It wasn’t a bad gig. The bar boys and Chi Chi, the Mex bartender, set up rows of glasses on the horseshoe-shaped bar in the downstairs lounge, and they popped corks and poured as fast as they could. Every time a busboy came in to refill his tray, custom dictated that he toss off a glass himself. By the end of every wedding reception, a couple of busboys wound up out on the tennis courts on their hands and knees, coughing up everything they’d eaten in the past twenty-four hours. Willie drank a couple, three glasses, didn’t blow his cool. As the reception was winding down and the guests were heading up the broad curving staircase to the banquet room, he loaded up one last tray and made a pass through the hangers-on who weren’t eager to have solid food interfere with their mid-afternoon buzz. “I’ll take a couple of those, son.” Willie bristled. Son—it was half a notch above boy. He turned and faced a barrel-chested man with bright yellow hair. The guy stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray and lifted two glasses off Willie’s tray.
