He began to walk around the perimeter to the right, he could sense that there was more activity in that direction. Ticket windows came into view and Johnny discovered that, as in Disneyland, there were different prices. The first sign he saw was $3.50 and his heart quickened; that was far more than he could afford. Then he saw some windows marked $2.50 and felt that he had saved a whole dollar already. He walked on, anxious to see everything before he invested his money in a possible mistake.
Presently he saw a scattering of boys. As he continued to walk around the sweeping curvature of the stadium he found that there was a large gathering of boys, and some girls too, many older than himself and some of his own age. He knew immediately that here was where he belonged. He hurried to join the crowd which, he saw, was being slowly filtered through two gates into the ball park. Most of the others had small cards in their hands. By looking at two or three of them which were being held in different ways he was able to make out the words “Junior Angels.” He did not have a card, of course, but he slowly worked his way up to the entrance just the same. He had his money and in some way he hoped that he could get in.
Then he was funneled into a single line, the boy ahead of him went through, and it was his turn. “Got your pass?” The gateman asked.
Johnny turned a properly stricken face up to him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he explained, “I forgot to bring it.”
For a moment the man hesitated, then he waved him through. Immensely grateful for this wonderful and unexpected blessing from heaven, Johnny passed inside and walked toward the ramp to which an usher was directing the traffic. He turned, looked, and saw the playing field, the perfectly kept base paths, the many vast tiers of seats, and the whole spectacle of the great baseball park. Towering over it all was the gigantic A-frame with the halo on top, the symbol of the stadium he had seen pictured so many times. An almost violent thrill of fulfillment took hold of him, he had never known such a sensation. On the field players in gray uniforms were casually warming up; the first real big league players he had ever seen.
Confident now that once he was in this wonderful place nothing wrong could happen to him he pulled out his little plastic wallet, extracted the well-worn letter that it contained, and with it in his hand approached the usher. “I’ve got a letter from Tom Satriano,” he announced proudly. “He says that I can come and see him.”
Indulgently the stadium man read the brief communication. “All right son, you’ll have to go around to the other side,” he directed. “The home team clubhouse is over by third base. Go downstairs, through the tunnel, and then ask the guard to direct you from there.”
The talisman had worked! With surging anticipation Johnny hurried down the ramp into the concrete interior of the stadium. The tunnel was long and grim, but he knew that it was taking him in the right direction. Twice he became confused and had to orient himself, but at last he stood before the door of the clubhouse, facing the guard who was posted there, ready for his moment of destiny.
He held out the letter. “Please, sir, I’d like to see Tom Satriano.”
The guard read the letter, said, “Just a minute,” and disappeared inside.
Desperate, anxious moments passed; Johnny hardly dared to breathe for fear that in some way he would upset the delicate balance of the greatly privileged position he was in. As the seconds passed and nothing whatever happened, he could have screamed from sheer inner tension.
Then the door opened and the guard reappeared. Behind him there was a tall, breathtaking figure in a white baseball uniform. As the man turned to close the door behind him Johnny read the electric number 2 and knew that this was absolutely and truly Tom Satriano himself. When his idol turned toward him, he was so overwhelmed he found that he had lost the power of speech.
And then Tom Satriano held out his hand. Silently Johnny took it; as he felt the strong firm fingers he knew a sudden complete revitalization. Here was the man to whom he could give his complete trust.
“Hello there, cowboy.”
His voice was just wonderful; his hero was everything that Johnny had so wanted him to be.
“Hello, sir,” Johnny managed. “Can I talk to you for just a little bit?”
“I’d like to very much, but I’ve got to get out onto the field. I tell you what-you come back here after the game and I’ll see what I can do. OK?”
“Yes, sir!” Johnny answered.
He knew that no power on earth could hold him from keeping that appointment. He would be there to talk to his wonderful friend, and to ask his advice, even if the stadium itself were to fall down. And if anybody tried to stop him-well, they wouldn’t stop him for long, not while he had his gun ready if he needed it.
13
In the small living room of his apartment Mike McGuire sat, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying to fight down a growing sense of rebellion against the inaction which was being forced upon him. He was tired of going to the door every few minutes to see if his son, by some miracle, might be coming up the steps. Once more he considered, and rejected, the idea of calling the Hotchkiss home; they knew that Johnny was missing and if they found out anything, his common sense told him that they would let him know.
He got to his feet and in pure frustration slammed his fist against the wall. Conflicting thoughts battered him. He was fearfully worried about his son, about what further damage he might wreak with the gun in his possession. He hated to remain at home while others did his searching for him, but he did not know what else to do. Simply to go out and walk the streets, looking for Johnny, offered little hope; there was a far better chance of news if he remained near the telephone. When it seemed to him that he could endure no more, when his raging spirit could no longer remain disciplined within his body, the phone rang.
He answered it almost savagely. While Maggie watched with frightened hope, he carried on a brief conversation and then hung up. “That was that colored cop Tibbs,” he reported. “He doesn’t know yet where Johnny is, but he thinks he may have an idea where he might have gone.”
“Where?” Maggie asked wide-eyed.
“He didn’t say, he just asked if I wanted to come with him while he checked it out.”
“I think you’d better go,” Maggie advised. It was a godsend; she was terrified of her husband in his present dangerous mood-he might do anything.
Mike glanced at the stove and then spoke almost mildly. “Got anything to eat?”
Maggie was engulfed by the guilty knowledge that she had not thought to prepare anything for his lunch. Hastily she took a saucepan of soup she had on the stove and poured it out for a first course. She had been keeping it ready for Johnny in case he came home, but she could not think of that now.
Her husband sat down and began to spoon the soup noisily into his mouth. In the few moments of grace that she had been granted she searched the small refrigerator; it yielded a piece of hard-cooked meat that she was able to slice up into a sandwich. She added mustard, cut the offering into quarters, and added a handful of leftover potato chips. Johnny liked potato chips and she tried to keep some in the house for him when she could.
Mike ate silently, his jaw muscles working with a steady rhythm while he stared at the wall before him. Maggie set a glass of milk before him and then stood back, afraid almost to breathe. She realized that she had not eaten herself, but that could wait until he was safely on his way. For some undefined reason she had never been as frightened of him as she was now.
There was a step outside and a knock on the door. Wiping her hands quickly on her apron, Maggie answered and admitted Virgil Tibbs. The Negro detective was clearly not overconfident, but there was something about him that made her believe in him. His color still disturbed her a little, but his very neatness, and the way in which he carried himself, suggested that there was within him a kind of strength that she desperately needed to help her in her frightened, fearful, and near frantic situation. She knew very little about him, but she was glad that he was a policeman. Perhaps he might be able to bring her son back to her after all.