kept checking his phone beneath the table. Every time he did, the woman stopped talking and watched his face.
“Could we have the check?”
Still, they ordered like people determined to celebrate: oysters, filet mignon, lobster, three cocktails, and a bottle of Bordeaux from the locked cabinet.
By the time they declined dessert, their bill had reached $407.63.
“Could we have the check?” the man asked, glancing at his phone again.
I set the leather folder beside him and went to deliver drinks to another table. I couldn’t have been gone more than three minutes.
When I returned, the booth was empty.
“They left.”
So was the payment tray.
I checked the restrooms, then hurried toward the entrance. No sign of them.
Jett barely looked up when I rushed into his office.
“They left,” I said. “Table twelve. They didn’t pay.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Maybe they’re in
