"There's a body hanging from the lamppost," Loyce said. "I'm going to
call the cops."
"They must know about it," Potter said. "Or otherwise it wouldn't be
there."
"I got to get back in." Fergusson headed back into the store. "Business
before pleasure."
Loyce began to get hysterical. "You see it? You see it hanging there? A
man's body! A dead man!"
"Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee."
"You mean it's been there all afternoon?"
"Sure. What's the matter?" Potter glanced at his watch. "Have to run.
See you later, Ed."
Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the
sidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously
at the dark bundle--and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any
attention.
"I'm going nuts," Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and
crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.
He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.
The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray
suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never
seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and
in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin
was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A
pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His
eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.
"For Heaven's sake," Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea
and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with
revulsion--and fear.
_Why?_ Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?
And--why didn't anybody notice?
He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. "Watch it!" the
man grated, "Oh, it's you, Ed."