John Ball - Johnny Get Your Gun

“Ten four.”

Virgil U-turned and set a direct course for headquarters. He breathed a little more heavily from sheer relief; it had been a sticky one while it had lasted. A gun held by a child fires bullets which travel just as far, just as fast, as any others.

It took him twelve minutes to reach the parking lot, another three to get into the building, up the stairs to the second floor, and into the office of the juvenile division. The little boy who awaited him there turned up a tear-streaked face full of fright and despair, then he brightened just a little when he saw that the policeman coming into the room was a person like himself.

Virgil picked up the little boy, who showed unmistakable signs of some Negro blood, and comforted him across his shoulder. “We’ll find your people for you right away,” he promised. Then, looking toward the uniformed officer who had been waiting with the lad, he carefully shook his head from side to side.

The policeman left at once and hurried downstairs to the radio room. “It isn’t the McGuire boy,” he reported.

The dispatcher in charge reacted quickly. “Damn it, I pulled the men away from the Hotchkiss house. They’re on their way in.” He began to write a quick message for the duty man to put on the air.

Less than a minute later, out of the still night, a sharp explosive sound split the air and a.38 bullet crashed through the front window of Billy Hotchkiss’s home to bury itself deep in the woodwork.

A sudden wave of fright swept through Johnny McGuire so that for a few seconds he could not move a muscle. The gun had made an unexpectedly terrifying noise and it had kicked in his hand like a living thing fighting to get loose. The desperate mood which had held him for so long had shattered with the silence when the venomous gun had gone off.

When he had first taken it from the drawer where his father kept it, blinding rage had possessed him; Billy’s taunting face had been burned into his brain until it had eclipsed everything else. He had carefully put the weapon into a brown paper bag and had gained confidence from the fact that on the street no one had given him, or what he carried, a second glance. He had waited here in the wooded plot well out of sight for a long time, hoping that Billy would come out of the door of his home.

When he had seen the policemen come, and had guessed their purpose, he had simply walked away, clutching his bag in one hand. He had gone far enough to reach Colorado Boulevard where he had purchased two small hamburgers with his money and had topped them off with a thick, starchy milk shake which had come ready-mixed out of a machine. Nourished, he had gone back to find the police cars gone. For a few minutes, as the darkness had gathered, his purpose had wavered. Then recognizing the kind of weakness which his father would have despised, he had pulled out his poor, dead radio and had tried once more to turn it on. If by some miracle it had come to life, he would have broken down with tears of relief and gratitude, but the helpless smashed thing had only lain like a crushed bird in his hand and all of his rage at its destruction had come back anew.

Impatient and unable to wait any longer, he had fired the gun. He had pointed it toward the window, had held it in his two hands, and had pulled the trigger. It had shocked him with a deafening blast of sound amplified even more by the quiet of early evening. For the moment he was frozen, then, yielding to panic, he began to run. At the edge of the little park he paused only long enough to replace the gun in its paper sack, then he emerged onto the deserted sidewalk and began to hurry, as fast as he dared, toward the main artery where he had bought his dinner. He kept looking about him for some place to hide; he knew that after what he had done they would come looking for him in a hurry and he did not want to be caught.

In three minutes he reached the corner and saw, coming toward him, a city bus. One quick glance showed him a bus stop sign only a few feet away. He ran to it and waited, not caring where the bus was going so long as it would take him away from where he was.

With a snort of compressed air the big vehicle pulled up and the door opened. Johnny got on, clutching his paper bag in his left hand, while he fished with his right in his pocket for the fare. He found a quarter and brought it out. The driver accepted it as he swung away from the curb, paying no further attention to the passenger he had just taken on. The bus was more than half empty, but for maximum safety Johnny chose a seat well by himself and close enough to the front so that he could see where he was going. If the route took him close to his home, then he could find sanctuary there and his father would protect him; if it didn’t then he would have to get off at some point where they wouldn’t look for him.

He could not tell which direction the bus was going, only that it was not taking him home. Then, as he sat, a faint acrid odor began to reach him. In its paper bag the gun was giving off a thin, harsh smell.

To stop it he pushed the paper bag and the thing it held inside the protection of his jacket. As soon as he had done so he realized that he might have accidentally moved the trigger; fright seized him for a moment, then his wits came back and he reasoned that if he sat very still the danger would be much less.

Almost frozen, he did not dare to move until the bus had made several stops. After the first two no more people had gotten on, each time after that when it had pulled up to the curb someone had gotten off. When there were only three riders left besides himself he knew that they must be nearing the end of the line. He had to risk movement then; very cautiously he got up and went to the rear door. The driver went past two more corners before he stopped and let him off. A few seconds later he was alone while the taillights of the vehicle receded down the unfamiliar street.

As soon as it was far enough away Johnny very carefully brought out the package and held it in his hand. It was heavy now and he wondered if he dared to throw it away. He didn’t want it any more and it was dangerous to carry. Then he thought of his father and the fury that would surely come over him if his gun were not returned in good condition. His father’s anger was something he could not face; whatever happened, he would have to keep the gun.

Instinct told him that he could not stand alone on the corner too long, someone would be sure to see him and ask him what he was doing there. He wanted very much to go home, but he had no idea where he was. He thought of trying to telephone his mother, but he was in a residential sector of what was clearly a poorer class neighborhood. After what he had done he could not simply go to a house and report himself lost, he would have to try something else.

He began to walk. The best thing he could do, he decided, would be to find some place where he could hide for the night; it was early summer and with his jacket on it would not be too cold. In the morning he would walk, until he found a telephone and then call his mother. She would help him.

Then behind him he heard the squeal of brakes and the sudden stopping of a car. He turned in alarm, fearful of the goddamned cops, but there were no cops there. Instead he saw a very old car which had been modified so that it was very low in front, high in the rear, and decorated with racing stripes down its side. Someone got out and called to him, “Hey, kid!”

His first impulse was to run, then he saw that the person coming toward him was only a few years older than himself. He knew that if he tried to run he could easily be caught, so he did the only possible thing and stood his ground. But he was in no mood to take chances: perhaps this person wanted to help him, perhaps not. Carefully he slid his right hand inside the top of the paper bag.