“Harkness,” McVries said. “Ol’ Harkness bought a ticket to see the farm.” “Why don’t you write him a poime?” Barkovitch called over. “Shut up, killer,” McVries answered absently. He shook his head. “Ol’ Harkness, sonofabitch.” “I ain’t no killer!” Barkovitch screamed. “I’ll dance on your grave, scarface! I’ll—” A chorus of angry shouts silenced him. Muttering, Barkovitch glared at McVries. Then he began to stalk on a little faster, not looking around.
