One. Two. Three.
Ye cannot hear what I hear:
His moan for pity, now his desperate breath
To suck the air in through the bubbling blood.
And I hear, too, in me the happy rhythm,
The happy boastful strutting of my soul.
Yes! Hear! It boasts:
One. Two. Three.
Ye should have killed me.
“I ask you, does that sound like business?” Cramer folded it up again. “Did you ever see a guy that had been beaten around the head enough so that things were busted inside? Did you ever notice one? All right, get this: to suck the air in through the bubbling blood. Does that describe it? I’ll say it does. The man that wrote that was looking at it, I’m telling you he was looking right at it. That’s why, as far as Andrew Hibbard is concerned, all I’m interested in is stiffs. Chapin got Hibbard as sure as hell, and the only question is where did he put the leavings. Also, he got Dreyer, only with that one Elkus helped him.”