In the Heat of the Night

counter with a grayed and soggy rag. “It cost more than they figured it would to finish up the bowl. Now they figure if they’re going to repay the grant in time, they’re going to have to charge more for the tickets. I hear Mantoli came to town to help them figure out how much people would be willing to pay.”
    Sam poured the last of the bottle of Coke into his glass. “I don’t know,” he commented. “This thing may go over all right, or it may turn out the flop of the century. I don’t know anything about classical music, but I can’t see crowds of people flocking here just to hear Mantoli lead a band. I know it’s a symphony orchestra and all that, but the people who like that sort of thing can hear the same orchestra all winter long without having to come down here and sit on hard seats to do it. And what if it rains.” He gulped the glass empty and glanced at his watch.
    “Yeah. What about that. I don't care about music neither, at least not that long-hair kind,” Ralph agreed, “but I say if it can put us on the map like they say it can, and bring in tourists with money to spend, maybe they’ll get this joint fixed up and we’ll all live a little higher on the hog.”
    Sam got up. “How much?” he asked.
    “Fifteen cents, the cake’s on the house, it was the last piece. Have a nice night, Mr. Wood.”
    Sam laid down a quarter and turned away. Once the counterman had dared to call him Sam. He had given a cold stare of disapproval and it had done the job. It was “Mr. Wood” now, and that was the way Sam wanted it. He climbed back into his car and reported briefly by radio before starting down the highway back into town. He settled in his seat, ready for the monotony that would make up the last part of the night.
    The air was thick again as the car gained speed. For the first time since he had come on duty, Sam allowed himself to damn the pressing heat that promised a scorching day to follow. And that meant another hot night tomorrow, and perhaps another one after that. Sam slowed the car as the central area loomed ahead. The night was still deserted, but Sam drove slowly through the small downtown district as a matter of habit. He thought again of Delores Purdy. She would get married pretty young, he decided, and somebody would have plenty of fun rolling in the hay with her. It was then, a full block ahead, that he saw something lying in the road.
    Sam touched the gas pedal and the car spurted ahead. In the path of the four headlamps the object grew larger until Sam braked the car to a stop in the middle of a street a few feet in front of what he could now see was a man sprawled on the pavement.
    He snapped the red warning lights on and swung quickly out of the car. Before he bent over the man, he first looked quickly about him, his hand on his holstered .38, ready for instant action. He saw nothing but the silent buildings and the hard pavement stretching out in both directions. Satisfied momentarily, Sam dropped down on one knee beside the man in the street.
    He was lying on his stomach, his arms above his head, his legs sprawled apart, and his face turned to the left so that his right cheek was pressed against the heavily worn concrete. He had abnormally long hair, which covered the back of his neck and then curled where it brushed the collar of his coat. Beside him, five or six feet away, a silver-handled walking stick looked strangely helpless on the hard roadway.
    Sam slipped his left hand under the fallen man and tried to feel for a heartbeat. Despite the sweltering heat, the man was wearing a vest tightly buttoned; through it Sam could detect no evidence that the man was alive. Then he remembered what he had read about apparently dead bodies. Sam had not had any special course of training for his job; he had simply been put on the payroll, had been briefed for a day on his new duties, and then had gone to work. But as instructed, he had studied civic, county, and state codes and had read the two or three textbooks made available at the small headquarters building. Sam had a good memory and the information he had absorbed came back to him now in the moment of need.

Never assume that a person is dead until he has been so pronounced by a physician. He may have fainted, been stunned, or be unconscious for any of several other reasons. Persons suffering from insulin shock have often been mistaken for dead and in some cases have revived after having been taken to morgues. Unless a