John Ball: Johnny Get Your Gun

Stone did not bother to answer, he loosened his side-arm in its holster and then went promptly out the front door. He paused on the flagstone entryway for a few seconds and looked about carefully, particularly at the places where someone might be concealed. Across the street there was a parklike wooded area which had been left undeveloped; Stone noted that it would offer good concealment for anyone who might want to watch the house without being seen. Keeping a careful lookout, he walked with normal speed to the patrol car and picked up the mike. Still keeping his attention focused on the area of trees and shrubs which was much too conveniently located, he reported in.

At that hour most of the members of the day staff, including the investigative and juvenile divisions, had already gone home, but there were others who remained on the job. Community disturbances, traffic problems, fires, crime, and other matters which require police action do not obligingly cease at five, in fact the coming of darkness seems to stimulate them into greater activity. Most of the night work was done in Pasadena by the uniformed division, but there were others always available to respond when they were needed.

Virgil Tibbs was at his desk because he was scheduled for a court appearance and he wanted to be absolutely sure that his preparation was complete. Fresh in his mind was a fiasco of a few weeks before when a confidence man he had spent weeks tracking down went free because he had not been formally notified of his constitutional rights. This time the accused would not be able to get off the hook on any such excuse, but his attorney would be looking for any loophole. Tibbs was determined not to provide one.

When his phone rang he picked it up, spoke his name, and then listened. Within a few seconds he began to jot notes on a pad of ruled paper which was always in a convenient position. As he wrote down the address he was given he visualized the area and the economic bracket of the people who lived there.

“I’ll go right out,” he said. Automatically he set aside the plans he had made for the evening; it was most unlikely that the sort of thing he had just been told about could be resolved quickly. He could not take time even to stop for a quick hamburger, when people wanted police help every minute was magnified.

Thirteen minutes later Estelle Hotchkiss heard the doorbell ring once, discreetly, and hurried to answer it. Her husband had unfortunately picked this time to be out of his office and he was late coming home, so the full burden still rested in her hands. When she swung the door open she found herself face-to-face with a Negro; this was not what she had been expecting and for a moment she was taken aback. Then she looked again and noted that he was slender, somewhere in his early thirties, and dressed in a dark-colored, lightweight summer suit of unmistakable quality.

“I’m from the Pasadena police, Mrs. Hotchkiss,” he said. “My name is Tibbs.”

His speech confirmed what Estelle’s quick eye had already told her, that here was a well-bred person. She had no Negro friends, but she did know that there were many Negroes of superior attainment; she was prepared to accept this man in that category. “Please come in, Mr. Tibbs,” she invited. The tightness was still in her voice, but she knew he would understand that.

Virgil Tibbs walked in just as a dark blue Continental swung into the driveway. The man who got out was on the right side of forty, moderately tall, and cut from the pattern which shapes the modern businessman. He glanced quickly at the police car parked before his door, at the unmarked car with the UHF antenna which was immediately behind it, then at his wife who was still framed in the doorway. He hurried quickly across the lawn.

“What…?” he asked, making the single word do the work of a sentence.

“Nothing-yet,” Estelle replied. She did not need to add that she wanted his help desperately-her face showed that.

When Ralph Hotchkiss came into the foyer of his home he found Virgil Tibbs standing there, quietly waiting for Estelle to explain his presence. “Billy’s in trouble,” she said. “This is Mr. Tibbs from the police.”

Her husband looked startled and concerned. “Come in,” he said, and led the way into the living room where Barry Rothberg was seated beside Billy. One glance at his boy told him that his son had done something seriously wrong. He was relieved only to see that he was apparently all right, at least he had not been run over by a car.

“Billy, this is Mr. Tibbs,” Estelle said, and then realized that without thinking she had presented an adult to an eleven-year-old child. She looked toward the man who had come to help her and apologized with her eyes; Tibbs saw it and understood. Few people took the trouble to be courteous to policemen any more; his receptions in the past had ranged from simply being taken for granted to downright hostility. There had been exceptions, like the Nunn family at Sun Valley Lodge, but they were relatively few in number.

Hotchkiss waved Virgil to a chair and then sat down beside his son. He rested his arm across his boy’s shoulders as a symbol of his support and then looked at Tibbs. “I take it that you’re in charge,” he said.

Tibbs nodded. “I only know a little of what has happened,” he began, and looked at Billy. “Suppose, son, that you start at the beginning and tell your father and me the whole story. Don’t leave anything out, even if you think that it’s not important. I want to know about everything just as it happened, do you understand?”

Billy looked up once into his father’s face in a silent plea.

“Well, there’s this funny kid at school, his name’s Johnny McGuire.” He stopped.

“Funny in what way?” Tibbs asked.

Billy squirmed and rubbed his palms together before he replied. “Well, he’s just funny. He talks kinda funny-like and his clothes are real funny too. He’s got this one jacket and it’s all worn out-his elbows stick out. But he still wears it all the time. And he goes right off his rocker if you kid him a little. He can’t take a joke, he gets real hot right away.”

“Would you say that he is quick-tempered?”

Billy hesitated. “No, I guess not exactly. He’s not a bad kid, just that he can’t stand being ribbed.”

“Do you play with him very much? Normally is he a friend of yours?”

“No,” Billy admitted. “He doesn’t have any friends because he’s new and he’s funny-like I told you. I tease him some, I guess, because it’s a lot of fun. I guess I shouldn’t.”

“You’ve teased him before, then?”

Billy nodded.

“Suppose now you tell us what happened.”

Billy unfolded his story. He did not realize that the few questions he had answered had been designed to warm him up, to get him talking, he only knew that he would have to tell it all again and that now he could hold nothing back. He felt a sense of relief as he unloaded his burden. He described how he had snatched away the radio and how he had been responsible for its being broken.

“What happened then?” Tibbs prompted.

“I said I was sorry,” Billy answered, “but he didn’t pay any attention. He just cried over it like it was a dead dog or something, I told you he was funny. I know I took away his radio, but what’s listening to the radio? Anybody can do that anytime.”

“Not if he doesn’t have one,” Virgil pointed out. “If you wanted to hear the ball game very badly and didn’t have any kind of a radio, you might be pretty unhappy about it.”

“There’s lots of radios,” Billy countered.

Tibbs looked for a moment at Ralph Hotchkiss who nodded that he understood. At his age Billy did not have any conception of financial limitations, he had never experienced any and to him the worn-out jacket was a symbol of eccentricity.