Arthur Stringer

The Man Who Couldn't Sleep Arthur Stringer

The Man Who Couldn't Sleep by Arthur Stringer

We had just turned into the suburbs of Brooklyn when my swinging headlights revealed the figure of a man, an unstable and swaying man, obviously drunk, staggers and falls directly in front of my car.
I heard the screeching of the brakes and the shrill screams of a crowd of young people along the sidewalk. But it was too late. I could feel the impact as we hit. I could hear the sickening thud and jolt as the wheels pounded on that fallen body. "Latreille," I said, breathing heavily as we slowed down, "did we ... did we kill him?"

My driver turned and studied my face. Then he carefully looked back, to make sure we weren't being followed. "This is a heavy car, sir," he finally admitted.