He was fifty-four. He was killed by a stranger. Pushed onto the tracks. Under a train. He was on his way home from a restaurant opening, not one of his but a friend’s, in Soho. He was very drunk. He’d been drinking tequila slammers, according to his friend. The life and soul. Always the life and soul, Paddy Swann. The man who pushed him was called Joe Kritner.
