Johnny Get Your Gun Read online

  The gambit failed. He looked up to find that he was staring at four dark Negro faces, faces that looked at him as though he were a cornered animal they could toy with for their own amusement. He would have been terrified except for one thing—the gun, the wonderful protector he held hidden in his right hand. He now saw his father’s wisdom in owning it and always keeping it close, ready for immediate use. The gun might be the only thing that would save him now, a Tennessee boy, from the clear danger he saw in the four black faces.

  The tall one, who seemed a little older, spoke up. “Maybe you’re lost, how about that?”

  “I come here all the time,” Johnny flared. He did not dare to show weakness.

  “Ya do, huh?” that first one said. “Then what’s the name o’ this street? Tell us, go ahead.”

  Johnny didn’t know, he hadn’t looked at the sign on the corner. “You leave me alone!” he demanded, putting all the thin authority he could into his voice.

  “Whatcha say that for, huh? You don’t like us, maybe?”

  “You’re niggers,” Johnny responded.

  One of the two remaining faces that had stayed silent until now reacted sharply. “That ain’t a word we like,” he said.

  The tall one spoke again. “Kid, we don’t like to be called that. You oughta know. You from the South?”

  “Tennessee.” Johnny hadn’t meant to reply, but the answer was so easy he gave it.

  “Well, that ain’t too bad a place, but it ain’t too good neither. You talk like maybe you come from Mississippi.”

  “Never been there,” Johnny said.

  “Maybe you’d like to come ridin’ with us. We’ll take you home.”

  “Don’t ride with niggers,” Johnny flung back. He backed away, several steps this time, and they followed him, moving the same distance that he had.

  “Kid, we tol’ ya not to use that word! You do it again and you got trouble!”

  A little desperately Johnny turned and looked all around him—for someone, anyone—for a car coming by. It was strangely silent and the single streetlight was back at the corner where he had gotten off the bus.

  “Let’s see the bag,” the first boy demanded, and grabbed for it. Johnny drew his hand back quickly; the bag came off in his tormentor’s fingers and the naked gun was left exposed, pointed toward the quartet which faced him.

  The fourth face spoke at last. “He’s got a toy gun—look.”

  Johnny backed two more steps and held the gun level; he had fired it once and he could do it again. “It’s no toy,” he said. “It’s real.”

  “Better give it to me.”

  “No.”

  “How come you got it? Your father’s a cop, heh?”

  “No,” Johnny repeated.

  Then silently, as though they had rehearsed it, the four dark faces separated; the tall one began to walk behind him while the two quiet ones moved to flank him on each side. Johnny froze his attention on the one still facing him in front. He was frightened, but his fear gave him a kind of coldness. He formed a quick and binding partnership with the gun in his hand; they were afraid of it, he knew, and that meant that they were afraid of him.

  The boy before him tried hard to take command with his voice. “Kid, gimme that gun!”

  Without thinking Johnny moved to take one more step backwards, his left foot was still in the air when he felt two sudden strong hands seize his upper arms, pinning them to his sides. The outrage of being manhandled burst the thin bubble of his self-control. He yanked hard, blindly, to get himself free—he remembered doing that, then everything disintegrated in a violent blast of sound. He knew that the gun had fired itself, it had defended him, but nothing else would take shape. The world spun around him and a hoard of demons zoomed down upon him from the sky.

  The hands that had been holding him let go, they actually pushed him away. He staggered forward to keep his balance, looked and saw a human face in sudden agony and shock. The boy who had first stopped him, his hands clutched over his abdomen, was slowly sinking to the ground.

  Johnny stood stock-still, looking at what the gun had done. It had not been his own doing, only the gun’s—a living deadly thing.

  He expected people to come running, to seize him, for the cops to pull up within seconds in their black and white cars, but the echo of the blast was stillness and the street remained as deserted as before.

  Instinct seized him then; it caused him to whirl about, to take one last desperate look at the thing on the ground, and then to run harder, faster, longer than he ever had before. He saw an opening between two buildings and turned down it. It went all the way through to the next street; his heart was pounding hard when he reached the end of the passageway, but terror still had complete possession of him and the stabbing pains in his chest went unheeded. He saw that the street was free except for two cars retreating the other way; he dashed across it, found another opening, and flung himself inside.

  He had to rest for a few precious seconds. His heart seemed to be trying to pound its way out of his chest, but he dared not heed it in his desperation. Gulping air, he set off once more, cutting between the buildings, stopping momentarily when his body forced him to, but driving himself to the limit that his burning brain could force out of his body.

  He did not know how long he went on, how many streets he crossed without being seen, but when he reached a wider and busier thoroughfare he knew that he had to stop. He looked down at his right hand and saw that he was still carrying the gun; he had not dared to throw it away. Knowing that it must not be seen, he pressed back into the shadows. His desperate flight had exhausted him. For a few seconds he did not care what happened to him, then instinct returned and he looked about quickly for a solution to his problem.

  Only a few feet away there was a tall trash can without a lid. He went to it and looked inside; there was a pile of waste barely visible in the semidarkness and, jammed halfway down one side, a shoe box.

  He pulled it out, took off the lid, and saw the wet and soggy body of a dead kitten. The sight turned his stomach; in one automatic motion he dumped out the pathetic little body, sobbed, and then burst into tears as he carefully but quickly put his gun into the box and pushed it under his arm.

  With the natural cunning of the pursued he went to the corner and forced himself to cross Orange Grove Avenue in a quiet and normal manner. When he reached the sanctuary of the other side he saw that there was a huge ravine ahead of him and he knew that it should give him a place to hide. He climbed down the steep slope of the Arroyo Seco in the near darkness, step by uncertain step, until he found himself at the bottom in a well-wooded part of the park.

  He made his way from point to point, deeper into the gully, until he found a place where he was sure that no one would come before daylight. He crawled underneath a thick clump of bushes, heedless of the scratches being inflicted on him, and wormed his way into the center of the dense planting. There he carefully lay down, grasped the shoe box tightly in his arms, and surrendered, utterly exhausted, relaxing into a kind of stupor. Minutes later he was asleep and breathing deeply.

  6

  During the first few terrible seconds after the bark of the gun and the crash of the bullet through the front living room window, Ralph Hotchkiss’s reaction was one of shocked disbelief. Then a burning demand for action seized him and he lunged toward the front door of his home.

  He heard the word “No!” and then felt the impact as his wife flung herself in front of him. She threw her arms around his waist. “No, no!” she repeated. “Don’t go, don’t, he’ll kill you!”

  The impact of her words hit him. He quickly pulled Estelle down to the floor and pressed her shoulders there.

  “Don’t get up,” he ordered. “Stay right there. I’ll call the police.” As he finished speaking the phone rang.

  Holding himself bent over to make a smaller target he ran to the phone, lifted it off, and quickly said, “Yes?”

  “This is Mr. Tibbs,” the voice sa
id. “We took the guard off your home, Mr. Hotchkiss, when we picked up a young boy we thought was Johnny McGuire. It was a mistake, so the officers will be back shortly.”

  Ralph tried to make his voice sound sane. “We’re being shot at. A bullet came through our front window just a few seconds ago!”

  “Turn off the lights and keep down. “We’ll go after the boy at once. You’ll have protection within five minutes.”

  “I hope we last that long,” Hotchkiss retorted. His nerves were quivering so badly he was unable to think what he was saying. Then something approaching sanity returned. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not myself.”

  “Understood, now get those lights off.” Tibbs hung up.

  “Dad, what’s happening?” came from behind Hotchkiss. He turned quickly to find his son.

  “Down on the floor, Billy, now!” he ordered, then he ran to the light switch and turned it off. Feeling the shielding comfort of the darkness, he returned to where he had left his family prone in the middle of the floor.

  “That was Tibbs, the policeman,” he said. “He told us to keep down and to turn off the lights. They’ll be back any minute.”

  “I hope so,” his wife answered him, a strange calmness in her voice.

  Then it was quiet in the Hotchkiss household. Billy, knowing that he was the cause of it all, needed no cautioning to make him remain still. He tried to stay absolutely motionless and regulated his breathing as best he could.

  Outside faint traffic noises could be heard; from almost a block away a city bus made familiar churning sounds as it pulled away from the curb. From inside the house the soft whirr of an electric clock could just be detected.

  Then headlights came down the street and there was the sharper, clearer sound of vehicles pulling up and stopping.

  “The police are back.” Hotchkiss raised himself enough to peer out the window. He saw two official cars with red lights on and a third just arriving. A few moments later there was a knock at the door. “Mr. Hotchkiss, can you hear me?” a voice asked.

  “Yes, clearly.”

  “Good. We’re back and looking for the boy now. We have men all around your home, but stay where you are, with the lights off, until we can make a thorough check. We don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Agreed.” Nevertheless after a minute or two Hotchkiss sat up, satisfied that the danger was past, and looked out the window. Across the street, in the wooded area, he could see flashing lights and hear the voices of several men. Then compassion returned to him and he hoped that they would not hurt the boy when they found him. In the cool calmness of the darkened room he realized that they would not do that. He also began to understand how deeply his own son must have injured the youngster outside.

  He also thought that the father had to be some kind of an idiot to keep a loaded revolver where a child could get at it.

  Again there was a knock on the door, a quieter one this time. “This is Mr. Tibbs,” Ralph heard. “You can turn on the lights now, Mr. Hotchkiss. And I’d like to come in if you please.”

  Stiffly and uncertain of himself, he got up, went to the light switch, and then opened the door. He found Tibbs there and also Barry Rothberg. As the policemen came in Estelle Hotchkiss got to her feet; her composure was badly shaken, but she made an effort nonetheless. “Will you have some coffee?”

  “Thank you,” Tibbs said. “We’re a little shaken too.”

  That broke the ice. “I’m very sorry for the experience you’ve just been through,” Virgil said to his host. “I told you what happened; we put two and two together and got the wrong four. If Chief Addis feels that it was our fault for pulling the protection away from your home too soon, and he very well may, then we’ll pay for the window and the damage to your woodwork.”

  Hotchkiss shook his head. “Never mind that, we’re insured. I only hope now that you find the boy and get the gun away from him before anything more happens.”

  “Amen,” Tibbs agreed.

  There was a strained silence for a short while, then Estelle Hotchkiss reappeared with a tray of empty coffee cups, cream, and sugar. “The kettle’s on,” she announced. “It will just be a couple of minutes.” She set out the cups carefully in front of her husband and the two policemen.

  Although he was at the moment a guest, Virgil’s thoughts were very much elsewhere. He kept listening for any indication from the men outside that the boy had been found. If and when he was, then it was his intention to take him home himself and make sure that the child was not ill-treated. Having formed his estimate of Mike McGuire, he considered it a definite possibility that he might have to remain present until Johnny was at least safely in bed.

  Estelle came in with the coffee and poured it out with hands which shook just a little. “Will they find him?” she asked.

  “I believe so,” Tibbs answered her easily. “He’s only a small boy and he can’t get too far on foot. It may take a little while because we don’t want to frighten him any further if we can avoid it, and of course we have to recover the gun he has, or had, without any more accidents.”

  “What will you do to him?” Billy asked.

  “I’m going to take him home myself,” Virgil answered, “and help him if I can. He’s not as old as you are, you know.”

  Billy hung his head. “Will you arrest him?”

  “I don’t think so. Part of the decision there rests with your father.”

  The telephone rang and Billy jumped to answer it. He listened for only a moment and then held out the instrument; Tibbs took it, spoke his name, and then actually seemed to turn pale. “I’ll go there directly,” he said and hung up.

  He turned toward his hostess. “I’m very sorry,” he apologized, “but I have to leave at once. Please excuse me.” Within seconds he was out of the door and literally running for his car. Because of the time element it was hard for him to connect what had happened so recently at the Hotchkiss home with the report he had just been given, but he felt a definite tightening of his nerves.

  He headed westward, driving as rapidly as he could without going into code three condition, toward a familiar destination. As he did so he tried to decide if it was possible that Johnny McGuire had somehow made his way without delay to another part of the city, or whether he now had two similar cases on his hands.

  He pulled up and parked near to the emergency entrance of the Huntington Memorial Hospital. As he went inside he noted at once a gangling Negro youth who was waiting in the corridor. He knew that he wanted to talk to this young man, but his first concern was for the patient who had just been brought in. The receptionist nurse, who knew him, quickly shook her head. “You’ll have to wait, Mr. Tibbs,” she told him. “The boy is in critical condition; they’ve taken him into surgery. Even if he pulls through, I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to see him tonight. At least I don’t think so.” As she finished speaking she inclined her head, very slightly, toward the teen-ager standing in the hallway.

  “Thank you,” he said. “If you get any further word, let me know immediately. Will you, please?”

  “Of course—I’ve already asked them to keep me informed.”

  In a manner which seemed almost casual Tibbs turned away from the desk, walked down the corridor a short way, and then turned to speak to the obviously tense youth who seemed to be not quite sure where he was. “Did you bring in the boy who was shot?” he asked.

  The young man looked slightly down at him from his six foot height and took his time before he answered. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “A friend of yours?” Tibbs asked.

  Despite his obvious tension, the young Negro took a studied time before he answered. Then he said simply, “Yeah.”

  “It’s a good thing you brought him immediately,” Tibbs told him. “It’s possible that you may have saved his life.”

  He was ignored.

  This was not a new game, he had encountered it many times before. Pretending he had not noticed, he took his own time before
he put his next question. Then he asked, “What happened?”

  The Negro youth lifted his shoulders by way of reply and then let them settle back into position.

  Once more Tibbs waited, then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small leather case, opened it, and displayed his badge. He very seldom did that, if he had to offer credentials he preferred a simple calling card. In this instance the badge itself was the proper answer.

  “Why didn’t cha tell me?” the tall boy asked.

  “I just did.” There was no edge to the words, they came out only as a flat statement. “Who are you?”

  The teen-ager shifted his weight. “Charlie Dempsey. They call me Sport.”

  “What happened, Sport?”

  “Well, we was out drivin’ in my car, doin’ nothin’ much, when we seen this kid. He looked like he was real lost so I stopped. I figured maybe he needed some help.”

  “Just like that.”

  Again the shoulders rose and fell in a slow movement. “I figured if we took the kid home, we might get a dollar or two for the trouble.”

  Tibbs nodded his head slowly as if that explanation had satisfied him. “Did you get out?”

  “No, Beater, he got out. Nice and friendly-like he walked up to the kid. When they started talking then we all got out, I did and so did Jeff and Harry. Jus’ got out, that’s all. As soon as we got up near to the kid he called us a bunch o’ niggers.”

  “I don’t like that word,” Tibbs said.

  For the first time Dempsey looked at him with something like interest in his eyes.

  “Well we didn’t like it neither and we tol’ him so. Just nice like. He was only a little kid.”

  “Was he wearing a jacket?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What color?”

  “Red.”

  “New?”

  “Naw, old. His arms was stickin’ out the elbows.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “Well, all we seen was this paper bag he had. Beater, he asked the kid what was in it and he said his lunch.”

  “You didn’t believe that.”

  “’Course not. Then all of a sudden the bag falls off, there the kid is standin’ with the gun. First I thought it was a water pistol or somethin’, then the kid he says it’s real.”