Johnny Get Your Gun Read online

  Mike indicated that they would do as directed. The realization of what might possibly happen was clear in his mind and he was very much sobered.

  “Before I go, I’d like to have a little more information,” Virgil said. “It could help us to find your son sooner.”

  “That’s all right,” Mike responded.

  “I take it that Johnny liked his radio very much.”

  “It was his birthday present, he listens to it all the time. He’s nuts about the Angels baseball team and he hears all the games when he ain’t in school.”

  “Does he follow the Dodgers too?”

  “No, he don’t like the Dodgers, just the Angels. The Dodgers, they don’t play on TV. Mostly he likes the Angels because of Gene Autry. You know about him?”

  “Everybody knows about Gene Autry,” Virgil answered. He stressed the first word just a little, he could not help it.

  “Well, Johnny met him once. Just a quick handshake, but it was a big thing for him. Autry called him his pal and Johnny never forgot it. That was back home. Now Johnny wants to be a ball player so he can be on his team—Autry’s I mean.”

  “Someday soon it might be a good idea to take him to a game,” Tibbs suggested.

  Mike was unaware of the hidden question in that simple-sounding sentence, he only knew that he felt obliged to say something in response. “I was planning to do that, but then somethin’ came up….”

  “The accident?”

  Mike looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You know about that too?”

  “You mentioned it on the telephone to Mr. Hotchkiss.”

  Again the muscles of Mike’s jaw worked. “I guess maybe I did.” He drew breath and let it out again very slowly.

  “Could Johnny have taken any money with him?” Tibbs asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  Mike shook his head. “He gets fifty cents allowance when I can spare it, but it’s always all gone before the end of the week.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Maggie said.

  Her husband looked at her, surprised and with a slight show of rising temper.

  “It was a secret I promised to keep for him,” she explained, her lower lip quivering in spite of herself. “He hardly ever spent anything. He’s been saving his money for weeks to buy a catcher’s outfit. He wants to be a baseball catcher. He knows we don’t have much, so he’s been putting it all away.”

  “Do you know where?” Virgil asked quietly.

  Maggie nodded and led the way. Maggie ran her hand quickly across her eyes before she opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out the tin box. She was being forced to betray his little secret.

  The box was not locked: Maggie opened it and handed it to Tibbs. Inside, scotch-taped to the lid, there was a newspaper photograph of Tom Satriano, the first-string catcher of the Angels, in full regalia. Otherwise it was empty.

  Virgil looked at it very carefully before he handed it back. “Do you know how much he had?” he asked. “Could you hazard a guess?”

  Maggie swallowed before she answered. “Sixteen dollars, maybe just a little more. I helped him out a bit when I could—for being a good boy.” She glanced at her husband almost fearfully and was visibly relieved when he showed no further signs of displeasure.

  “Then he’s gone and taken his money with him,” Mike said.

  Tibbs remained silent as he studied the little room with considerable care; with nodded permission from Maggie he checked the inside of all three drawers of the inadequate dresser. When he finally did speak his voice carried a subdued, but unmistakable note of authority. “Mr. McGuire, are you in the habit of spending much time with your son?”

  Mike looked at him sharply. “I do when I can.”

  “Then you have discussed with him what are commonly known as the facts of life?”

  “As much as I thought necessary.” The answer had an edge to it. “Are you sayin’ that he ran away because he didn’t like his old man?”

  “No,” Virgil answered. “My guess is that your son believes in you completely. You are probably his idol—his example for everything he does.”

  “It’s the ball players he’s nuts about,” Mike retorted, but he was clearly mollified nonetheless. He was about to add something when the phone rang once more.

  Mike ran to answer it, then passed the instrument to Tibbs in disappointment. “It’s for you.”

  The conversation was brief and one-sided; after listening for several seconds Virgil hung up and turned to his host. “One more question, Mr. McGuire—a very important one. Have you, in your talks with your son, ever advised him what to do if others oppose him?”

  Mike did not answer immediately, from the tightness of his jaw it was obvious that he was debating whether or not he would. He spoke only after he had apparently decided that he had no other choice. “I told him not to take any…not to let anyone boss him around.”

  In the thick pause that followed the hard, ugly outlines of the missing gun hung in the air.

  “Mr. McGuire,” Tibbs began, “you mentioned that you had planned to take your son to the baseball game and then ‘something came up.’ Later you referred to an accident. I’ve just learned that you were recently cited for reckless driving; according to the officer who saw you, you deliberately tried to force another car off the freeway and into the divider.”

  “Do we have to talk about that now?” Mike flared.

  “Only to ask if your son knows about this matter.”

  “Yes, he knows. He heard me tell his mother.”

  Tibbs did not pursue the matter further, he had learned all that he needed to evaluate the situation which faced him. “I can relieve your minds on one point,” he said. “Whenever a child is missing, no matter what the circumstances, we always make an emergency check of all the hospitals in the vicinity and other facilities. So far no one who could possibly be Johnny has been brought in.”

  He paused to let that much sink in.

  “Since we know why he is away from home, I think we can rule out any likelihood that he’s been hurt. The problem now is to find him and return him to you before he has a chance to do any damage.” He did not emphasize what kind of damage he meant; they knew.

  Maggie shook her head and pressed her hands across her face.

  “Johnny knows how to take care of himself,” Mike said.

  “No, Mr. McGuire, he doesn’t,” Virgil retorted. “No nine-year-old boy does, he simply doesn’t have the physical strength or the mental maturity to fight his way in an adult world. And the possession of a gun doesn’t erase those considerations.” Quietly he got up to leave. “I’m going out to look for your son,” he said simply. “You know what to do if he comes back.”

  Mike, in control of himself once more, replied. “We’ll call you.”

  Tibbs left quickly and shut the door behind him. Once he was outside he began an intensive search of the apartment house area. He was fully aware that children who are afraid to go home frequently huddle somewhere nearby, trying to gather courage to face their irate parents. He looked carefully inside the McGuire car and then checked the others on the parking lot. He examined every public part of the premises and then all of the likely places in the close vicinity where a young boy might elect to hide. He gave no thought to the fact that the child in question was armed with a loaded gun; if he found him it would be time then to deal with that contingency.

  His search was fruitless; after forty minutes he was forced to conclude that what had been a good bet had not paid off. Furthermore, the fact that Johnny McGuire was not there added to the seriousness of the problem. Normally children were quick to lose their tempers and equally quick to recover them; it would be hard for a young boy to remain enraged when he was alone in the dark of early evening and away from his home, family, and dinner. But if such were the case, then the gravity of the matter automatically increased by another damning percentage.

  For the moment defeated, Tibbs got back into his official car, turned on the rad
io, and started for the Hotchkiss house. A thorough search in that vicinity was the next logical step. On the way he drove very slowly, watching the road only as much as was necessary. The rest of the time he gave close attention to the sidewalks, to clusters of shrubbery, and to all of the other places where a nine-year-old boy might be. He found nothing. He passed the silent schoolyard where the whole thing had happened and continued on into the better class neighborhood where the Hotchkiss home was located. He was three or four minutes away from his destination when the radio came alive with his call.

  He picked up the microphone and answered.

  “We’ve got him,” the dispatcher reported. “One of the cruise cars picked him up. About eight or nine, poorly dressed, says his name is Johnny.”

  “Praise God,” Tibbs said. “Do the parents know yet?”

  “No, wanted to check with you first.”

  “Then hold it, bring the boy into the station. The father is an explosive type and I’d better take the boy home myself. I’ll notify the family from there. I want to find out about the gun he has—or had.”

  “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.

  5

  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.

  The adolescent from the car came closer and then Johnny saw that he was dark-skinned. He expected no friendship or help from such as him; he took a step or two backwards and fitted his fingers around the weapon which was now his best protection.

  “Watcha got in the bag, kid, huh?” the Negro boy asked.

  “My lunch,” Johnny answered. It was the only thing he ever carried in such a bag and the only answer he could think to give.

  The older boy from the car turned and called back, “Hey, get this—he says it’s his lunch in the bag.” He bent over in imagined silent mirth.

  Johnny stepped backward once more, far enough to give himself a little distance, not so far as to invite the Negro youth to follow. Then he looked and saw three more figures getting out of the car. One of them was taller, but that was all that he could tell in the darkness.

  “I’m hungry,” the teen-ager in front of him said. “How about givin’ me somethin’ to eat, huh. Got any fried chicken?”

  “It’s my lunch,” Johnny retorted.

  “You’re out kinda late ain’t cha, kid?” Johnny recognized the change of subject as an attack from a new direction.

  “I’m goin’ home,” he answered. “My dad’s gonna meet me.” He hoped that would frighten them off—if they knew his father it would.