightened his right hand into a fist and laid it hard on the counter before him. “Did you see a gun, sir?”

  “I’m not sure, but I believe that maybe I did.”

  Virgil swallowed hard. “All right, since you said you’d see the boy after the game, he’s almost certain to show up. When he comes back, please welcome him; it’s very important. You are in no danger, sir, I happen to know that he idolizes you. He cut your picture out of the paper and kept it. And he wrote to you. Please, introduce him to some of the other players. Just keep him there, will you do that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you. The boy isn’t vicious; the shooting last night wasn’t his fault. His part of it was an accident; I’m certain that he never intended to hurt anyone.”

  “Wait,” Satriano cut in, “how’s this—I’ll invite him to try on my catcher’s outfit. He’ll have to take off his gun belt to do that.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Tibbs said warmly. “The boy’s father is here, but I want to keep him out of sight. I’ll come right down.”

  He hung up quickly, then turned to the sergeant. “Tell me how to get to the clubhouse. I’m going alone—just in case.”

  After he had received directions he turned toward the door, motioning to Mike McGuire to remain where he was. “As soon as we’ve got your son safely rounded up, I’ll send for you,” he promised. Then, as he hurried out, he almost fell over the lank form of Charles Dempsey, who was waiting directly outside.

  “Need me?” the teen-ager asked, eager willingness shining in his face.

  “No, thanks. Go in and lay low. If the boy sees you he might recognize you and panic. He’s still got the gun.”

  With admirable prudence Dempsey obeyed, despite the fact that he had come to see the action and didn’t want to miss a bit of it.

  Virgil was in no mood to linger, but he still looked around him carefully while he hurried
toward the clubhouse. There would not be many boys dressed in cowboy hats in the fast emptying stadium and he might be fortunate enough to spot the one he wanted.

  Below him, in the long tunnel under the third base stands, Johnny McGuire felt his heart quickening as he knew that he was coming closer to the clubhouse and the one man who, at that particular moment, was the most important person in his life. Tom Satriano could not be wrong, the very thought was a blasphemy. The fearful burden he had been carrying was already lightening. The happy thought came to him that Tom Satriano would continue to be the first-string catcher for the Angels until he, Johnny McGuire, was grown up and ready to step into his place.

  Then, ahead of him, he saw the usher.

  It was the same one, the one who had made him go all of the way around just because he had waited a few seconds to watch a light bulb being changed. Instantly the shapeless fears which had been hovering over him all day swooped down upon him once more, as he faced the terrible possibility that he might be prevented from keeping his appointment.

  The usher was young, hardly more than a teen-ager, but that did not make him any less of a formidable obstacle. Unconsciously Johnny slowed his pace a little, but he kept on coming, hoping for some sort of a reasonable miracle. And then the usher raised his right arm into the air and waved him back.

  That shattered the hope that the usher would go away, or simply ignore him. He had to get past now; there was no use in trying to find another way. He kept coming steadily forward.

  With a maddening display of authority the usher shook his head from side to side. Johnny was hardly more than twenty feet from him now, but he did not stop. His feet slowed in spite of himself, but his determined young spirit would not, and could not, accept defeat.

  Then the usher spoke. “I told you that you couldn’t come down here. You haven’t any right to be in this tunnel. Now go back the way you came.”

  “No!” Johnny stopped and faced his enemy. “Tom Satriano told me to come and see him after the game.”

  “Then see him on the parking lot, that’s the right place to wait.”

  Johnny made one desperate effort to be reasonable—to find a happy solution. “Go ask him,” he challenged. “He’ll tell you. Tell him it’s Johnny. He’s got the letter he sent me and he’s waiting for me now.”

  The usher rejected it. “Don’t tell me what to do, I know my job. And right now it’s keeping kids like you away from the clubhouse. I’ve got my orders. Now don’t make me chase you away or call a policeman.”

  At that moment, without any delay, Johnny had to make a decision. His mind flashed back to all the white-hatted heroes he had seen on television who, when all else failed, had depended on their reliable weapons. Then that image was immediately blotted out by the picture of the boy he had shot the night before; one more time in his tortured mind he saw him sinking to the ground. He made his decision: he would threaten, but he would not shoot. In the best tradition of the many Westerns he had seen, he drew his gun.

  “Let me past,” he ordered.

  The usher stood there and laughed at him, a mocking laugh that made Johnny hate him with a blazing fury. “You think I’m afraid of that toy gun?” he said. Then he took a menacing step forward.

  “It’s a real gun,” Johnny warned between his tightly clenched teeth.

  The usher had had enough, his patience with this troublesome boy ran out. The authority of his uniform had been challenged, and by a belligerent kid who refused to obey a reasonable order. He would not endure that humiliation, it was an affront to the whole organization that he represented. He began to walk calmly forward, to turn the boy around properly and send him on his way.

  To Johnny the battle had been joined and there was no backing away. He was not thinking of Tom Satriano now, only the adversary before him whom he must defeat. The usher was bigger, of course, but Johnny knew that he had the weapon. For one frightened instant he hesitated, then he saw that the usher was much closer and would be upon him in a second or two. In that blinding moment, hating the usher as he did, he still remembered the boy he had hit. In a flash the answer came to him—he aimed the gun over his opponent’s head, and fired.

  Inside the confining tunnel the explosive blast of the shot echoed with total violence. For an instant Johnny thought that his eardrums had been torn from his head; then to his utter amazement he saw the usher fall flat where he had been standing. He did not sink slowly like the boy had done; he dropped like a dead and lifeless thing and lay inert and still.

  Then reason departed, the world rocked underneath him, and Johnny lost everything but the raw instinct to survive. With a scream of hysterical fright, he turned and fled.

  In the clubhouse close by Tom Satriano heard the sound of the shot and jumped to his feet. In the instant the banter of conversation in the big room froze, for every man there knew about Johnny McGuire and was waiting for him to appear at the door.

  Up above, still on the field box level, Virgil Tibbs heard the shot too. He lunged forward and hurtled down the remaining steps, almost throwing himself around the corners.

  Back down the long corridor Johnny raced, his gun tightly clenched in his hand, ready now to use it if he had to to clear the path before him. Only the mute concrete bore witness to his flying feet, to the panting of his desperate breath. His new hat flew off and he did not even notice. He was in a frenzy now, a trapped animal running for the first available place that would give him sanctuary.

  His lungs pounding with pain, he burst out of the tunnel into the sudden shock of full bright daylight. For a mad, blinding moment he had to stop; he did not know where to go. The gigantic, now empty stadium loomed above and all around him as though it had been designed specifically as a hopeless trap from which no one could escape.

  He could never make it across the huge playing area, and if he did there was no place to go when he reached the other side.

  The bullpen gate was open; he gulped air into his tortured lungs and bolted through, desperately hoping that there would be a way out on the other side. There was, another gate stood open, but beyond it there was only a great openness, and the concreted banks of a dry river where he could never hope to hide. Then he saw the foot of the towering A-frame and fastened to it the little car provided to lift the maintenance man up all of the way to the ringlike halo that was the symbol of the team and of the stadium itself.

  In total desperation Johnny ran for the car and jumped inside. He swung the gate shut which gave him a slight protection and for a few precious seconds studied the simple control mechanism. Then he looked and saw two uniformed policemen running down the third base stands toward him. They were already dangerously near, and they had guns too. His last hesitation disappeared; he pushed the handle and felt the car at once begin to rise under him. It moved very slowly, but fast enough so that he could see the ground falling away and know that for the moment he had taken refuge in something that would give him sanctuary above his enemies.

  He reached the base of the scoreboard and watched as the intricate panels moved past him, sinking downward as he rose. Then he looked over the edge and a quick paroxysm of acrophobia seized him. He fought it by looking upward and seeing the great suspended halo much closer than it had been before. The last of the scoreboard moved past and he was on the dizzying height of the overhead structure being carried steadily upward to his doom.

  With every bit of courage and self-possession that his spirit would yield, he forced himself to reach for the control. He pushed the handle to the center position. The car stopped.

  He was poised now, between heaven and earth. His body began to shake, his knees threatened to unlock, and for a moment blackness began to swirl before his eyes.

  14

  At close to a dead run Virgil Tibbs tried to follow the sound of the shot, but in the hard-faced tunnels and corridors under the stadium the noise echoed back and forth from a dozen different directions. Other people erupted onto the scene, players still in uniform, a man
in a business suit, two anxious policemen. They converged on the spot where the usher still lay face down in the tunnel. The Angel trainer, clad in white, arrived on the run carrying a first aid kit. Two other men, bearing a folded stretcher, were close behind him.

  As the trainer began to run expert hands over the man on the floor, the usher began slowly to come to life. He raised himself on his hands and knees, shook his head as though to clear it of disbelief, and then with the trainer’s assistance managed to get to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” the man in the business suit demanded anxiously.

  The usher rubbed the sides of his face with the palms of his hands. “I…I guess so.” His knees were visibly shaking; the trainer broke a capsule and held it under his nose.

  “What happened?”

  The pungent fumes from the capsule helped the man to recover himself. “A kid shot at me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He ran away.”

  “What happened? Tell us.” There was urgency in the businessman’s voice.

  “Well, first I saw this kid up above. He wanted to come down here and I told him it wasn’t allowed. Then, when I came down here myself, he showed up again, coming down the tunnel.” He nodded to indicate the direction.

  “Go on, don’t waste time.”

  “Like I said, this kid came walking down the corridor. He wanted to go to the clubhouse; he said something about Tom Satriano.”

  Virgil clenched his teeth in frustration, then he listened as the man went on.

  “I told him he couldn’t, then the kid got ugly. He had on a cowboy suit. He drew what I thought was a toy gun and threatened me with it. I walked right up to him and then he fired; the gun was real and I don’t know how he missed me. I hit the deck and the kid ran. That’s all.”