Johnny Get Your Gun (11 page)

Dempsey revealed a wide toothy grin. “Leave it ta me,” he promised.

As soon as he was well out of the office Bob Nakamura shook his head. “Virg, that line about his people being too valuable to get shot was a classic.”

“It’s perfectly true,” Tibbs said.

“Of course it is, it’s just the way that you put it. It implied, of course, that we’re expendable and he ate it up. I don’t think he’s quite as stupid as he pretends to be.”

“Of course not.” Tibbs picked up his phone once more, called records and asked for a check on Charles Dempsey, about eighteen, Negro, and a self-proclaimed leader in the youth group. As soon as he had that working he called the MTA bus information number and inquired about the early evening schedule on the line which ran close to Billy Hotchkiss’s home. After a few seconds delay he got exactly what he had suspected—confirmation that a bus had gone past at almost the same time that the shot had been fired. After that there had not been another for a full hour.

He silently cursed the luck that had given Johnny McGuire that convenient ride; if the shot he had fired into
the Hotchkiss house had been delayed for only two or three minutes then the search for the boy would almost certainly have been successful and a tragic death would have been avoided. The more than ten years he had spent in police work had taught him, through frustrating experience, how often perverse breaks can go against the members of the force; for every good one that came along at least three others seemed always to go the wrong way.

The phone rang. It was records reporting that Charles Dempsey had had a total of six traffic moving violations, had been uncooperative twice when cited, and had been arrested fourteen months previously on suspicion of armed robbery. When faced with this last charge he had provided an alibi which had checked out. He had given enough information to establish his own innocence, but had refused to volunteer anything more.

Tibbs evaluated this. Being uncooperative while being cited was all too common—some of the most prominent citizens of Pasadena had that noted in their records. Nobody likes traffic tickets. Since the alibi had been proved, the armed robbery charge was out. It boiled down to a somewhat above average number of traffic tickets, two of which had made him mad. For a late teen-ager coming from a marginal environment it was, all things considered, a satisfactory report.

Again the phone rang. “Mr. Tibbs, please,” a masculine voice said.

“This is Mr. Tibbs.”

“Bert Furthman, Mr. Tibbs. You’re in charge of this case about the boy with the gun?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then maybe I can help, I don’t know. I drive for MTA. Last night about nine-thirty I picked up a youngster who might be the one you’re after. He came running up to the bus stop just in time to catch me. I thought it was a little late for a kid his size to be out alone, but I assumed he was going home.”

“Of course.”

“Well, the reason I’m calling you, I picked up a newscast that said that the boy with the gun is wearing a worn-out red jacket. That’s how this boy was dressed. I remember that he was carrying something, I couldn’t say what. I let him off near the end of my run—a half a block from where the shooting took place. Where the colored boy was killed, I mean.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Furthman,” Virgil said. “I very much appreciate your coming forward.” He took down the driver’s address and telephone in case it would be necessary to call him as a witness. The information he had supplied was not new, but it did tie up a loose end. Unfortunately it did nothing to help locate Johnny McGuire
now
. As he hung up the phone he hoped that it would ring again as soon as possible. And with good news.

His wish was granted: before another full minute had passed the ring came again. He picked it up and said, “Virgil Tibbs.” Then he held his breath.

“Mr. Tibbs,” the voice of Maggie McGuire came tearfully over the line, “I’ve heard from Johnny!”

He opened his mouth to ask, “Where is he?” and was rescued by his intelligence. “Is he all right?” he asked instead.

“Yes, I think so. He called me on the telephone.”

Tibbs raised his hand to get his partner’s attention. Bob immediately picked up his own phone. “Did he say where he was, Mrs. McGuire?”

A suppressed sob came over the line. “No, he didn’t. I asked him and he said something like, ‘I’m here in the phone booth.’ That’s all.”

“Did he say anything else, Mrs. McGuire? Anything at all?”

Maggie did not appear to hear the question for a moment. “I don’t know where he slept last night, or what he’s had to eat…. I’m sorry, you asked me something?”

“Did Johnny tell you anything else at all, Mrs. McGuire?”

For a few seconds there was no answer, then he changed his question. “Please tell me about it, just as it happened.”

“Well, I answered the phone and I heard Johnny’s voice. He said ‘Hello, Mommy.’ I remember, just those words.”

“Good, go on.”

“I…I couldn’t say anything for a moment, then I think he said something like, ‘I’m all right, Mommy.’ I’m not sure, I was so upset.”

“Of course, Mrs. McGuire, I understand.”

“Then I asked him where he was and he said, ‘Right here in the phone booth,’ like I said. After that he said something about my not worrying. I don’t remember what I said to him, I think I said that I would come and get him. Then he told me that his radio was broken.”

“Did you reassure him on that?”

“Yes, I told him that we knew and that his father wasn’t mad—that’s what he would worry about. I told him we knew that it wasn’t his fault. Then Johnny said that he was in trouble because he had shot a nigger boy.
Oh, I’m sorry!
”

She burst into tears. Virgil remained silent, letting her take her time. Finally she said, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to use that word to you.”

“Don’t concern yourself about that, Mrs. McGuire, you have enough on your mind. What else did Johnny say?”

She chose her words cautiously. “Well, as I said, Mr. Tibbs, he told me that he had shot the little colored boy. I told him that I didn’t care if he did kill him, I wanted him to come home. Of course you understand…”

She somehow seemed to sense the reception of her words and stopped. After that, for a moment or two, there was no sound.

“Mrs. McGuire,” Virgil began carefully, “I don’t want to press you, but did you use that word? Did you tell your son that he
killed
the boy whom he shot?”

“I guess…I guess I did.” Her voice was very low.

Tibbs could not answer her. He locked his fingers tightly around the telephone. He drew a long breath and fought to keep himself under control. “I’m very sorry that you did that,” he said. “So long as Johnny thought that he had just hurt the other boy, there was a good chance that he might have come home to find comfort from you and protection from his father. Now he believes himself to be a murderer. He isn’t, of course, but he won’t understand that.”

“What…what are you driving at?” she asked.

“Just this, Mrs. McGuire: I don’t want to alarm you, believe me, but in the stricken, desperate frame of mind that he must be in, only God Almighty can say what your son is likely to do now.”

As soon as Johnny McGuire hung up the phone that had brought him the sound of his mother’s voice, he felt his whole body begin to shake and he did not think that his knees would ever again obey his commands. He did manage to pick up his shoe box and walk out of the drugstore onto a busy street of downtown Los Angeles, he did not know which one. Then it seemed to him that he was going to be sick all over the sidewalk.

For a moment he leaned against the solid wall of a building and tried frantically to decide what he should do. What had started out as an adventure and a solution to all of his problems was suddenly reversed; now he was stricken with the realization that he had been traveling farther and farther away from the comfort and security of his home. He
had meant to ask his mother if the cops had all gone away; if they had, then he wanted her so much he had all but decided to turn around and try and go home. Now that was impossible, as soon as they found him the cops would shoot him dead.

As he stood there, so utterly alone, he began to think a little more clearly and decided that the cops wouldn’t really shoot him on sight, but something terrible would be sure to happen. They were already mad about his father’s traffic ticket and what he had done was many times worse.

One thought managed to cut through the confusion in his mind; he could ask Tom Satriano to help him. Mr. Satriano, like all the Angels, lived in Anaheim and therefore he wouldn’t have heard about the trouble in Pasadena. The precious letter in his possession would get him in to see him; once in his presence he could tell him about his troubles and the great catcher, who always knew what pitch to call for next, would help him and tell him what to do.

He found new strength in this plan and, at the same time, a fresh resolution not to allow himself to be caught before he reached the stadium. He didn’t have his telltale red jacket any more, but he would still have to be very very careful. If he acted like everyone else, then he probably wouldn’t be noticed.

From the people passing by he picked out a teen-ager who seemed to be on business of his own and therefore wouldn’t stop to ask awkward questions. “Which way is the
bus station?” he asked, trying to look self-possessed. The youth turned without stopping. “Fifth and Main,” he said and pointed.

That made things easy, Johnny tucked his shoe box under his arm right side up so that the gun could not fall out and then started off at a brisk walk. During the next few minutes no one appeared to take any notice of him: there were too many other people on the streets. He found the station easily and walked inside with a careful show of assurance. He pushed a dollar bill from his small hoard under the wicket and said, “Disneyland.”

“Round trip?” The man looked at him a little oddly.

Johnny had not anticipated that question, but he did not dare to panic. “Just one way,” he answered. “My dad’s meeting me there.” His answer seemed to satisfy the ticket seller, but his dollar was not quite enough. Manfully he dug into his pocket and found a few coins. He was on his way to see the Angels and that consideration steeled him against the agony of seeing his precious savings dissipated.

Less than twenty feet from where he stood as he received his ticket a plainclothes officer of the Los Angeles Police Department was casually watching his actions; he had seen Johnny come in alone and in his judgment he was a year or two too young to be on his own. He knew, of course, about the shooting in Pasadena, but the only ID clue he had been given was a worn-out red jacket; he made no connection in his mind, therefore, between the boy he saw buying a ticket
and the one for whom the Pasadena police were so frantically searching. Instead he was mildly interested in a boy who just possibly might be trying to run away from home.

Johnny turned and looked about the terminal to see where he might wait without being conspicuous. Then he caught sight of a considerable group of children of his own age and he knew at once what to do. He walked over to them, not too rapidly, and sat down at the end of one of the rows. “Hello,” he said to the boy next to him.

“Hello. You going to Disneyland too?”

“Sure.” Johnny wiggled back on the seat and tried to look as though he belonged there.

The police officer was satisfied. He had noted the brief interchange and took it for mutual recognition between kids who knew one another even though they weren’t pals. He turned his attention back to the station and continued his lookout for any signs of pickups, narcotics violations, or persons who absented themselves for too long an interval in the washrooms.

Johnny McGuire, his shoe box on his lap, sat quietly, content not to push his luck, until the bus was ready to load. Then he rose with all of the others and boarded the vehicle as routinely as possible. He completely fooled the police officer who had given him one more inspection while he had been in line. Instinctively Johnny played the role of a boy properly out for a holiday; the fact that he was apparently carrying his lunch added an authentic touch.

As the bus pulled out he felt a wonderful sense of freedom. He had passed through the most difficult part, all that he had to do now was to sit still until the vehicle he was on took him safely and securely to Anaheim.

In abrupt contrast, tensions were rising sharply in the McGuire home. Less than ten minutes after Maggie had received the call from her son, Mike had burst in the door, hoping for some news. In view of the circumstances, he had been excused from work. When he had been told about the telephone call, he had raged at the traffic delay which had prevented him from getting home in time to receive it himself.

The small apartment was hardly able to contain him as he tried desperately to think of something to do. Mounting worry over his son’s whereabouts, and the frustration of forced inaction, had whetted his nerves raw. Twice he picked up the phone to call the police and twice he slammed it back onto its cradle.

Maggie sat silently, afraid to move or utter a sound. She had repeated the phone conversation over and over, three or four times, to the best of her ability until Mike was satisfied that he had extracted every particle of information she had to give. Now he was a caged lion, torn between wanting to go out and search, and the desire to be at home to receive the first bit of additional news that came in.

When the doorbell sounded once briefly, Mike whipped open the only entrance to the apartment and found himself
confronting Virgil Tibbs once more. “You found him?” he demanded.

Tibbs shook his head. “Not yet—but we will. I’m glad you’re home; I came to ask one or two more questions.”

“Come in, then.” Once more Mike despised his visitor for his black skin—he desperately wanted a white man to help him, someone he could rely on and trust.

Virgil knew that; he read the tension in the atmosphere as though it had been a newspaper headline. He did not blame the McGuires, they were under a fearful strain and to some degree he shared it with them.