Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [119]
Mr. Bridge was too exasperated to go back to bed. He paced through the house examining the doors and windows again. He thought of how often he had told his son to make certain the house was locked. It had been a waste of time. He returned to the bedroom, reached under the mattress, and pulled out the pistol. He had planned to give it to Douglas on his twenty-first birthday, but now he decided not to. He shifted the gun from one hand to the other, weighing it in his palm and fondling the knurled grip and the icy barrel. Twice a year he cleaned and oiled the gun, and occasionally he lifted a corner of the mattress to see if it was where it belonged. There was always a chance Harriet would steal it. He did not like the fact that she knew about the gun. If she did take it and sell it or give it to some Negro in the North End there could be a great deal of trouble. It could very well be used in a holdup. She had been warned never to touch it, and each time he looked he found the gun in the same place; yet he could not forget that when Douglas was a child she had shown it to him.
The clock in the hall struck three times. He was surprised. An hour had passed since he went downstairs. He shoved the gun into the holster and slid it beneath the mattress. He hung his robe in the closet, stepped out of his carpet slippers, and lay down in bed carefully so as not to disturb his wife.
130 A Pal of Morrie
Carolyn was home for the weekend, and a few minutes before the beginning of “The Bell Telephone Hour” while Mr. Bridge was settling himself in his chair beside the radio she asked if he knew any gangsters. No, he replied, he was not on friendly terms with any gangsters; but then he remembered something that had occurred years before and he added that he had once met a man who ought to qualify. Carolyn wanted to know what he was like. There was some purpose to the questioning, but he could not guess what it was. However, there was no apparent reason not to answer, so he told her about the experience. He had gone to North Kansas City to visit a client, and afterward as he was about to return to the office he happened to meet a man he had not seen for a long time. This man had been a detective on the police force but was obliged to retire because of a scandal. They decided to have lunch together at a spaghetti parlor near the bus station, and while they were eating they were joined by a friend of the detective.
At this point in his story Mr. Bridge paused and smiled. “Carolyn, you may not believe me when I tell you what occurred next, but this is the truth: after I had been introduced to the fellow he slipped into the booth with us and slapped me on the knee. He said he had heard my name and—these are his exact words—‘a pal of Morrie is a pal of mine.’ Then he asked—and again I am quoting—if there was anybody I wanted him to ‘take care of.’ That was the expression he used. Was there anybody I wanted him to ‘take care of’? I said there was not, and let it go at that. However, after the fellow got up and left I inquired about him and was informed that this man was a member of a mob. He was a professional murderer who was known to have accounted for at least six people. Now, how do you like that for a gangster story?”
“Introduce me to him.”
Mr. Bridge laughed.
Carolyn said, “I mean it. I want you to introduce me. Daddy, I’ve got to talk to him. I really do.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. In the first place, as I’ve already told you, this was some years ago.”
“You could find him. You know you could.”
“If he is still alive, which I doubt.”
“I’ve got to meet him.”
“You might just as well get this idea out of your head, because you are not going to meet him. Assuming I could locate the fellow, I most certainly would never introduce you to him. Now, suppose you tell me just why you have suddenly acquired a taste for gangsters.”
Carolyn explained that