by John Ball
“Was he aiming at you, as far as you could tell, when the gun went off?” Tibbs asked.
“Right at me. Like I said, I don’t know how he missed.”
The sergeant in charge of the stadium police hurried up, closely followed by a tense Mike McGuire. “The boy,” the sergeant said. “He’s up on the big A. The maintenance car was unlocked. He got into it. We can’t control it from down here, but my men’ll handle it.”
“No!” Mike McGuire’s voice cut with a sharp edge. “You might hurt him. Leave it to me.”
Virgil spoke then, quietly, but with conviction. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take over: this is a rather special case.” He looked at the sergeant. “I don’t know your name.”
“Wilson.”
“Sergeant Wilson, I know that this is your responsibility, but I know quite a lot about that boy and I think that I understand him.”
The man in the business suit interrupted. “May I ask who you are?”
“Virgil Tibbs, Pasadena police. This boy is our problem, it’s my case.”
“Ted Bowsfield, Virgil, I’m stadium manager for the Angels.”
Tibbs nodded his acknowledgment to save time. “The boy isn’t dangerous, the account that your usher just gave you isn’t entirely correct. I realize, of course, that he’s been badly frightened. I think I can get the boy to come down and resolve all this.”
“Then go ahead, we’ll help you all we can.”
Virgil did not wait for any more; he ran quickly up the stairs to the field box level, focused his attention on the scoreboard and its towering supporting frame, and took in the whole situation at a glance. Then he went back down immediately to confer with Wilson. “We’ve got a little time,” he said. “For the moment the boy isn’t going anywhere, at least I hope to heaven he isn’t.”
“I’m with you.”
“All right. First of all, please get your uniformed men out of sight of the boy, it may lessen his tension a little. Have somebody stand by the power cutoff for that car and set up a line of communication so that we can get word to him quickly if we have to.”
“Good. What else?”
“I’d like a thorough check of the tunnel, the boy may have thrown away his gun while he was running. I’ll cover the area outside.”
Mike McGuire seized Tibbs by the arm. “While you’re talking my boy is in danger. Someone’s got to climb up there and help him. I’ll do it, he won’t shoot me.” He let go his hold and started down the tunnel; after a step or two he broke into a run. Virgil paced him until they both burst out into the sharp sunlight. Against the glare of the high bright sky Mike pulled up, and shuddered. Then he formed a megaphone with his hands and before Tibbs could stop him called up. “Hang on, son. I’ll come and help you!”
A thin, terror-racked voice came down from the car high above. “Don’t, Daddy, don’t!” The words ended in a hysterical sob.
Mike felt a strong hand on his shoulder, turned, and looked into the dark face close to his. “You’re a brave man, Mr. McGuire,” Virgil said, “but don’t try it, not now. Johnny is completely terrified; if you try to help him, he might do anything.”
Mike stood, his head tipped far back, staring at the high perch where his son was isolated.
“We’ve got to calm him down—to let the fright and terror drain out of him.”
McGuire’s body shook with suppressed emotion. “But somebody’s got to climb up there and save him…I’m his father.”
“I know, but that doesn’t make you a steeplejack. When Johnny calms down, I think we can persuade him to come down by himself. In that way no one will be hurt. It will mean a great deal to him that you’re here to welcome him. But if he had the idea, even for a moment, that you were coming up to punish him…” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Then what do we do?”
Virgil looked at him. “I suggest that you sit in the stands—close by. I’ve got an idea that might work. But I can’t try it with you here.”
Mike gathered himself and clenched his fists. It was hard for him, almost beyond the power of his self-discipline, but he finally gained control over himself. Slowly, and reluctantly, he walked to the railing at the edge of the field. He climbed over and then sat down in the front row.
Tibbs returned to the entrance to the tunnel to find a tall, well set-up man in an Angel uniform waiting there. “I’m Tom Satriano,” he said. “Can I help?”
“Yes,” Virgil answered, “you can. How many of the players are still in uniform?”
“Most of the crew. Fifteen or twenty.”
“Do you think they would be willing to help out?”
“Of course; that’s why we waited.”
“Then here’s what I’d like to ask, and I know it’s an imposition. Would some of you be willing to come out here and start a little action in the general area of the scoreboard? As though you were warming up for a game.”
“I’ve got it,” Satriano said, turned, and ran with a professional athlete’s skill down the tunnel. In less than two minutes players began to appear on the field. They filtered out of the dugout, paired off, and began to throw baseballs back and forth. As more appeared they took places closer to the left field bullpen. Someone with a bat began to tap easy grounders to a group of players who fielded the ball and then returned it. Jim Fregosi dropped a square white base marker on the grass and began to practice pivoting movements for the double play. Bobby Knoop joined him; together they scooped in grounders, tagged the base, and then simulated the throw to first.
Tom Satriano appeared beside Tibbs at the end of the tunnel. “How does it look?” he asked.
“It’s perfect,” Virgil said. “This is wonderful cooperation, especially after you’ve already played a full game.”
“The boys will keep it up as long as you need them. I only hope it works.”
“If nothing else it will certainly calm the boy down, give him something that he’s intensely interested in to take his mind off his troubles.”
“Do you think he’ll come down?”
Tibbs shook his head. “I don’t know. If the California Angels can’t distract him, then it’s hopeless. Do they know he has a gun?”
“Yes.”
Virgil locked his fingers together and looked at them for a moment. “I know how valuable every one of you is to the team,” he said slowly. “And if Minnesota loses today, you’ll be in second place.”
“They did and we are.”
“I’ve got to admit an element of risk, but even in a crazed frame of mind, I can’t believe that Johnny would take a shot at any member of the team; you’re his one great interest in life.”
“The guys understand that. Do you need me any more? I’m supposed to speak at a dinner tonight in Los Angeles, but if you need me, I’ll stay.”
“You’ve done all that I could ask of you—and more,” Virgil answered. “Keep your engagement by all means.”
“In a way I hate to go,” Satriano said.
“You have to, that’s clear; I’m sure we’ll be all right now.”
On the field the fungo batter hit a sharp grounder which smoked across the grass. Bobby Knoop made a dive for the ball, snared it with his bare hand, and threw while he was still prone on his back. From up above, fragile in the air, a thin boyish voice gave a faint cheer.
It was the first encouraging sign. On the field there was a visible reaction; the players who had been going through the familiar warm-up routine began to snap the ball a little harder. The hitter popped the ball high into the air; an outfielder ran back and made a carefully calculated circus catch with a roll on the ground for a finish. In the very atmosphere around him Virgil was aware that all this was succeeding; that Johnny McGuire knew that his heroes were putting on a special show just for his benefit.
When Ted Bowsfield appeared at the end of the tunnel, Virgil turned to him with relief strongly written on his features. “In a few minutes, perhaps one or two of the men might wave to Johnny and invit
e him to join them. I think now that will make him come down. He’ll feel that he’s wanted, and that will give him his excuse.”
“I’ll arrange it right away,” Bowsfield said.
“Don’t bother,” the slurred voice of Charles Dempsey cut in. The narrow youth had materialized from somewhere. “I’ll pass th’ word.” Before anyone could grab him he ran out onto the field. He put his long legs to work and bolted out onto the grass like a dark streak. At long last he had a role to play and he was apparently determined to make the most of it. In his frustrated fury Virgil could have shot him.
Sport stopped to talk to the first two players he was able to intercept. Then he ran to the next group; there was no point in stopping him now. He was in full view; Tibbs’s only hope was that the high angle involved would prevent him from being recognized from up above.
Then, when he had finished delivering his message for the second time, Dempsey yielded to the temptation to look up at the car from his new vantage point.
Nothing happened for a second or two, then from up on the high frame there came a startled, almost explosive noise edged with sudden acute desperation. There was pure anguish in it, like the cry of a wounded animal. It froze in the air as the car once more began to climb slowly, still higher up the steep framework.
“Cut the power!” Virgil barked, rage in his voice. Bowsfield signaled down the tunnel; moments later the car came to a halt.
“Now what?” the Angel executive asked.
If a grown man could cry, Virgil was in the mood.
“We’ve got a fire truck standing by,” Bowsfield continued. “Three different men have volunteered to go up after him; they all know about the gun. I’m not sure, though—I think he’s beyond the reach of the ladders now.”
Tibbs watched dully as Dempsey hurried off the field, remorse now written on his face. On the outfield grass the baseball action continued, but it was mechanical now; every man there understood completely what had happened. They didn’t know who Dempsey was, but they were acutely aware that his appearance had shattered the mood they had been working so hard to establish. The baseballs continued to travel back and forth, but they arced through the air as though they themselves had suddenly become dead and inert.
Virgil knew that it was now up to him; the one thing he could not do was give up. He would have to think of something and it would have to be good; Dempsey’s sudden appearance had made matters even worse, if possible, than they had been when the desperately frightened boy had first taken refuge on the heights of the massive A-frame.
He had gone even higher now. He could not come down; the power was off and Virgil did not dare to have it turned on again. Not with the maintenance car able to make the dizzying circle suspended underneath the halo, the highest structure in Orange County. A cool-headed mechanic unafraid of heights could ride it, but it could paralyze an already fearfully upset nine-year-old boy. A boy equipped with a gun which, in a moment of total desperation, he might turn on himself.
Tibbs began to search all of the data he had accumulated for some ray of light—something to help him. And it would have to be soon, Johnny McGuire would not remain static too much longer. He had no way of reading what thoughts and fears might be running through the boy’s mind, goading him on to some final act of horror.
Then it came to him. Almost calmly he turned to Ted Bowsfield and said, “I need your help.”
“Name it,” Bowsfield responded.
Virgil did—in four quick, condensed sentences. The Angel executive gave him a hard stare for a moment. “It just might work,” he conceded. “Let’s go.”
He led the way briskly into the tunnel, pulling out a ring of keys as he did so. It was only a short distance to where the golf carts were parked; he slipped quickly into the nearest one and fitted a key into the lock. As soon as Virgil was beside him he pressed the pedal and the fully charged cart took off with considerable speed down the length of the bare concrete tunnel.
They ran rapidly past the clubhouse area and then onto a ramp which led upward. At the top Bowsfield executed a sharp U-turn and bit into another ramp which continued the rise.
“How far can you go in this thing?” Tibbs asked.
“All over the stadium, to any level. It’s designed that way.”
The ramp doubled back on itself; Bowsfield swung the cart around almost without slowing down and then was climbing again. The grind of the electric motor echoed through the ramp area; to the left the parking lot began to stretch out like a vast asphalt billiard table.
The cart ran onto the second level and began to scurry past the closed concession stands. Then another ramp appeared, Bowsfield steered onto it, and they were going up once more.
They came out this time onto a level where the view of the field was blocked by a solid concrete wall. “The ramp design was Cedric Tallis’s idea when he was with us,” Bowsfield commented. “It’s a great help now.”
They ran along the length of the concrete wall for a hundred feet and then Bowsfield brought the golf cart to an abrupt stop. The Angel executive fitted a key into a closed door at the end of the wall and without ceremony led the way through. As Tibbs followed he saw that they were high above the playing field now in the private box section reserved for the top personnel. A number of people were there: executives, secretaries, and service employees—all silently watching the drama being played out on the field. One careful look toward the scoreboard told Vigil that the situation had not visibly changed since he had left the area less than five minutes before.
The baseball action was still going on: a handful of gray uniforms were now mixed in as the Detroit players added their contribution to the effort. Up on the vaulting framework above the scoreboard the tiny car was visible just where it had been. Angrily Tibbs reminded himself that it could not have moved, he had ordered the power cut off.
Bowsfield touched him on the shoulder; he turned to find himself facing a firmly built man whose face he instantly recognized. “This is Virgil Tibbs,” Ted said quickly and then completed the introduction. “Gene Autry.”
As soon as the two men had shaken hands Tibbs took the floor. “Mr. Autry, some time ago at a personal appearance you spent a moment with that boy up there on the sign. You’ve been his hero ever since, and he trusts you completely. Will you help?”
“In any way that I can.”
“Sir, by any chance do you have any of your cowboy regalia here at the stadium, anything at all? Even a ten-gallon hat?”
The owner of the Angels studied him for a moment. “I haven’t made pictures for years,” he said.
“You forget television, sir. Johnny McGuire, the boy up there, has seen you repeatedly. To him you’re the greatest cowboy who ever lived.” Virgil drew breath. “That goes for both of us,” he added.
Gene Autry understood, he picked up a telephone which sat on the counter of the private box. “Get me Disneyland,” he directed.
Tibbs stood silently beside Ted Bowsfield while the connection was made, and the call put through to the administrative offices at the amusement park.
“This is Gene Autry, at the stadium. I need something and I need it fast. I want a horse sent over here, fully saddled and ready to ride. A chestnut with a white blaze if you can do it, one that might pass for Champion.”
He listened a moment.
“That’s right, I don’t care who you have to take it away from, this is an emergency and a big one. Please get that horse over here on the double. One more thing—don’t come in the back way. Bring it in through the front gate, it’ll be open and someone will be waiting for you. No more than fifteen minutes at the outside, never mind what it costs.”
He hung up. “They’ll do it,” he said, then he looked at Tibbs. “Do you think that this is going to work?”
“When you met that boy,” Virgil answered, “you called him your pal. He’s an underprivileged lad; to him that was next to the voice of God.”
“I used to sing a song that might ap
ply here,” Autry said. He led the way out of the executive boxes and across the aisle to the office area.
“‘Back in the Saddle Again,’” Tibbs supplied.
Autry looked at him. “You remember?”
“I was a boy too, sir; not too long ago. A Negro boy in the deep South, but that didn’t make any difference.”
The Angel owner led the way into his office suite. Then he slipped out of his coat and dropped it across a chair. He opened a closet door and reached in for a replacement. “Years ago,” he said, “a boy was sick in a hospital. It was in Boston as I remember. He asked for me and I went out to see him—in a business suit. He took one look and burst out crying. Then he said that I wasn’t Gene Autry because Gene Autry was a cowboy. I didn’t look the part. I learned something that day; now I’m prepared.”
“Suppose we wait outside,” Virgil suggested.
Eight minutes later Gene Autry, the heels of his cowboy boots clicking on the hard concrete, joined them. Virgil Tibbs took one careful look at him and his heart lifted; if this wasn’t the answer, then he doubted if one existed on the face of the earth. “I’ve just lost twenty years,” he said.
Autry gave him a shrewd look. “You may not be the best detective that Pasadena has,” he commented, “although I suspect that you are. But you’re a hell of a good psychologist. Let’s go.”
Ted Bowsfield drove the golf cart down the ramps with Gene Autry beside him and Virgil hanging on the back. When they reached the foyer area the horse had not yet appeared; they dismounted from the vehicle and reconciled themselves to an unavoidable delay.
Virgil turned to one of the several waiting ushers. “Any change?” he asked.
“No, sir, nothing we can see.”
At that precise moment inspiration hit Tibbs. “Is the organist for the stadium still here by any chance?” he asked Ted.
“I think he is, do you want him?”
“Yes.”
Bowsfield nodded and the usher took off in the golf cart. There was still no sign of the horse from Disneyland or any guarantee that one had been dispatched. Gene Autry was turning toward the lobby telephones when a girl came hurrying out from the office there. “Your horse is on the way, Mr. Autry,” she reported. “It should be here in the next few minutes, if the traffic isn’t too bad.”