I peered through the crowd and caught a glimpse of the open kitchen. Just like the first time, frantic activity.

Unlike the first time, Darius Kleffer wasn’t part of it.

I spotted him sitting at a table-for-two against the left wall of the restaurant, his back to me. But recognizable because of his Mohawk, his inked arm, his black chef’s togs.

His companion was a woman in her twenties with long, lustrous black hair. Diagonal bangs sliced through a section of her longish face. Gigantic gold hoops dangled from her ears.

Serious eye makeup and cheek-rouge. Big dark eyes.

She wore a sleeveless red jersey top, silver jeans, gray suede knee boots with half-foot heels. Tattoos on her flesh, too, a blue-and-maroon sleeve on her left arm. The rest of her was fish-belly white.

Pleasant but unremarkable face.

Remarkable body.

Her chest was monumental, heralded by the scoop neck of the red top. The blouse was cut low enough to barely skirt nipples poking through jersey. A central cleft was deep enough to conceal a paperback book.

Kleffer was doing all the talking. She was doing all the hair-flipping and the lash-batting and the smiling.

Both of them leaning in, faces inches from the bottle of white wine set between them. Glasses one-third full. Unidentifiable tidbits on the plates.

A voice at the head of the queue said, “Sor-ry, nothing ye-et.” The same snotty voice as over the phone. No regret at all, just a gloating drawl.

More people squeezed into the waiting area. The host took that as a signal to ignore everyone as he pretended to peruse the reservation book.

Seeing him gave me a start. At first glance, he bore a striking resemblance to Jens Williams.

Second glance modified that: This prince was slightly older and six inches shorter. But the overall look was the same: longish, greasy, calculatedly messy dark hair, heavy-duty nerd-specs, cheap sharkskin suit tailored too-short and too-tight, black shirt, pink string tie.

I realized that Williams’s hipster cliché style would work in the city—in any good-sized city—enabling him to blend in and seek new venues.

The host kept fake-reading.

The crowd of aspiring tapa-istas closed ranks in front of me. Someone elbowed my ribs. Someone else had the temerity to grumble but that protest died quickly under the glare of disapproving conformity offered by the rest of the crowd.

In this world, waiting in line was a badge of honor and griping was politically incorrect.

Maybe the mussels soufflé really was amazing.

I got shoved again.

Turned and made my exit.

Someone scolded, “You can’t do that, you’ll lose your place.”

Back behind the wheel, I described what I’d seen.

Milo said, “Busty lady.”

“Breast reduction would leave her busty.”

“You think she’s the one Williams was shacking up with next door?”

“Or he found another like her.”

“So, not Santos. Is that good or bad?”

I didn’t reply.