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servers nudge place settings into alignment, and opened her file.
Often dines with business (?) colleagues
, it noted.
Omnivore
. A nd that was it . T he servers she’d dealt with were as baffled by this woman as Britt was.
    Britt stepped away from the podium, shutting down the blue card, as Helene returned. “How many covers tonight?” he asked, solely to redirect his own attention. He knew how many.
    “One twenty-nine,” Helene said. “Good night.” She paused to look around the room—at the bar , A lan was holding a jar of cocktail onions to the light—and then gave a satisfied nod. Helene was as small and neatly turned out as a carved figurine, with a short, chic flutter of dark hair and a superhuman tolerance for high heels. She had returned from two weeks in France with a smattering of sun-induced freckles across her nose and a cool polish on her tableside manner.
    “Who did the blocking?” Britt asked . T he computer program handled the basics for booking reservations, but he insisted that a live brain reexamine the books each evening as well.
    “Alan,” Helene said, “and he did a nice job too, I have to say.” Both of them glanced discreetly over at the bar . A lan had pointedly set out two place settings at one end and was now refusing any acknowledgment of Britt and Helene. “I think he got some of his friends to book the bar,” she added.
    Britt nodded but said nothing. Overall he preferred to leave territorial spats to the participants. Like Leo, he felt it was undignified and unnecessary for the owners to get involved. “What’s the deal with Camille Lewis?” he asked. “Her blue card is no help, but she’s been coming in a ton.”
    Helene eyed the reservation list. Camille was on it with a two-top for eight thirty. “I have no idea,” she said. “I’m trying to get a handle on her myself. She’s very easygoing, I can tell you that.”
    Britt nodded, a bit embarrassed to have asked. He shouldn’t be, he knew—it was his business to ask about guests who had all but declared themselves regulars—but he feared some new interest showed in his expression. Helene was eyeing him, alert as a rabbit, her dangling earrings vibrating with attention.
    “I’m going upstairs to chat with Leo,” he said, and, ever discreet, she simply nodded.
    Upstairs was where they kept a small library of cookbooks and culinary guides, two rooms filled with dry goods, and climate-controlled wine storage. In the dressing room the later shift of servers and backwaiters had arrived. David was standing in a white undershirt and unbuttoned black pants, ironing his shirt for service while around him several servers twisted their hair into knots or looped ties around their necks . T hey saluted Britt as he passed.
    Leo was in their office, which perched over the front dining room . T wo desks faced each other, one Britt’s, one Leo’s. Leo was concentrating on the computer screen. “What’s up?” he said without turning.
    “Just checking in,” Britt said.
    Leo glanced up and considered Britt for several seconds. “Helene may be too chic,” he said.
    “Chic is good.”
    “Chic is good, intimidating not. People go to bigger cities for that.”
    “I’ll ask her to warm it up a notch,” Britt said, and Leo nodded, satisfied.
    “You want to grab dessert tonight?” he asked. “I’ve been checking out this kid at Hot Springs. She’s a little up-and-down, but she might have something.”
    “Sure,” said Britt. “Just let me stick around till the eight-thirty turn.”
    “Invite her if you want,” said Leo.
    “Who?” Britt said stupidly.
    “This Camille person you keep hovering over. You’d better change things up. At some point she’s going to tip you for something and then you’re fucked.”
    “You’re right,” Britt said. “I can’t quite figure out who she is.”
    “That’s what dinner’s for,” said Leo. Britt nodded and stood there, waiting to see if Leo had divined anything else up