Johnny Get Your Gun (18 page)

“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.

The baseball action was still going on: a handful of gray uniforms were now mixed in as the Detroit players added their contribution to the effort. Up on the vaulting framework above the scoreboard the tiny car was visible just where it had
been. Angrily Tibbs reminded himself that it could not have moved, he had ordered the power cut off.

Bowsfield touched him on the shoulder; he turned to find himself facing a firmly built man whose face he instantly recognized. “This is Virgil Tibbs,” Ted said quickly and then completed the introduction. “Gene Autry.”

As soon as the two men had shaken hands Tibbs took the floor. “Mr. Autry, some time ago at a personal appearance you spent a moment with that boy up there on the sign. You’ve been his hero ever since, and he trusts you completely. Will you help?”

“In any way that I can.”

“Sir, by any chance do you have any of your cowboy regalia here at the stadium, anything at all? Even a ten-gallon hat?”

The owner of the Angels studied him for a moment. “I haven’t made pictures for years,” he said.

“You forget television, sir. Johnny McGuire, the boy up there, has seen you repeatedly. To him you’re the greatest cowboy who ever lived.” Virgil drew breath. “That goes for both of us,” he added.

Gene Autry understood, he picked up a telephone which sat on the counter of the private box. “Get me Disneyland,” he directed.

Tibbs stood silently beside Ted Bowsfield while the connection was made, and the call put through to the administrative offices at the amusement park.

“This is Gene Autry, at the stadium. I need something and I need it fast. I want a horse sent over here, fully saddled and ready to ride. A chestnut with a white blaze if you can do it, one that might pass for Champion.”

He listened a moment.

“That’s right, I don’t care who you have to take it away from, this is an emergency and a big one. Please get that horse over here on the double. One more thing—don’t come in the back way. Bring it in through the front gate, it’ll be open and someone will be waiting for you. No more than fifteen minutes at the outside, never mind what it costs.”

He hung up. “They’ll do it,” he said, then he looked at Tibbs. “Do you think that this is going to work?”

“When you met that boy,” Virgil answered, “you called him your pal. He’s an underprivileged lad; to him that was next to the voice of God.”

“I used to sing a song that might apply here,” Autry said. He led the way out of the executive boxes and across the aisle to the office area.

“‘Back in the Saddle Again,’” Tibbs supplied.

Autry looked at him. “You remember?”

“I was a boy too, sir; not too long ago. A Negro boy in the deep South, but that didn’t make any difference.”

The Angel owner led the way into his office suite. Then he slipped out of his coat and dropped it across a chair. He opened a closet door and reached in for a replacement. “Years ago,” he said, “a boy was sick in a hospital. It was in
Boston as I remember. He asked for me and I went out to see him—in a business suit. He took one look and burst out crying. Then he said that I wasn’t Gene Autry because Gene Autry was a cowboy. I didn’t look the part. I learned something that day; now I’m prepared.”

“Suppose we wait outside,” Virgil suggested.

Eight minutes later Gene Autry, the heels of his cowboy boots clicking on the hard concrete, joined them. Virgil Tibbs took one careful look at him and his heart lifted; if this wasn’t the answer, then he doubted if one existed on the face of the earth. “I’ve just lost twenty years,” he said.

Autry gave him a shrewd look. “You may not be the best detective that Pasadena has,” he commented, “although I suspect that you are. But you’re a hell of a good psychologist. Let’s go.”

Ted Bowsfield drove the golf cart down the ramps with Gene Autry beside him and Virgil hanging on the back. When they reached the foyer area the horse had not yet appeared; they dismounted from the vehicle and reconciled themselves to an unavoidable delay.

Virgil turned to one of the several waiting ushers. “Any change?” he asked.

“No, sir, nothing we can see.”

At that precise moment inspiration hit Tibbs. “Is the organist for the stadium still here by any chance?” he asked Ted.

“I think he is, do you want him?”

“Yes.”

Bowsfield nodded and the usher took off in the golf cart. There was still no sign of the horse from Disneyland or any guarantee that one had been dispatched. Gene Autry was turning toward the lobby telephones when a girl came hurrying out from the office there. “Your horse is on the way, Mr. Autry,” she reported. “It should be here in the next few minutes, if the traffic isn’t too bad.”

“It had better not be. Thank you.” Autry replied.

The whine of the golf cart drew attention; it pulled up with the usher driving and a slender man beside him. Virgil did not waste time asking for his identity. “Can you play ‘Back in the Saddle Again’?” he inquired.

“In what key would you like it?” the organist responded.

“I’ll leave that up to you. Now here’s the plot—it’s vitally important that that poor frantic boy out there be completely convinced who it is when he sees Mr. Autry appear. The right music would help a lot.”

“I understood, leave it to me. Just give me a cue when to begin.”

A squeal of rubber came from outside as a horse van drew up. “Who’s the stage manager?” Autry asked.

“Virgil,” Ted Bowsfield replied.

“Then let’s go,” Tibbs said. “All we need is time to get back where we were and to make sure that someone is still standing by that power switch. When it’s time for the
organ music I’ll signal, you’ll know. Ted, can we go now?”

A few seconds later, in the golf cart, they were making excellent time down the deserted wide aisle provided for the patrons, then they dived down a ramp and were back in the underground complex. At full speed the cart stirred up a considerable breeze as it plunged down the last long tunnel and came out once more close to the left field bullpen. Sergeant Wilson was waiting for them there.

“No one, absolutely no one, is to run out onto the field under any circumstances,” Virgil directed. “Even if he has to be restrained by force. That includes the boy’s father. If we get the boy down, we’re still not entirely out of the woods. We’ve got to disarm him and keep him from bolting.”

“Right,” Wilson agreed.

Virgil looked up and saw the organist wave from the press box area. “It looks like we’re all set. Ted, can you get the players in off the field? Just as though an inning had ended?”

“Of course.”

“All right, let’s get on with our little play.” Tibbs locked his fingers together and squeezed them. “At least we’ve got a top star.”

There was the whine of a golf cart and an usher appeared. “Mr. Autry wants to know how many shots the boy has fired.”

“Four,” Virgil answered immediately, then he looked at Bowsfield and amplified the statement. “One into a playmate’s
house, two when he was stopped in the street, one at your usher. Correction: not
at
your usher, he deliberately aimed at the ceiling. The nick the bullet made was four feet in front of where your man fell down and almost five feet to the left. Even an inexperienced child couldn’t miss that badly in a confined space at very short range.”