Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [6]
“What we can do is this,” the manager said, “we’ll let you have it at cost.”
Mr. Bridge shook his head. “I intend to pay for the lubrication, nothing more. This mistake is not my fault. I distinctly told you. I will not be charged for something I did not order. I have been parking here for six years and nothing of this sort has happened before. Why does it happen now?”
“It was our fault,” the manager said. “We’ll take care of it.”
And that was how it ended.
8 Lester
Whenever he went to the garage to pick up his car it was brought out of the stall by Lester. Lester did not depend on tips for a living. He got a salary, and few of the garage patrons tipped him, but Mr. Bridge always handed him fifty cents. Parking cars day after day was not much of a life, and not only was Lester colored, he was cross-eyed. Mr. Bridge knew nothing else about him, not even his last name, but he liked Lester and he was sure the garage attendant returned this feeling—which had nothing to do with the fifty cents a day. They could not become more friendly than they were, yet it was a satisfying relationship they had, and Mr. Bridge occasionally wondered if there was anything else he could do to make life a little easier for Lester.
One afternoon when he was met by a strange attendant and did not see his friend anywhere he was puzzled. He asked if Lester was sick. The new attendant replied that he had been hired just that morning and did not know.
Mr. Bridge pointed to the stall where his car was parked. “Get me the blue Reo,” he said. Then he walked to the cashier’s window, where he saw Mr. Buckworth discussing something with the cashier.
“I notice you have a new man,” he said. “What’s become of Lester?”
“Lester’s not with us any longer.”
“Now don’t tell me you fired him!”
The garage manager cleared his throat and looked at Mr. Bridge uneasily. “They tell us he cut somebody up last night. You know how they are when they get to drinking. Him and some other nigger got in a fight. We don’t know what about. We found out this noon after Lester didn’t show up for work. They got him in city jail.”
“Great God,” said Mr. Bridge softly.
“Too bad. Lester was a good worker. He was with us a long while. But I’ll see Bob takes care of you.”
On his way home Mr. Bridge tried to believe what he had been told, but not until he saw it in the evening Star, a small article on the fourth page, could he accept it. Lester’s full name was Lester Leroy Titus. He was forty-six years old. He lived in a hotel on Wabash and he was an ex-convict. He had served ten years in Leavenworth prison for armed robbery.
He pointed out the article to his wife and asked if she had seen it. She had not, but after reading it she said, “Honestly, there’s so much crime these days.”
He realized that she had not recognized the name so he told her who it was. She often parked in the garage while she was downtown shopping.
“Oh, my word!” she exclaimed, drawing back with a shocked expression. “Oh, I simply can’t believe it!”
“I didn’t either.”
“He seemed so nice.”
“Yes, he was,” Mr. Bridge said. “He certainly was. He was one of the nicest and most dependable Negroes I have ever known.”
“Do you suppose you could help?”
“I doubt if I could do much. Apparently he’s got a temper and now he’s got to pay for it. Furthermore, I cannot afford to get mixed up in something like this.”
“He was always so helpful. It’s such a shame.”
“Those people!” Mr. Bridge said, shaking his head. “Time and time again. If it isn’t a knife, it’s a razor.”
9 Trouble in the Road Ahead
About a month after Lester dropped from sight Mr. Bridge was in his study rewriting a brief when there came a tap at the door. He recognized it—somewhat like the tapping of a bird, very different from the way the children requested admittance—and told his wife to come in. The door opened halfway. She peeped in, afraid that she was disturbing him. He had never been able to get used to this hesitancy; she behaved as though she were interrupting Einstein. He was at work, true enough, and the door had been