By Steve Siciliano
Luther’s only streetlight had flickered on as Harry Winston was parking his pickup at the curb in front of Delaney’s Irish Tavern. While Harry sat on the tailgate and scraped the mud off the soles of his boots with a flat head screwdriver I pulled a heavy wool sweater over my red flannel shirt.
“Think we should lock the birds in the truck with the guns?” I asked Harry.
“They’ll be okay in the bed.”
“It’s getting cold.”
“A couple of scotches will warm you up.”
Inside the tavern two old men wearing bib overalls were sitting at a table drinking PBR’s out of long neck bottles and another old man wearing a red tie and a red sweater vest under a grey tweed jacket was sitting in a booth reading a book. He looked up from the bo