Jude wasn't lying about his study habits.
He'd perfected the art of cramming in college. Memorize everything three days before the exam, retain it long enough to pass, forget it immediately after. The training manual was thick and nobody had highlighted the important parts, but he'd absorbed most of it.
For safety, he'd spent $1 in asset points to copy the entire thing into the system's notepad. Digital insurance.
The supervisor quizzed him more on a few random sections, confirmed he wasn't bluffing, and led him to the changing room. Pulled out a waiter's uniform in his size.
"Put this on."
Jude had never worn a suit before.
He emerged from the changing room, tugging at the sleeves.
The supervisor circled him, evaluating. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
The suit fit well. Jude's build was lean but proportioned. His face had good bone structure, sharp features. Asian features that somehow blended naturally into Gotham's melting pot aesthetic.
But something was off.
"You've got a problem," the supervisor said, squinting. "You look too dangerous."
"What?"
"Your face. There's something..." He gestured vaguely at Jude's eyes. "Cold. Hard. Like you've seen things. It works for the nightclub, but you're day shift. Customers want pleasant, not predatory."
Jude tried smiling.
The supervisor winced. "Okay, worse. Now you look like a gangster pretending to be polite. Put you in an Italian suit and people would ask which family you work for."
He left, returned a moment later with gold-rimmed glasses.
"Put these on. And don't drop them in anyone's food."
Jude slipped them on.
The supervisor's expression cleared. "Much better. The glasses soften it. Makes you look educated instead of dangerous."
He spent the next twenty minutes running Jude through greeting protocols, order-taking procedures, serving etiquette, and table clearing. Jude made a few minor mistakes—wrong fork placement, slightly incorrect wine presentation—but his calm demeanor masked most of them.
"Good. You learn fast." The supervisor yawned. "You can start at ten."
He shuffled off, probably to catch some sleep. Nightclub shift must have run late.
Jude had eaten breakfast already, so he took off the glasses, pocketed them, and headed to the corner newsstand. Bought the morning paper.
Time to see what Gotham considered news.
GOTHAM GAZETTE
Two Robberies End in Shootouts - Suspects Hospitalized
Road Rage Incident: Biker Gang vs. Dump Truck Driver - Bikers Lose
Pharmaceutical Employees Found Frozen - Mr. Freeze Suspected
Maroni Gang Members Hospitalized with Severe Injuries - Evidence Submitted to GCPD
Jude paused on the last one.
Multiple broken bones. Fractured ribs. Severe trauma. All the same night. All the same injuries—blunt force, no bullets, no weapons.
The suspects were also wanted for the two robberies mentioned earlier.
Well done, Jude thought. Psychopath in a cape, but at least you're a productive psychopath.
He noted the family name. Maroni. One of Gotham's major crime families, semi-affiliated with the Falcones. If Maroni's people got beaten badly enough to end up in police custody, that was embarrassing. Explained why the supervisor looked exhausted—important people must have been here last night, handling the fallout.
Not his problem, though. He was just a waiter.
He kept reading. A dozen muggers with broken jaws. Drug dealers tied up outside GCPD headquarters. Setting aside whatever didn't make the papers, yesterday had been a quiet Tuesday in Gotham.
"Hey, new guy."
Jude looked up.
Three waiters stood behind him, all in suits, all staring at the newspaper in his hands.
"Mind if we see that?" The speaker was mid-twenties, confident posture, easy smile. He extended a hand. "Santos. Claude Santos."
"Lloyd Rick." The second waiter, stockier build.
"Bridget Castro." The third, a woman with sharp eyes.
"Jude. Jude Sharp." He handed over the paper. "Help yourself."
Santos took it, flipped directly to the Maroni article. The three of them read in silence.
Their expressions said everything.
Jude stood slowly, watching them. Drake had mentioned Donald's connections. The phone call during a shootout. The high-end clientele. Of course the Red Dragon was tied to the Falcones—Gotham's biggest crime family. He just hadn't expected the waiters to be family too.
"Maroni," Santos said eventually, voice dripping contempt. "How embarrassing."
Rick shook his head. "Thrown into GCPD custody. Shameful."
Castro frowned. "Are we just going to ignore this? What about the Godfather's reputation?"
"Maroni's embarrassment isn't the Godfather's problem." Santos folded the paper. "Besides, you can fight a lion, a tiger, even a man with a gun. You might win. But how do you fight a ghost? A nightmare? Fear itself?"
He dropped the paper on the bench. "Not our concern anyway. We're just waiters. Today's news is pretty entertaining though."
He turned to Jude, smile widening. "You know, you really do look like a gangster. Sure you're not Falcone family?"
Jude raised his hands. "Not in a gang. Just have an unfortunate face." He pulled out the gold-rimmed glasses, put them on. "See? Much better."
The three relaxed slightly. Santos' smile became genuine. "Just joking. Don't take it personally."
Rick and Castro were checking Jude's wrists and neck. Looking for tattoos. Family marks.
Finding nothing.
What they didn't know was that Donald and the supervisor had been too busy last night to properly brief anyone. The Maroni situation had been more complicated than the papers reported. By the time they'd dealt with it, telling the day shift about the new hire had slipped through the cracks.
"Almost opening time," Santos said. "Kitchen's ready. Should we head in together?"
"Sure. I could use the guidance."
They didn't wait long.
A man in a sharp suit walked through the front door. Well-groomed, professional, confident. The kind of customer who belonged here.
Jude held back, wanting to observe the veterans' procedure.
Instead, all three of them froze for half a second.
Then pushed him forward.
Jude stumbled slightly, caught himself, turned to glare at them.
They were all suddenly very interested in adjusting their cuffs.
Great.
He turned back to the customer, straightened his glasses, and approached.
"Good morning, sir. Welcome to the Red Dragon. Do you have a reservation?"
The man smiled. Warm, genuine, the kind of smile that belonged on campaign posters.
"No reservation. Is that a problem?"
"Not at all. May I have a name for the table?"
"Dent." The man's smile widened slightly. "Harvey Dent."