Swamped

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I see the door fly open in the dance floor mirror: a flash of brightness and Morgan, the prep cook next door; another second he's leaning over the left end of the bar there where all the employees hang out, yelling, "Danny! Danny!" But at the moment I'm busy making eyes at a blond across the way, little yum-yum with a chiseled face; you can see it whenever he leans into one of the columns of pink light to say something in his buddy's ear (buddy's middle-aged, gray, got a sweater draped over his shoulders, the whole thing); I've seen them here before, just standing or dancing or eating in the restaurant, Daddy and his Little Boy. But tonight's the first night I ever really lookedlooked at …