The Chinaman said nothing. He did nothing.
Carlos looked at Reiger. Reiger, with his free hand, pulled the rags off the Chinaman’s fingers. Fenner sucked in his breath sharply. All the fingers were sodden lumps of red oozing pulp.
Fenner said, “For God’s sake!”
Carlos started and looked in his direction. “Come here,” he said; “I want you to see this.”
“I can see where I am,” Fenner said evenly.
Carlos shrugged. He picked up the object that he had taken from the drawer and carelessly fitted it on to one of the Chinaman’s fingers. The Chinaman made no effort to take his hand away. He sat huddled up, moaning like a dog in pain, his hand held by Reiger.
Carlos said spitefully, “I’m gettin’ goddamn sick of you. Will you write that letter, or won’t you?”
The Chinaman said nothing. Carlos savagely twisted the butterfly screw, crushing the sodden flesh. Reiger then took the Chinaman’s wrist and, lifting it up, smacked his hand several times down very hard on the table-top.
Fenner turned his back slowly on the group and took Bugsey’s arm. “If you don’t tell me what this means, I’m going to stop it,” he said hoarsely.
Bugsey’s face was like green cheese. He said, “The old guy’s got three sons in his home town. Carlos wants him to send for them, to hook them up in his racket. Those three guys are worth four grand a head to Carlos.