Leon Haverty stopped just inside the front doors of Ninth, one of the fourteen restaurants in the Haverty Dining Group, and looked at the young man who had delivered the greeting.
"I'm not delivering," Leon said. "I'm eating."The host's eyes traveled from Leon's scuffed brown boots to the faded work jacket hanging open over a plain gray shirt. He took in the worn canvas at the elbows, the careful repairs on the jacket's zipper, and the absence of a watch that could be seen from across the room. His expression changed by fractions. It was not an obvious sneer. People who worked in expensive restaurants learned to make judgment look like efficiency."Lunch here costs more than your boots," the host said.Leon studied him for a moment. "You'd be surprised what I can afford."The host's smile became thin. "Name?""Haverty. Table for one. Booked last Tuesday."The young man typed something into the reservation system. His fingers slowed when the surname appeared on the screen, but he did not look up. "Haverty," he said. "Funny. Popular name around here.""Is it?"The host did not answer. Behind Leon, a couple in their early sixties entered the restaurant. The man wore a navy suit that fit perfectly, and the woman carried a small designer handbag by its handles. They had not reached the desk before the host's whole manner changed."Mr. and Mrs. Avery. Good afternoon. Your window is ready.""Wonderful," Mrs. Avery replied. "We have a meeting at two, so we appreciate the timing.""Of course. Right this way."The host led them past a row of empty tables beside the windows, where late-morning light lay across white tablecloths and polished glassware. Leon watched them sit. Their server appeared almost immediately, placed water glasses before them, and began describing the specials before either of them had opened a menu.Leon looked back at the host."And my table?"The young man checked the screen again, although Leon had already seen the reservation listed there. "Table twenty-two. This way."He led Leon away from the windows, past the main dining room, and through a narrow aisle beside the service station. Table twenty-two stood near the kitchen door, close enough that every opening of the swing door brought a wash of heat, the clatter of pans, and the sharp scent of seared butter. A bus tub sat on a trolley a few feet away. The table was clean, but one leg was shorter than the others. A glass of water would have trembled on it."Kitchen-door table," a man called from the service station. "Out by one-thirty."Leon turned. The speaker was in his late thirties, broad-shouldered and neatly groomed, with a dark suit, a silver tie bar, and a headset looped behind one ear. He carried himself as if the room had been built around his preferences. A nameplate on his lapel read DARREN PIKE, FLOOR MANAGER.The host nodded. "Yes, Darren."Darren glanced at Leon, then at the table. "That should do.""I have a reservation," Leon said."And you've been seated." Darren's smile did not reach his eyes. "Enjoy your lunch, sir."He was gone before Leon could respond.Leon sat down. The table rocked when he rested his hands on it. He could have called someone over. He could have asked for another table. He could have pointed out that the window section was half empty. Instead, he pulled a small notebook from his jacket and wrote the time at the top of the page.