The man in the top hat remembered Cobblepot's exact words: Show them some color. Let them know not to mess with the Iceberg.
Which translated, operationally, to: make noise, cause fear, do not start a war.
Batman was currently dismantling the Falcone operation piece by piece. Cobblepot wasn't interested in drawing that kind of attention while the bigger target was occupied. The play was to crack the Red Dragon's windows, send a message, and walk away with face intact. Actually killing a Falcone employee meant Batman chased Falcone, and then Falcone chased Cobblepot, and suddenly the Penguin had problems that couldn't be solved with a top hat and a submachine gun.
Hence: suppressive fire. Submachine guns, aimed high. Lots of sound, minimal blood. A warning, not an execution.
Then, from somewhere inside the restaurant, a voice broke.
"THE BOSS IS DOWN!"
And this was the strange part: underneath the grief, there was something that sounded almost like relief.
Cobblepot's men looked at each other.
"Did we hit their boss?"
"Sounds like it."
The top-hat leader's head came up fast. "Who shot their boss? Cease fire, cease fire!"
His side stopped. The Red Dragon's side stopped. The only sound left was the wailing from somewhere behind the overturned tables, reverberating through the bullet-damaged dining room with impressive volume.
"HELP! SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE! HE'S NOT GOING TO MAKE IT!"
The shift supervisor—Philip, though people mostly called him boss—was not, in fact, down.
He was sprawled across a pile of chandelier wreckage with a sharp piece of crystal bracket digging into his ribs, which made breathing painful, and he was looking up at Jude with an expression of profound personal injury.
"I'm," he said, each word costing something, "not. Dead."
"Boss." Jude's voice broke with theatrical anguish. "Don't try to speak. Save your strength. Whatever you need to say to your family, I'll carry the message myself. I promise."
Santos stared at Jude across the debris field. "What are you—"
"BOSS!" Jude amplified the grief by thirty percent. The acoustics of a nearly-empty restaurant were excellent.
Philip reached for his pistol.
Located it. Raised it. Put a round into the wall six inches from Jude's head.
"If you wail one more time," he said, with great precision, "I will shoot you myself."
Outside, one of Cobblepot's men pumped his fist.
"HE'S ALIVE! THEIR GUY'S ALIVE!"
The top-hat leader turned to look at him.
His own subordinate. Cheering. For the enemy.
He slapped the man across the back of the head. "That's their guy! Why are you happy?!"
The others pivoted immediately.
"Right. We should be upset about that."
"Very upset."
"Deeply disappointed."
"AHEM." The top-hat leader cut his crew off before they made it worse. He straightened, squared his shoulders, and addressed the ruined facade of the Red Dragon at full volume:
"CONSIDER THIS A WARNING! COBBLEPOT AND THE ICEBERG ARE NOT TO BE CHALLENGED! REMEMBER THIS NIGHT!"
They fired a few parting shots into the ceiling for emphasis and retreated in good order.
Cobblepot's crew left looking like they'd won.
The Red Dragon's crew looked at each other, attempting to determine if they'd lost.
Final damage tally for the engagement:
Penguin's men: wine bottles, exterior glass, decorative plasterwork.
Jude: one high-end chandelier.
Total bullets fired by Jude to achieve this: one.
Casualties inflicted on Philip's cardiovascular system: still being calculated.
Philip was helped to a chair. He sat there for a full minute, breathing steadily, hands on his knees. Then he raised one arm and pointed at Jude.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THAT CHANDELIER COST?!"
"I was aiming at—"
"I TOLD YOU TO SHOOT AT THE PEOPLE! NOT THE CEILING! You did more damage to this restaurant than Cobblepot's entire crew combined!"
"You said we had insurance—"
"YOU WILL PAY IT BACK! ONE MONTH OR YOU'RE DONE!"
The only reason Jude was not fired on the spot: his customer service was genuinely exceptional. Three wealthy regulars had already asked for him by name. The society woman with the aggressive perfume had left a note. And Donald liked him, which in a Falcone-connected operation was the variable that mattered.
Jude checked his phone.
10:00 PM exactly.
"My shift's over," he said. "See you tomorrow, boss."
He left.
Philip sat in the ruined dining room with his mouth open, watching him go.
Santos spoke first. "He just left."
"While you were still yelling," Rick confirmed.
"Clocked out mid-argument," Bridget added.
Philip put his face in his hands.
The next morning, Jude arrived for his shift on time. Philip was already in the back hallway when Donald came out of the office.
"Yesterday's assessment," Philip reported. "No casualties on our side. Furniture largely intact—those tables earned their cost. A few wine bottles. The chandelier is the primary loss."
Donald nodded. "No one hurt?"
"No."
"Penguin's crew and ours combined—three minutes of engagement before both sides pulled back. Our losses were thirty percent lower than the last time he sent people." Philip paused. "Though without Jude accidentally—"
"Philip." Donald's tone was quiet, not unkind. "I told him I wouldn't make him kill anyone. That chandelier bill is mine."
He walked to the window overlooking the dining room, hands clasped behind his back.
"He's been driving the Death Car."
Philip blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"That cursed Falcone sedan. Nine deaths. The family dumped it on a dealer who somehow unloaded it to Jude." Donald's mouth curved slightly. "Guy has a specific kind of luck. I'm not entirely sure the chandelier was bad luck. Either way, he stays." He turned. "The Godfather's priorities right now are the Bat, Gordon, and Dent. Penguin can wait. Don't let anyone spread rumors about retaliation until it's decided."
"Understood."
"One more thing." Donald paused at the door. "Jude's not family yet. Keep him away from active firefights. If he's shooting, he might put a round in one of ours."
Philip thought about it. Jude, behind a cluster of Falcone enforcers, attempting to aim at the enemy.
He thought about who was standing between Jude and the enemy.
Cold sweat. Immediate.
"Understood," he said again, with more feeling.
Jude was eating the staff breakfast when Philip came to find him.
He set down his fork and produced a reasonable approximation of a cooperative expression.
"Boss! You look well-rested."
Philip, who had been directing cleanup until four in the morning, took a slow breath through his nose.
"Donald's covering the chandelier."
The relief on Jude's face was genuine. "Tell him thank you from me."
"Also." Philip frowned at him. "That car you're driving. It's a problem. What happened to the wheelchair?"
"Stolen." Jude shrugged.
"Find something else for your commute. Drive that car less." Philip straightened his jacket. "And Jude?"
"Yeah?"
"If you have any free time, please by god go practice at a range. Give them my name. Seventy percent discount."
He walked away before Jude could form a response.