In the Heat of the Night

agreeable curve of her youthful thighs. Something about Delores, however, repelled him, and not even the sight of her naked body held any great interest. The reason, he guessed, was that she was always unwashed, or seemed to be. When Sam saw her raise the cup to her lips he knew that no one was ill and turned his eyes away. For a moment he contemplated warning her that she was on public view, but he decided against it because a knock at that hour might wake the whole houseful of kids. And what was more, she couldn’t very well answer the door with no clothes on. Sam turned at the next comer and headed back toward the highway.
    Despite the lack of any visible traffic, Sam made a full stop at the intersection and then turned north. He let the car gain speed until the hot air that was forced in the open windows created the illusion of a breeze. Then for three minutes he held the pace until the city limits were in view. He lifted his foot off the gas, crossed the boundary line, and swung the car easily into the parking area of the all-night drive-in. He climbed out smoothly for a man of his size and pushed his way into the restaurant.
    It was hotter inside than out. The center of the room was filled by a U-shaped counter covered with worn Formica. Down one side a row of hard plywood booths promised no comfort and little privacy. In one window a totally inadequate air-conditioner pounded out a thin stream of cool air that vanished unfelt inches from the vent where it was born. The wood walls had been painted an off white at one time; the paint had yellowed with age. Above the grill the black stain of hot grease vapor made a permanent monument to thousands of short orders that had been cooked, eaten, and forgotten.
    The night counterman was a thin nineteen-year-old whose too long arms thrust below the cuffs of his soiled shirt as though they had been stretched by some infernal machine. His sharp, bony face still showed the signs of acne, his lower lip hung slightly open as though he were either accustomed to thrusting it out at people as a gesture of defiance or didn’t know how to make up his mind. At the moment Sam entered, he was jack- knifed across the counter, resting his weight on his elbows, and appeared completely occupied by the violent comic book he had open before him.
    In the presence of the law, he quickly slid his reading matter under the counter, squared his narrow shoulders, and prepared himself for the coming minutes he would spend with the guardian of the sleeping city. He reached for a thick coffee mug as Sam sank onto one of the three remaining counter stools whose upholstered tops were still intact.
    "No coffee, Ralph, it’s too hot,” Sam said. “Give me a king Coke instead.” He took off his uniform cap and drew his right arm across his forehead.
    The night man scooped a scratched glass half full of shaved ice, uncapped a bottle, and filled the glass up with liquid and foam.
    When the drink had settled down, Sam emptied the glass, chewed a sliver of ice into liquid, and then asked, “Who won the fight tonight?”
    “Ricci,” the counterman answered immediately. “Split decision. But he still gets a shot at the title.” Sam refilled his glass and drained it once more before he offered an opinion. “Good thing Ricci won. I don’t go much for the Italians, but at least a white man gets a chance at the title.”
    The counterman nodded in quick approval. “We got six black champs now, all the top divisions. I don’t see how they can fight that good.” He pressed his hands against the counter and spread his bony fingers in a futile attempt to make them look strong and powerful. He looked at the thick hands of the policeman and wondered if he would ever have hands like that.
    Sam helped himself to an orphan piece of cake that leaned under a clouded plastic cover on the counter. “They don’t feel it when they get hit the way you or I would,” he explained. “They haven’t got the same nervous system. They’re like animals; you’ve got to hit ’em with a poleax to knock ’em down, that’s all. That’s
    how they win fights, why they’re not afraid to get in the ring.”
    Ralph bobbed his head; his eyes said that Sam had pronounced the last word on the subject. He straightened the cake cover. “Mantoli was in town tonight. Brought his daughter with him. A real looker, I hear.”
    “I thought he wasn’t due until after the first.”
    The counterman leaned forward, rubbing the