Dear Johnny:
Thank you for your nice letter. I’m glad you want to become a catcher for the Angels, the best thing to do is to drink your milk and practice every day that you can.
I’m very flattered that you want to meet me so much. The next time that you are at the ball park, bring this letter to the clubhouse door and show it to the guard. He will let me know and I’ll be glad to come out and shake hands with you.
Your friend,
Tom Satriano
Now he knew what to do. Somehow, some way, he must get to Anaheim. With the precious letter he would get to meet Tom Satriano himself. He might have all of his equipment on, his shin guards, the big pad across his chest, and the mask behind which he watched every motion of the game. And he would see Tom Satriano play! He would see him crouching behind the plate, signaling the pitcher what to throw, running back to catch foul balls, and cutting down base stealers with the whiplike power of his arm.
Another wonderful thought tumbled into his mind: when he met Tom Satriano he could tell him what had happened and Tom would help him and tell him what to do. He would know, because he was the catcher and ran the whole baseball team on the field. Tom Satriano was a big leaguer, a very important man, so important that he probably knew Gene Autry himself.
Now time was beginning to press him, if anyone saw him leaving his hiding place, it could be the end of everything right there. He would have to go now, while he still had a chance. He listened, then peeked through and looked, but he saw or heard nothing which threatened danger. Pushing the shoe box ahead of him he crawled from underneath the bushes, brushed himself off, and looked for a path that would take him back to the streets of Pasadena.
Ten minutes later the attendant at an all-night filling station was mildly surprised to see a small boy with a shoe box under his arm come trudging up the driveway. “You’re up awful early, aren’t you?” he asked, amused at the boy’s slightly bedraggled appearance.
Johnny knew one reason why a boy might be up at that hour and he was quick to use it. “I’ve got a paper route,” he explained. “May I use the bathroom?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
In the momentary shelter of the rest room Johnny relieved himself and then washed carefully. When he picked up his shoe box again, the gun inside slid over and made a noise. Although the door could open and someone could come in at any moment, Johnny knew that something would have to be done. From the waste container he retrieved a number of crumpled paper towels. With these he padded the inside of the box and then laid his gun on top. He replaced the lid and shook the box experimentally; there was no heavy clunk to give him away.
Satisfied with his work, he returned to the service area and asked, “Can you tell me which way is Anaheim?” Then, quickly, he added, “My dad is going to take me there today.”
“Anaheim?” the attendant said. “I bet I know where you’re going. You’re going to Disneyland, aren’t you.”
Johnny nodded. “Yes, but we aren’t sure how to get there.”
The man stepped inside the office and returned with a map. “Here, let me show you.” He spread it out across his knee. “Here’s Anaheim, down off the Santa Ana Freeway. Do you live near here?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Good, then the best way will be for your father to take the Pasadena Freeway to the interchange and then go through the slot until the Santa Ana branches off to the right. Can you remember all that?”
Johnny took the map. “I can remember, but sometimes our car doesn’t run so good. Can we take the bus?”
“Yes, if you want to. Catch a number fifty-eight on Fair Oaks Avenue into Los Angeles. You can change there for a bus direct to Disneyland; it’ll drop you off right at the main gate.”
“Is that close to where the Angels play?”
The attendant nodded. “Sure, maybe a mile.”
“Thanks a lot, mister.”
“You’re welcome, son.”
Johnny’s spirits rose rapidly as he turned back in the direction from which he had come. He knew now where Anaheim was and how to get there. He also had learned that every other human hand was not against him, he had talked with the man at the filling station and had had no trouble at all. His confidence grew despite the realization that his mother would be wondering where he was and that his father, if he found out, would be awful mad about his taking the gun.
In the bright new daylight the thing that had happened the night before seemed to be far away. The darkness and the fears that it had harbored were gone; the streets did not look the same and traffic was beginning to flow in a normal manner. For a slim moment he considered the possibility of trying to go home, then a host of considerations swept the thought away. The cops might be there, but what was much more important, he would lose his one chance to go to the ball game. In his whole life he might never have another.
When he reached Orange Grove Avenue no bus was in sight. With his shoe box still tucked carefully under his arm he stood at the bus stop for a minute or two, then decided it would be better if he could keep moving. He was too close to the place where he had fired the gun the night before; there was too great a risk that someone might spot him standing there.
Checking again that no bus was visible for several blocks, he began to walk southward in the general direction of Los Angeles. That helped him to feel much better, he was already on his way to Anaheim and every step that he took put the nightmare of the previous evening farther behind him. A few other people were beginning to appear now, in a little while he would no longer look so alone.
When he reached the next corner he walked to the curb and again looked up the street behind him for any sign of an approaching bus. At his feet there was a loose pile of throwaway newspapers, put there for some deliveryman to pick up.
Again there was no sign of a bus, but coming down the street less than a block away a police car was approaching, cruising slowly close to the curb. On the instant Johnny was flooded with a new and fearful sense of disaster, his confidence vanished and fear gripped him. He knew with frightening immediacy that he was still a hunted creature, but it was too late to run and hide.
Swiftly he bent over and picked up as many of the papers as he could with one hand. He threw them over his arm to conceal the shoe box, then squatted down and put another bunch on top. As he finished, the police car pulled up beside him and stopped.
There were two uniformed men in it; the one closest to him leaned out the window and said, “Morning, son, how are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mike.”
“How long have you been delivering papers, Mike?”
“About two months.”
“Have you seen another boy around here this morning, one with a worn-out red jacket?”
Johnny shook his head. “I just got here,” he replied.
“OK, thanks a lot.” The policeman waved a hand as the car moved away and continued down the street.
For the next ten minutes Johnny played his role as a newsboy, fearful only that the rightful holder of the job would arrive and challenge him. He walked rapidly down Orange Grove Avenue tossing a paper on the sidewalk or lawn before each house. As he did so he kept a careful watch back down the street for any sign of a bus that would rescue him from his precarious situation. He had almost run out of papers when he saw at last the square, flat face of the big vehicle two and a half blocks away. Breaking into a run, he dropped his remaining papers and reached the bus stop just in time to signal it to stop.