It was one of those freak things that never should have happened. We had just had lunch at the Workingman’s Club, and while I was backing out of the parking space, a wino wandered up to the truck to tell us that he’d been a furniture mover back in the old days.
But the wino surprised us. He actually said something almost interesting. “I used to work out of your Madison Street warehouse,” he mumbled.
“My brother,” the wino said, and he nodded his head as if to say, Pleased to meet you.
“Tom was a hell of a mover,” he said to the wino. This was the old man’s highest compliment.
“Boy oh boy,” the wino said. “The piano crew, the big shots. I didn’t think anybody did that anymore.”
But the old man had other ideas. “What happened to you, Garrity?” he asked, and there was an unusual edge to his voice.
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“Your brother was a hell of a man,” the old man said, “but I’ll tell you the same thing I told him 20 years ago: lay off the sauce.” He tapped me on the leg. “Come on, let’s get out of here. The smell’s too much for me.”
