John Ball - Johnny Get Your Gun

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.