Again the phone rang. “Mr. Tibbs, please,” a masculine voice said.
“This is Mr. Tibbs.”
“Bert Furthman, Mr. Tibbs. You’re in charge of this case about the boy with the gun?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then maybe I can help, I don’t know. I drive for MTA. Last night about nine-thirty I picked up a youngster who might be the one you’re after. He came running up to the bus stop just in time to catch me. I thought it was a little late for a kid his size to be out alone, but I assumed he was going home.”
“Of course.”
“Well, the reason I’m calling you, I picked up a newscast that said that the boy with the gun is wearing a worn-out red jacket. That’s how this boy was dressed. I remember that he was carrying something, I couldn’t say what. I let him off near the end of my run-a half a block from where the shooting took place. Where the colored boy was killed, I mean.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Furthman,” Virgil said. “I very much appreciate your coming forward.” He took down the driver’s address and telephone in case it would be necessary to call him as a witness. The information he had supplied was not new, but it did tie up a loose end. Unfortunately it did nothing to help locate Johnny McGuire now. As he hung up the phone he hoped that it would ring again as soon as possible. And with good news.
His wish was granted: before another full minute had passed the ring came again. He picked it up and said, “Virgil Tibbs.” Then he held his breath.
“Mr. Tibbs,” the voice of Maggie McGuire came tearfully over the line, “I’ve heard from Johnny!”
He opened his mouth to ask, “Where is he?” and was rescued by his intelligence. “Is he all right?” he asked instead.
“Yes, I think so. He called me on the telephone.”
Tibbs raised his hand to get his partner’s attention. Bob immediately picked up his own phone. “Did he say where he was, Mrs. McGuire?”
A suppressed sob came over the line. “No, he didn’t. I asked him and he said something like, ‘I’m here in the phone booth.’ That’s all.”
“Did he say anything else, Mrs. McGuire? Anything at all?”
Maggie did not appear to hear the question for a moment. “I don’t know where he slept last night, or what he’s had to eat…. I’m sorry, you asked me something?”
“Did Johnny tell you anything else at all, Mrs. McGuire?”
For a few seconds there was no answer, then he changed his question. “Please tell me about it, just as it happened.”
“Well, I answered the phone and I heard Johnny’s voice. He said ‘Hello, Mommy.’ I remember, just those words.”
“Good, go on.”
“I…I couldn’t say anything for a moment, then I think he said something like, ‘I’m all right, Mommy.’ I’m not sure, I was so upset.”
“Of course, Mrs. McGuire, I understand.”
“Then I asked him where he was and he said, ‘Right here in the phone booth,’ like I said. After that he said something about my not worrying. I don’t remember what I said to him, I think I said that I would come and get him. Then he told me that his radio was broken.”
“Did you reassure him on that?”
“Yes, I told him that we knew and that his father wasn’t mad-that’s what he would worry about. I told him we knew that it wasn’t his fault. Then Johnny said that he was in trouble because he had shot a nigger boy. Oh, I’m sorry!”
She burst into tears. Virgil remained silent, letting her take her time. Finally she said, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to use that word to you.”
“Don’t concern yourself about that, Mrs. McGuire, you have enough on your mind. What else did Johnny say?”
She chose her words cautiously. “Well, as I said, Mr. Tibbs, he told me that he had shot the little colored boy. I told him that I didn’t care if he did kill him, I wanted him to come home. Of course you understand…”
She somehow seemed to sense the reception of her words and stopped. After that, for a moment or two, there was no sound.
“Mrs. McGuire,” Virgil began carefully, “I don’t want to press you, but did you use that word? Did you tell your son that he killed the boy whom he shot?”
“I guess…I guess I did.” Her voice was very low.
Tibbs could not answer her. He locked his fingers tightly around the telephone. He drew a long breath and fought to keep himself under control. “I’m very sorry that you did that,” he said. “So long as Johnny thought that he had just hurt the other boy, there was a good chance that he might have come home to find comfort from you and protection from his father. Now he believes himself to be a murderer. He isn’t, of course, but he won’t understand that.”
“What…what are you driving at?” she asked.
“Just this, Mrs. McGuire: I don’t want to alarm you, believe me, but in the stricken, desperate frame of mind that he must be in, only God Almighty can say what your son is likely to do now.”
10
As soon as Johnny McGuire hung up the phone that had brought him the sound of his mother’s voice, he felt his whole body begin to shake and he did not think that his knees would ever again obey his commands. He did manage to pick up his shoe box and walk out of the drugstore onto a busy street of downtown Los Angeles, he did not know which one. Then it seemed to him that he was going to be sick all over the sidewalk.
For a moment he leaned against the solid wall of a building and tried frantically to decide what he should do. What had started out as an adventure and a solution to all of his problems was suddenly reversed; now he was stricken with the realization that he had been traveling farther and farther away from the comfort and security of his home. He had meant to ask his mother if the cops had all gone away; if they had, then he wanted her so much he had all but decided to turn around and try and go home. Now that was impossible, as soon as they found him the cops would shoot him dead.
As he stood there, so utterly alone, he began to think a little more clearly and decided that the cops wouldn’t really shoot him on sight, but something terrible would be sure to happen. They were already mad about his father’s traffic ticket and what he had done was many times worse.
One thought managed to cut through the confusion in his mind; he could ask Tom Satriano to help him. Mr. Satriano, like all the Angels, lived in Anaheim and therefore he wouldn’t have heard about the trouble in Pasadena. The precious letter in his possession would get him in to see him; once in his presence he could tell him about his troubles and the great catcher, who always knew what pitch to call for next, would help him and tell him what to do.
He found new strength in this plan and, at the same time, a fresh resolution not to allow himself to be caught before he reached the stadium. He didn’t have his telltale red jacket any more, but he would still have to be very very careful. If he acted like everyone else, then he probably wouldn’t be noticed.
From the people passing by he picked out a teen-ager who seemed to be on business of his own and therefore wouldn’t stop to ask awkward questions. “Which way is the bus station?” he asked, trying to look self-possessed. The youth turned without stopping. “Fifth and Main,” he said and pointed.
That made things easy, Johnny tucked his shoe box under his arm right side up so that the gun could not fall out and then started off at a brisk walk. During the next few minutes no one appeared to take any notice of him: there were too many other people on the streets. He found the station easily and walked inside with a careful show of assurance. He pushed a dollar bill from his small hoard under the wicket and said, “Disneyland.”
“Round trip?” The man looked at him a little oddly.
Johnny had not anticipated that question, but he did not dare to panic. “Just one way,” he answered. “My dad’s meeting me there.” His answer seemed to satisfy the ticket seller, but his dollar was not quite enough. Manfully he dug into his pocket and found a few coins. He was on his way to see the Angels and that consideration steeled him against the agony of seeing his precious savings dissipated.