The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson:
Did you ever see one of these two-bit jazz singers? You know, trying to put something across with their bodies that they haven’t got the voice to do? They lean back from the waist a little with their heads hanging forward and their hands held up about even with their ribs and swinging limp. And they sort of wobble and roll on their hips.
That’s the way he looked, and he kept making that damned funny noise, his lips quivering ninety to the minute and his eyes rolling all-white.
I laughed and laughed, he looked and sounded so funny I couldn’t help it. Then, I remembered what he’d done and I stopped laughing, and got mad—sore all over.