Curse on your house. You’ll never have children, and it’ll break my heart. Get to the church, get inside, and God help you, don’t look out any windows.”
And so we did. That afternoon, me and Eddie and the three other groomsmen, only one of whom was good-looking, squeezed into the back of a Lincoln Continental. They had shoved past me shouting for the radio. And climbing in last, I watched from my place in the rear as the four of them leaned over the front like gargoyles.
The chauffeur, which I guess is what you call a person in this line of work, was actually wearing one of those little caps you see on television. He already had the broadcast running, and we sat there on the curb together and listened.