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ILLS C OUNTRY Club that Saturday, so instead of spending the afternoon sitting in the bleachers at Tiger Stadium drinking beer with Louis and Clyde, Willie spent it wandering through the mob in the clubhouse’s cavernous ballroom, carrying tray after tray of glasses brimming with cheap champagne.
    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.
    â€œI’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. “Last call for alcohol,” he said, laughing moistly. “Thanks a million.”
    â€œYes sir.” The man was standing off by himself pounding down a couple of final jolts. His skin was pitted and flushed, his necktie loose. Willie smelled loneliness coming off him, and started to move away.
    â€œTell me something, son,” the man said.
    Willie turned back toward him. “Sir?”
    â€œI’ve never seen you before. Are you new here?”
    â€œYes sir. I started about a month ago.”
    â€œI’m Chick Murphy. I’d shake your hand but—” He lifted the two glasses and sipped from one, then the other.
    â€œAnd I’m Willie Bledsoe, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” Again he started to move away, and again the man drew him back.
    â€œYou from Detroit, Willie?”
    â€œNo sir, I’m from Alabama originally.”
    â€œNo shit. Got a mechanic working for me who’s from Alabama—Tuscaloosa, I believe it is. Name’s Gaylord Banks. Ever hear of him?”
    â€œNo sir, can’t say that I have.” What was it with white people up here? They all seemed to think that every black person in Alabama knew every other black person, like it was one big happy jungle village.
    â€œBest damn mechanic ever worked for me,” Chick Murphy went on. His words were a little slushy, his eyes a little hot, but Willie could tell the man knew how to hold his booze. He drained both glasses, returned them to the tray, and took one more.
    Willie noticed then that something was wrong with the man’s left hand. He looked closer, trying not to stare, and realized the pinkie was missing. Chick Murphy said, “So what brings you way up here, Willie?”
    â€œI’ve got some family here. Bob Brewer’s my uncle and—”
    â€œBob’s your uncle! He’s the best damn waiter we’ve ever had here! Pure class!”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    â€œI’ll be honest with you.” He leaned close, close enough for Willie to smell nicotine and sour wine and breath mints. “Some of the guys on the staff here aren’t worth two shits. But Bob Brewer—he’s class all the way.” He drank, then glanced out the tall windows at the golf course. “Christ, I hate weddings,” he muttered. “I had box seats for the Tigers game today, and here I sit because one of my best customers is marrying off his daughter. You been to a game yet?”
    â€œWent to my first one on Opening Day, as a matter of fact.”
    â€œWhat’d you think?”
    â€œI