Johnny Get Your Gun

14

At close to a dead run Virgil Tibbs tried to follow the sound of the shot, but in the hard-faced tunnels and corridors under the stadium the noise echoed back and forth from a dozen different directions. Other people erupted onto the scene, players still in uniform, a man in a business suit, two anxious policemen. They converged on the spot where the usher still lay face down in the tunnel. The Angel trainer, clad in white, arrived on the run carrying a first aid kit. Two other men, bearing a folded stretcher, were close behind him.

As the trainer began to run expert hands over the man on the floor, the usher began slowly to come to life. He raised himself on his hands and knees, shook his head as though to clear it of disbelief, and then with the trainer’s assistance managed to get to his feet.

“Are you all right?” the man in the business suit demanded anxiously.

The usher rubbed the sides of his face with the palms of his hands. “I…I guess so.” His knees were visibly shaking; the trainer broke a capsule and held it under his nose.

“What happened?”

The pungent fumes from the capsule helped the man to recover himself. “A kid shot at me.”

“Where is he?”

“He ran away.”

“What happened? Tell us.” There was urgency in the businessman’s voice.

“Well, first I saw this kid up above. He wanted to come down here and I told him it wasn’t allowed. Then, when I came down here myself, he showed up again, coming down the tunnel.” He nodded to indicate the direction.

“Go on, don’t waste time.”

“Like I said, this kid came walking down the corridor. He wanted to go to the clubhouse; he said something about Tom Satriano.”

Virgil clenched his teeth in frustration, then he listened as the man went on.

“I told him he couldn’t, then the kid got ugly. He had on a cowboy suit. He drew what I thought was a toy gun and threatened me with it. I walked right up to him and then he fired; the gun was real and I don’t know how he missed me. I hit the deck and the kid ran. That’s all.”

“Was he aiming at you, as far as you could tell, when the gun went off?” Tibbs asked.

“Right at me. Like I said, I don’t know how he missed.”

The sergeant in charge of the stadium police hurried up, closely followed by a tense Mike McGuire. “The boy,” the sergeant said. “He’s up on the big A. The maintenance car was unlocked. He got into it. We can’t control it from down here, but my men’ll handle it.”

“No!” Mike McGuire’s voice cut with a sharp edge. “You might hurt him. Leave it to me.”

Virgil spoke then, quietly, but with conviction. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take over: this is a rather special case.” He looked at the sergeant. “I don’t know your name.”

“Wilson.”

“Sergeant Wilson, I know that this is your responsibility, but I know quite a lot about that boy and I think that I understand him.”

The man in the business suit interrupted. “May I ask who you are?”

“Virgil Tibbs, Pasadena police. This boy is our problem, it’s my case.”

“Ted Bowsfield, Virgil, I’m stadium manager for the Angels.”

Tibbs nodded his acknowledgment to save time. “The boy isn’t dangerous, the account that your usher just gave you isn’t entirely correct. I realize, of course, that he’s been badly frightened. I think I can get the boy to come down and resolve all this.”

“Then go ahead, we’ll help you all we can.”

Virgil did not wait for any more; he ran quickly up the stairs to the field box level, focused his attention on the scoreboard and its towering supporting frame, and took in the whole situation at a glance. Then he went back down immediately to confer with Wilson. “We’ve got a little time,” he said. “For the moment the boy isn’t going anywhere, at least I hope to heaven he isn’t.”

“I’m with you.”

“All right. First of all, please get your uniformed men out of sight of the boy, it may lessen his tension a little. Have somebody stand by the power cutoff for that car and set up a line of communication so that we can get word to him quickly if we have to.”

“Good. What else?”

“I’d like a thorough check of the tunnel, the boy may have thrown away his gun while he was running. I’ll cover the area outside.”

Mike McGuire seized Tibbs by the arm. “While you’re talking my boy is in danger. Someone’s got to climb up there and help him. I’ll do it, he won’t shoot me.” He let go his hold and started down the tunnel; after a step or two he broke into a run. Virgil paced him until they both burst out into the sharp sunlight. Against the glare of the high bright sky Mike pulled up, and shuddered. Then he formed a megaphone with his hands and before Tibbs could stop him called up. “Hang on, son. I’ll come and help you!”

A thin, terror-racked voice came down from the car high above. “Don’t, Daddy, don’t!” The words ended in a hysterical sob.

Mike felt a strong hand on his shoulder, turned, and looked into the dark face close to his. “You’re a brave man, Mr. McGuire,” Virgil said, “but don’t try it, not now. Johnny is completely terrified; if you try to help him, he might do anything.”

Mike stood, his head tipped far back, staring at the high perch where his son was isolated.

“We’ve got to calm him down-to let the fright and terror drain out of him.”

McGuire’s body shook with suppressed emotion. “But somebody’s got to climb up there and save him…I’m his father.”

“I know, but that doesn’t make you a steeplejack. When Johnny calms down, I think we can persuade him to come down by himself. In that way no one will be hurt. It will mean a great deal to him that you’re here to welcome him. But if he had the idea, even for a moment, that you were coming up to punish him…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Then what do we do?”

Virgil looked at him. “I suggest that you sit in the stands-close by. I’ve got an idea that might work. But I can’t try it with you here.”

Mike gathered himself and clenched his fists. It was hard for him, almost beyond the power of his self-discipline, but he finally gained control over himself. Slowly, and reluctantly, he walked to the railing at the edge of the field. He climbed over and then sat down in the front row.

Tibbs returned to the entrance to the tunnel to find a tall, well set-up man in an Angel uniform waiting there. “I’m Tom Satriano,” he said. “Can I help?”

“Yes,” Virgil answered, “you can. How many of the players are still in uniform?”

“Most of the crew. Fifteen or twenty.”

“Do you think they would be willing to help out?”

“Of course; that’s why we waited.”

“Then here’s what I’d like to ask, and I know it’s an imposition. Would some of you be willing to come out here and start a little action in the general area of the scoreboard? As though you were warming up for a game.”

“I’ve got it,” Satriano said, turned, and ran with a professional athlete’s skill down the tunnel. In less than two minutes players began to appear on the field. They filtered out of the dugout, paired off, and began to throw baseballs back and forth. As more appeared they took places closer to the left field bullpen. Someone with a bat began to tap easy grounders to a group of players who fielded the ball and then returned it. Jim Fregosi dropped a square white base marker on the grass and began to practice pivoting movements for the double play. Bobby Knoop joined him; together they scooped in grounders, tagged the base, and then simulated the throw to first.

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.

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.”

The stadium manager was visibly startled. “You see things, don’t you,” he commented.

“That’s my business,” Tibbs replied.

The usher departed with the desired information and instructions to deliver a message at the clubhouse. Moments later Bill Rigney, the Angel field manager, appeared at the top of the dugout and waved his arm. Immediately the mock baseball practice ceased; the players from both teams ran at a jog toward the bench and quickly filled up most of the available space. In the sinking sun of late afternoon the vast stadium seemed quite abruptly to become stagnant and still.

In the third base stands, close to the bullpen, Mike McGuire sat silently, a policeman beside him apparently only as a fellow spectator. There were still many people in and around the baseball park, but almost all of them were intentionally well out of sight. Far across the field the executive boxes were well filled, but at that distance the occupants were barely visible. Thousands upon thousands of empty silent seats looked out unseeing at the broad spread of grass, at the deserted base paths, and the inert pitcher’s mound.

Then the organist began to play. He started very softly, so much so that the first wisps of the music seemed to drift almost naturally across the now still playing area. Gradually it began to take a little more coherent form as it increased very slightly in volume and became clearer in context. What had been only a featureless type of improvisation began to take on a certain flavor which is associated only with the great American West. A snatch of “Ghost Riders in the Sky” echoed and was gone, a few seconds later there was a suggestion of “Red River Valley.”

It was so artfully accomplished that Virgil found himself being swept up into the mood. Through a kind of alchemy the skill of the lone musician was transforming a busy corner of rapidly expanding, freeway-striped Orange County into a vast and lonely prairie; the bare ground around second base seemed almost to be waiting for the restless tumbleweeds to come rolling by, propelled by a warm summer wind.

The harmonies began to swell and a certain feeling of subdued triumph impregnated them, it was almost impossible to resist the spell that was being created. The long curved rows of tens of thousands of empty seats remained motionless and mute, but life was in the stadium now, a life that could be heard and almost felt.

Then, behind home plate where the umpires normally appeared, a single figure came into view. It was a long way from the extreme end of left field, but it could not be mistaken-it was a man on horseback. His face was all but hidden by his wide-brimmed Stetson. As he began to ride slowly forward the chaps he wore on his legs were outlined and the pattern of his brilliantly decorated shirt began to be visible.

With a lofty disdain of the sacred areas of the baseball diamond the fine horse lifted his forefeet elegantly and stepped across the pitcher’s mound as though it were a mere slight hump on some vast and featureless grazing land. The music grew clearer, it began to reach for something without quite attaining it; then it tried again, came nearer to the elusive melody, and finally, in a burst of triumph, captured it. Proud of its conquest it swung into the introduction to “Back in the Saddle Again,” now clear and bright.

The well-trained horse at an unshaken even pace walked across the wide dirt area at second base and reached the outfield grass. The musical introduction ended on a sustained note and then the well-known melody burst out in full flower. The horse paused on direction and stood in splendid silhouette while the song was finished. Then, when the organ swung into “Tumbling Tumbleweeds” the horse again came forward, broke into a slow gallop, and turned toward the left field bullpen area. Within a hundred feet of the gate it stopped when it was reined in. The rider on its back reached up and with a fine sweeping motion took off his hat.

And then from high above the stadium, from the tiny sanctuary which had crawled so far up on the soaring A-frame, there came an excited, bursting, joyful cry in the treble voice of a young boy, “GENE AUTRY!!!”

Gulping, Virgil turned and swung his arm down to indicate that the power was to be turned on. He found Charles Dempsey behind him, anxious to be heard. “I’m sorry fo’ what I done,” he said urgently.

“Don’t do it again,” Tibbs said with grim sharpness. He had no more time for Dempsey at that moment, the drama was nearing its climax.

“Hi, Johnny, how’s my pal?” the famous voice called out.

There was no answer.

“Can’t you say, ‘Hi, Gene’?” the man on horseback called.

It came back down, joy mixed with fright and awe. “Hi, Gene!”

“I can’t hear you, you’re too high!” Autry lifted his left hand and cupped it behind his ear.

“One,” Virgil began, counting the seconds, “two, three, four, five, six, se-” At that point the car began to descend. It came down slowly and steadily until it was close to the top of the scoreboard-then it stopped.

“That’s better!” On the back of his splendid mount the cowboy rode at a gallop in as big a circle as the outfield would allow. Virgil Tibbs checked the position of Mike McGuire and saw that his attention was riveted on his boy, but that he was making no attempt to leave the place where he was sitting. Apparently he understood that he could help now only by keeping out of the way. When the short ride was finished, the man on horseback drew up, pulled a gun from the holster which hung at his hip and fired into the air.

The shot rang out with raw power.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Don’t you remember me? Where’s your cowboy greeting?”

Quickly Virgil looked aloft once more and saw the head and shoulders of the boy who had been transplanted into another, better, and happier world. He saw him reach down for his own gun, hold it in both hands, and then fire it overhead into the air.

“Five,” Tibbs said aloud to himself.

“Attaboy, Johnny, you do remember me!” Autry reined up tightly on his horse; in answer the animal rose up on its hind legs and for a moment pawed the air with its front hoofs.

“How about Champion?” The rider drew his gun and fired overhead once more. “You aren’t going to forget him, are you?”

With intense concentration Virgil watched the boy. He saw his gun, he saw his hands go up as he pointed the weapon toward the sky, and then he heard the sharp bark of sound as the last shot was fired.

He was weak in the knees, but he still had his job to do. He turned toward the lanky teen-ager who still stood, open-mouthed beside him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Charles Dempsey,” he said. “You are under arrest for the murder of Willie Orthcutt.”