Johnny Get Your Gun (3 page)

“I’m from the Pasadena police, Mrs. Hotchkiss,” he said. “My name is Tibbs.”

His speech confirmed what Estelle’s quick eye had already told her, that here was a well-bred person. She had no Negro friends, but she did know that there were many Negroes of superior attainment; she was prepared to accept this man in that category. “Please come in, Mr. Tibbs,” she invited. The tightness was still in her voice, but she knew he would understand that.

Virgil Tibbs walked in just as a dark blue Continental swung into the driveway. The man who got out was on the right side of forty, moderately tall, and cut from the pattern which shapes the modern businessman. He glanced quickly at the police car parked before his door, at the unmarked car with the UHF antenna which was immediately behind it, then at his wife who was still framed in the doorway. He hurried quickly across the lawn.

“What…?” he asked, making the single word do the work of a sentence.

“Nothing—yet,” Estelle replied. She did not need to add that she wanted his help desperately—her face showed that.

When Ralph Hotchkiss came into the foyer of his home he found Virgil Tibbs standing there, quietly waiting for Estelle to explain his presence. “Billy’s in trouble,” she said. “This is Mr. Tibbs from the police.”

Her husband looked startled and concerned. “Come in,” he said, and led the way into the living room where Barry Rothberg was seated beside Billy. One glance at his boy told him that his son had done something seriously wrong. He was relieved only to see that he was apparently all right, at least he had not been run over by a car.

“Billy, this is Mr. Tibbs,” Estelle said, and then realized that without thinking she had presented an adult to an eleven-year-old child. She looked toward the man who had come to help her and apologized with her eyes; Tibbs saw it and understood. Few people took the trouble to be courteous
to policemen any more; his receptions in the past had ranged from simply being taken for granted to downright hostility. There had been exceptions, like the Nunn family at Sun Valley Lodge, but they were relatively few in number.

Hotchkiss waved Virgil to a chair and then sat down beside his son. He rested his arm across his boy’s shoulders as a symbol of his support and then looked at Tibbs. “I take it that you’re in charge,” he said.

Tibbs nodded. “I only know a little of what has happened,” he began, and looked at Billy. “Suppose, son, that you start at the beginning and tell your father and me the whole story. Don’t leave anything out, even if you think that it’s not important. I want to know about everything just as it happened, do you understand?”

Billy looked up once into his father’s face in a silent plea.

“Well, there’s this funny kid at school, his name’s Johnny McGuire.” He stopped.

“Funny in what way?” Tibbs asked.

Billy squirmed and rubbed his palms together before he replied. “Well, he’s just funny. He talks kinda funny-like and his clothes are real funny too. He’s got this one jacket and it’s all worn out—his elbows stick out. But he still wears it all the time. And he goes right off his rocker if you kid him a little. He can’t take a joke, he gets real hot right away.”

“Would you say that he is quick-tempered?”

Billy hesitated. “No, I guess not exactly. He’s not a bad kid, just that he can’t stand being ribbed.”

“Do you play with him very much? Normally is he a friend of yours?”

“No,” Billy admitted. “He doesn’t have any friends because he’s new and he’s funny—like I told you. I tease him some, I guess, because it’s a lot of fun. I guess I shouldn’t.”

“You’ve teased him before, then?”

Billy nodded.

“Suppose now you tell us what happened.”

Billy unfolded his story. He did not realize that the few questions he had answered had been designed to warm him up, to get him talking, he only knew that he would have to tell it all again and that now he could hold nothing back. He felt a sense of relief as he unloaded his burden. He described how he had snatched away the radio and how he had been responsible for its being broken.

“What happened then?” Tibbs prompted.

“I said I was sorry,” Billy answered, “but he didn’t pay any attention. He just cried over it like it was a dead dog or something, I told you he was funny. I know I took away his radio, but what’s listening to the radio? Anybody can do that anytime.”

“Not if he doesn’t have one,” Virgil pointed out. “If you wanted to hear the ball game very badly and didn’t have any kind of a radio, you might be pretty unhappy about it.”

“There’s lots of radios,” Billy countered.

Tibbs looked for a moment at Ralph Hotchkiss who nodded that he understood. At his age Billy did not have any conception of financial limitations, he had never experienced
any and to him the worn-out jacket was a symbol of eccentricity.

“With Mr. Tibbs’s permission I want to say something right here,” Hotchkiss said. “As soon as we are through here, Billy, you and I are going out to buy a new radio for the McGuire boy. It’s going to be a good one and you’re going to have to pay for it out of your own money. Then together we’re going to call on the McGuires. You have a very big apology to make and it’s going to be tonight.”

The words had the wrong effect. The boy who a moment before had been contrite and submissive was transformed; his hands tightened into fists and he drew his feet back under himself as though he wanted to leap away—to seek shelter somewhere and hide. “No!” he exploded. “You don’t understand. Johnny McGuire wants to kill me!”

Ralph Hotchkiss tightened his arm across his son’s shoulders. “Take it easy, Billy,” he cautioned. “You’re getting much too excited. How old did you say that Johnny McGuire is?”

“Nine, maybe…”

“All right then, he’s a little boy—smaller than you are, you said that yourself. I don’t think that we need to worry too much about his trying to do something desperate.”

Billy grew icy cold and made a determined effort to be believed. “Dad, you don’t understand. Johnny’s father’s got a gun, he keeps it loaded in the house.”

Hotchkiss looked quickly at Tibbs. The officer nodded
his head grimly. “It’s very common,” he said. “We advise citizens to register their guns for their own protection, but the great majority don’t bother. There are hundreds of accidental shootings every year. And a lot more that aren’t accidental.”

“By children?” Hotchkiss asked, incredulity in his voice.

“Normally no, but an angry or badly upset child who has access to a loaded gun…” The sentence hung in the air.

Quietly and calmly Virgil Tibbs continued the thread of the interrogation. “Billy, I want to ask you two or three things and I want you to answer me as carefully and as accurately as you can, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tibbs knew then that the persistent barrier which his race often imposed in his work was not present here. He went on, simply a plainclothes policeman talking to a very upset young boy.

“Have you ever been to Johnny McGuire’s home?”

“No. He doesn’t have a home; they live in an apartment.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know. I just know, that’s all.”

“Does Johnny know where you live?”

“Yes.” Virgil detected a downward inflection and took note of it.

“Has he ever been here?”

“Once.” The tinge of guilt was still present.

“Did you invite him over?”

“Yes.” It was more pronounced now.

“This is very important, Billy, and I want you to give me a truthful answer, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you invite Johnny McGuire to come here?”

Billy hesitated and then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I just invited him.”

“A little while ago you told me that he hadn’t any friends because he was ‘funny,’” Virgil said, speaking very clearly. “You implied, if you know what that word means, that you didn’t want to be his friend either, for the same reason. Yet you invited him to your home.”

Dead silence.

Tibbs waited until the full meaning had sunk in, then he continued with calculated quiet and clarity. “Billy, you have a very beautiful home here—a much better than average home. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy knew that he had been trapped.

“Did you bring him here just to tease him a little—to show him how much better your home was than the place where he lives?”

Billy’s answer was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Ralph Hotchkiss stirred in his seat, but was wise enough this time to remain silent.

“Billy,” Tibbs looked at him steadily, “did you ever try to be a friend to Johnny McGuire? Any time at all?”

“I guess not.”

Tibbs eased the pressure. “That’s all right, there’s no reason why you should if you didn’t want to. It’s your privilege to choose your own friends. But Johnny McGuire has been here and does know where you live.”

“Yes, I remember now—when he was here he said that there’s only one bathroom in his apartment. That’s how I found out about that.”

“Good, I’m glad that you remembered. Now why do you think that you are in physical danger from Johnny McGuire?”

Billy responded to the letup in pressure as Virgil had intended he should. He felt that he could talk and be believed.

“Johnny called me up on the phone. I don’t know how he got the number, but he called. Then he said a funny thing—he said that I had killed his radio. That’s what he said, ‘killed.’ Then he said that he was going to kill me.”

“A lot of children say things like that.”

Billy lifted his face and revealed that tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks. “But he means it, Mr. Tibbs. He told me that he was coming to get me.”

He stopped to be sure that everyone understood.

“He said that he was going to kill me.” The tears came now in a torrent. “He said that he had taken his father’s gun, and that he had it with him.”

Virgil Tibbs knew, to his sorrow, that such a thing was entirely possible. He hoped fervently that it was not the case this time, but he could not afford to take any chances. “May I use the phone?” he asked.

“Of course,” Hotchkiss answered him. “If you would like privacy, there’s an extension in my den.” He got quickly to his feet, showed him the way, and then carefully closed the door of the study behind him as he left.

The atmosphere in the living room remained still and tense until Virgil reappeared. “I’ve made some arrangements,” he announced. “Officer Rothberg is going to remain here with you for a little while if you don’t mind. I think it’s desirable.”

“So do I,” Hotchkiss agreed.

“After I find out where he lives I’m going over to see
the McGuire boy; it’s getting close to the dinner hour and I expect that will bring him home. As soon as I have any definite information, I’ll phone you here.”

“Let me give you the number,” Hotchkiss volunteered, reaching for his wallet.

“I already have it, thank you. Officer Rothberg will be responsible in the meantime; I suggest that you follow any instructions that he may give you.”

“We will,” Estelle Hotchkiss promised.

When Mike McGuire arrived home that evening he was in a dark and silent mood. He disappeared into the bathroom briefly and then returned to sit wrapped in his own thoughts in the small living room. When his wife came to tell him that his dinner was ready and waiting, he responded mechanically. As she set his plate in front of him he did not even appear to see his food. “Where’s Johnny?” he asked.

“He went out to play,” Maggie answered. “He hasn’t come back yet.”

The two of them sat down to the business of eating, but there was no sense of companionship and no attempt at conversation. Maggie had no idea what might be wrong, but ten years of marriage to this man had taught her not to probe. She waited several minutes for him to break the silence. “I don’t like the kid bein’ out like this,” he said at last. “He oughta be home eatin’ his dinner.”

“He can’t be long,” Maggie said. “He’s usually always here when he should be.”

“He come home from school all right?” Mike asked.

She nodded. “He stayed a little while and then went out again.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

Mike pondered for a moment. “Probably the Angels lost. He’s nuts about that ball team.”

It was almost an insult to tell her that, as though she did not know the first thing about her own child. She opened her mouth to say something and then quickly shut it again when she saw that her husband was about to speak once more. When he did, his tone was low.

“I went down this noon to pay that ticket that I got. Well, Maggie, it ain’t so good; the cop put me down for reckless driving and I’ve got to go to court. The boss belongs to the motor club so I called them and they said that it could cost as much as five hundred dollars.”

Maggie’s breath stopped dead in her throat.

“Mike!” she gasped.

“I know,” her husband answered. “It was my damn foul luck that that cop was up on the bridge and saw me. He didn’t see the other guy of course, when he did what he did—they never do. Anyhow his car hit the divider, I didn’t know that, and it was bent up some.”

“Will we have to pay for that too?”

“We’ve got insurance.” Awkwardly he reached out and took her hand, something he had not done in years. “I’m gonna tell the judge that I thought the fellow in the lane to
my left was goin’ to pull over and that I moved to get out of his way. That may help.”

“Will he believe you?”

“He might. Anyhow, I can’t go to court and admit I was just after that guy’s scalp. You know what that would mean.”

“Mike, if he doesn’t believe you, what’ll we do? You’d have to sell the car, then how’d you get to work?”

There was silence for several seconds. “I’ll go to a loan company,” he answered finally. “Maybe you could get something to do, part time while Johnny’s in school. For long enough to pay back the loan, that’s all.”

Maggie blinked, she had no skills she could use to get a job. All she had to offer was herself and besides, Johnny came home just a little after three.

Johnny.

They both remembered at the same moment. “He oughta be here,” Mike declared, as though by the statement he could make him appear.