In the bottom half of the eighth inning the Angel center fielder got a pitch to his liking and lifted it into the bullpen down the left power alley. It was enough to win the game. Eight pitches disposed of the Detroit hitters in the top half of the ninth and the game was over.
With the final out the stadium underwent an almost immediate transformation. A departure message flashed on the huge scoreboard. The organist swung into the exit music which reached every corner of the stands through the powerful public address system. A row of ushers on each side of the field took up stations where they could prevent any enthusiastic fans from running out onto the playing area. A maintenance mechanic unlocked the elevator car on the side of the big A-frame which supported the scoreboard and the angel halo at the summit. As he went back for replacement light bulbs he mixed with the players who had spent the nine innings of the game in the bullpen.
Through the many wide exit gates the thousands of patrons poured out and spread over the extensive, municipally owned parking lot. A steady stream of cars began to line up for the left turn toward the freeway while dozens of officers assigned for the purpose separated the traffic lanes and let each row move a certain amount in turn.
Johnny McGuire took it all in as part of the splendid spectacle of big league baseball; he did not want to miss one bit of what was going on. Against formidable odds he had made his way to Anaheim, he had seen the Angels play, he had seen them win gloriously. No matter what happened now, this could not be taken away from him. And, in a few minutes, he had an appointment to talk with Tom Satriano. That would solve all of his remaining problems, because Tom Satriano would tell him what to do.
From the end of the stands where the Junior Angels had been seated he ran down the ramps full of excitement, then he slowed down a little in order to savor more of the great event which was about to occur. So that he could see all of the ball park, and view it from as many different angles as possible, he remained on the field box level and walked around to the third base side against the flow of thinning traffic. This was different than the route through the tunnels, but he could see more and he was sure that he would be able to find the clubhouse. He stopped when he was squarely in line with the pitcher’s mound and home plate to visualize for a moment the wonderful role he would someday play, crouching behind the plate, signaling to the man on the mound, ready to cut down the runner at first if he dared to attempt to steal.
Glowing with the thought of himself as a big league baseball player, he tore himself away and looked for a way down into the tunnel system which led to the players’ clubhouse. His attention was diverted for a moment when he saw the small car begin to climb up the side of the scoreboard frame. He hoped to see it go all of the way, but it stopped after only a short distance. The mechanic changed a bulb and then came down again.
When he turned back and found an entrance to the lower level disaster overtook him-an usher was standing squarely in the middle and waving people to the left and to the right. Johnny ran up to him and said, “I’ve got to see Tom Satriano.”
The usher looked down at him and shook his head. “I’m sorry, you aren’t allowed down in the clubhouse area. You can see the players after they’re dressed; go out back where their cars are parked.”
“He’s expecting me,” Johnny protested. “I made a date with him. He wrote me a letter.”
“May I see it, please?”
Johnny reached for his wallet and then was stricken-he remembered that he had given the precious letter to the guard at the clubhouse door. He had taken it inside and it had not been returned. “I don’t have it any more,” he admitted. “I gave it to the guard downstairs before the game.”
“I see. Then the best thing for you to do is to wait back on the parking lot; I can’t let you down here now.”
Johnny knew that if he tried to bolt past, the usher would catch him; the only solution was to find another entrance. In apparent obedience to the recommendation he had been given he walked away, intent now on letting nothing divert him from his purpose. If he had not stopped to watch the man fixing the sign he could already have been downstairs.
He went all of the way to the end of the left field stands before he found another way to get below. Mercifully, this staircase was not guarded. He walked down step by step to keep his appointment with the man who would help him to overcome all of his problems. He adjusted the angle of his new hat to improve his appearance, made sure of the snug fit of his gun in its holster, and began to walk down the long concrete tunnel which the foresight of the designers had provided. He passed a group of two or three golf carts which were parked in a small alcove as he walked on in the direction which he knew led to the Angels clubhouse.
Meanwhile up above, not far from the main gate, Virgil Tibbs was in a hurried consultation with the sergeant in charge of the stadium police. “I’m damn sorry,” the sergeant said. “We had the word out for quite a long time to watch for a boy with a shoe box. Every gateman was on the alert and all of my men on the inside. It’s just our hard luck that the game was one of the shortest ones this season-just about two hours.”
Virgil pressed his lips together and thought for a moment. “Let’s play it this way: the McGuire boy is dead serious about the Angels team, he may try to see some of the players.”
“The kids usually wait for them outside,” the sergeant advised. “They know where they park their cars.”
Tibbs shook his head. “This boy wouldn’t know that, he’s never been to a major league game before. He might even try to see Gene Autry if he’s here.”
“Mr. Autry has an office here and, of course, he’s got a private box.” The sergeant turned toward the phone. “Let me try the clubhouse; I’ll see what I can find out there.”
Mike McGuire, who had been standing tensely in the background, gave vent to his feelings. “It’s that damn accident that held us up. We’d have been all right if that hadn’t happened and everybody had to stop and gawk.”
Virgil answered him with a nod; he had no intention of wasting critical time with a useless discussion.
The phone conversation with the clubhouse was agonizingly slow, the sergeant leaned heavily on the counter and waited while someone at the other end of the line apparently took twice as long as necessary to do a simple thing. At last there was a response, he listened for a moment and then passed the phone to Tibbs. “Tom Satriano is on the line,” he advised. “He may have something for you.”
“Tom Satriano of course!” He took the phone in one swift motion, chagrin on his features. “Mr. Satriano, this is Virgil Tibbs of the Pasadena police. What can you tell me?”
“A young boy came to see me before the game; he had a note that I had written to him some time ago. He must have carried it for weeks. About eight or nine, dressed in a cowboy outfit.”
“A cowboy outfit?”
“Yes, at least he had on a cowboy-type hat, the kind that kids like to wear.”
“Did it appear to be a new one, Mr. Satriano?”
The catcher thought a moment. “Yes, I’d say so. He seemed like a nice youngster. I couldn’t talk to him then, but I told him I’d see him after the game.”
“Good! Was he carrying anything-any bag, any sort of a container?”
“No, sir, not that I saw. I’m sure of it because I noticed when I shook hands with him.”
“Thank God for that,” Virgil said-he could not help himself.
“Why, what was he supposed to have?”