Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [120]
“What I do see is that it could result in more problems than either you or I are prepared to handle. You steer clear of men like that. You stick to your journalism class. Don’t you get any wild ideas about fooling around in the North End.”
“But that’s what journalism is. Can’t you see? No. No, naturally you can’t.”
“I have seen enough, believe you me! Those Italians and Jews on the north side of Kansas City are dangerous, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“Italians and Jews, you say?” She reached for a cigarette. “Why ‘Italians and Jews’?”
“Because that is what most of those hoodlums happen to be. I am not expressing prejudice. I am reporting a fact.”
“A fact, you say? Would you define ‘fact’?”
“We won’t go into that,” he said. She was behaving foolishly. She had picked up this absurd manner from somebody at the university.
“If that’s how you feel, I can but acquiesce,” she shrugged, and puffed on her cigarette with a look of superior understanding.
“You stick to the things you know about. Find somebody else for your journalism assignment. If you are looking for somebody in an unusual line of work I can introduce you to a bail bondsman. How would that be? I know a man with an office not far from City Hall. I expect he would be willing to discuss his business with you. That should be unusual.”
“Oh, God,” she murmured, and she sounded like Ruth.
“I am not forcing this on you. I am trying to be helpful.”
“It’s sweet of you. It really is. But I mean, honestly, you don’t begin to have the faintest conception of what journalism is all about. Not really.”
“So be it,” he replied. “But let me warn you. You are not to go poking your nose into affairs that do not concern you, and what goes on in the north end of Kansas City has nothing to do with you.”
He turned to the radio. He adjusted the volume and the tuning to his satisfaction. The Telephone Hour was beginning. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs.
“Now,” he said, “suppose we enjoy the music.”
131 Crime and Punishment
Not long after this the body of a young girl was discovered beneath a clump of bushes on the mud flats bordering the river. The coroner’s report stated that she had been criminally assaulted and murdered. Mr. Bridge, reading the account of this in the Star, decided to save the paper and show it to Carolyn the next time she came home. And because his wife had not yet seen the paper he read the story aloud. Then he commented: “When they find this fellow—if they ever do—I can bet you my bottom dollar he will have a record. They pick some fellow up for perversion of one sort or another, and after a while these psychologists and social workers insist he’s all right, so the parole board turns him loose and he goes right on doing it and eventually kills somebody. It happens time and time again. I’m sick of it! I’m sick and tired of it, I tell you!”
Mrs. Bridge had continued with her sewing while he spoke, only registering enough expression to prove that she was listening. She knew almost exactly what he would say as soon as he got started. He had stated his opinion many times. She was not expected to agree or disagree; however, some sort of acknowledgment was necessary, so she remarked when he paused: “You just wonder what drives people to do things like that.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” he retorted. “But I do know one thing. I know there is only one method of stopping these people. Great God, even the streets in this part of town are not safe any longer. It wasn’t six months ago that the Koeppels’ daughter was molested right up there on Stratford Road.”
“I know,” she said, shaking her head.
“But listen to these professional