John Ball - Johnny Get Your Gun

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 invite 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.