Chapter 10: Three Hundred Covers

"Three hundred covers," Dorinda said. "Forty servers on the schedule. Eleven showed up."

"Where are the other twenty-nine?"

"Mr. Halberd cut their shifts this morning." She handed me an apron. "Said the banquet was canceled."

It wasn't canceled.

It was the Gulf Coast petroleum engineers' spring dinner, booked a year ago, paid half in advance.

On Wednesday their president had received a polite email from Damon's office.

The Bellweather was closing for restructuring, it said, and the deposit would be refunded in due course.

On Thursday I'd called the president myself and told him the hotel was open, the deposit was safe, and the shrimp was better than ever.

He'd said he'd be there with bells on.

Damon hadn't been able to cancel the dinner, so he'd canceled the waiters.

"I can't carry trays," I said. "I'm not allowed to lift more than ten pounds."

"You're not carrying," Dorinda said. "You're on the pass. You call the tables, you check every plate, and you smile."

"I can do two of those."

"Then smile anyway."

The kitchen was a hundred and ten degrees and loud as a stadium.

I stood at the steel pass with a towel over my shoulder and called tables like Dad taught me when I was fourteen.

"Twelve, fourteen, sixteen, walking!"

The line cook slammed plates down in front of me, and I wiped rims and checked garnishes and sent them out.

At seven-fifteen, Noah Mercer came through the swinging door in a borrowed white server's jacket two sizes too small.

The line cook took one look at him and laughed so hard he burned a roux.

"Don't," Noah said.

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face said something."

"My face is professional." I loaded his tray with four plates.

"Table nine. The man in the bolo tie is allergic to shellfish. Don't kill him."

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