The man in the top hat remembered Cobblepot's exact words: "Show them some color. Let them know not to mess with the Iceberg."
Translation: don't kill anyone. Just warn them.
Batman was currently pummeling the Falcone family into submission. Cobblepot didn't want to make deeper enemies while the big dog was distracted. Smash up a restaurant, save face, send a message. But actually kill someone? That risked Batman chasing Falcone and Falcone chasing Cobblepot in retaliation.
Can't beat Batman, but I can damn well beat you, Penguin.
So everyone brought submachine guns for suppressive fire but aimed high. Lots of noise, minimal bloodshed.
Then, from inside the restaurant, a wail of anguish.
"THE BOSS' DOWN!"
There was—and this was the weird part—a note of joy in the grief.
Penguin's men exchanged confused glances.
"Did we hit their boss?"
"Sounds like it."
The top-hat leader's head snapped up. "Who did that? Who shot their boss? CEASE FIRE!"
His side stopped shooting.
The Red Dragon's side stopped shooting.
Only the wailing continued, echoing through the bullet-riddled dining room.
"HELP! SOMEONE HELP! THE BOSS' COLLAPSED! CALL AN AMBULANCE!"
Inside, the boss or the shift supervisor—sprawled on the floor amid chandelier debris—clutched his chest and wheezed.
"I'm... not... dead..."
"Boss, please, don't talk like that!" Jude's voice, thick with theatrical grief.
Santos stared at him. "What are you—"
"BOSS!" Jude wailed louder. "Whatever you want to say, I'll bring your message to your family! I promise!"
The shift supervisor tried to speak. Coughed. The stitch in his side from falling over the chandelier wreckage made breathing painful.
"Santos... Rick... Castro... come see him one last time..."
The shift supervisor snapped.
Grabbed his pistol. Fired a shot into the wall next to Jude's head.
"If you wail one more time," he rasped, "I'll shoot you too."
Outside, one of Penguin's men suddenly cheered.
"HOLY SHIT! THEIR BOSS' ALIVE!"
The top-hat leader stared at him.
His own subordinate. Cheering. For the enemy.
"You IDIOT!" He slapped the man. "That's THEIR guy! Why are you happy?!"
The others nodded quickly.
"Yeah, why are you happy?"
"We should be disappointed."
"Very disappointed."
"AHEM." The top-hat leader coughed loudly, cutting off his crew before they made it worse. He glared at the Red Dragon's position through the shattered entrance.
"TODAY WAS JUST A WARNING!" he shouted. "REMEMBER THIS! COBBLEPOT AND THE ICEBERG ARE NOT TO BE TRIFLED WITH!"
They retreated, firing a few parting shots at the ceiling for emphasis.
Penguin's crew left looking victorious.
The Red Dragon's crew looked at each other, trying to figure out if they'd lost.
Highest damage of the entire fight: caused by Jude.
Total bullets fired by Jude: one.
Casualties inflicted on shift supervisor's blood pressure: catastrophic.
The supervisor—Philip, though most people just called him "boss"—was helped to a chair. He sat there catching his breath for a solid minute.
Then pointed at Jude.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT CHANDELIER COST?!"
Jude opened his mouth.
"I TOLD YOU TO SHOOT AT PEOPLE! NOT LAMPS! YOU DESTROYED MORE OF THE RESTAURANT THAN COBBLEPOT'S ENTIRE CREW!"
"You said we had insurance—"
"YOU'LL PAY IT BACK! ONE MONTH! OR YOU'RE FIRED!"
The only reason Jude wasn't immediately fired: his customer service skills were genuinely excellent. Several wealthy female customers now requested him specifically. And more importantly, Donald liked him.
"Boss," Jude said carefully, "I don't have money to practice shooting. And didn't you tell me to just ignore everything and shoot?"
Philip's eye twitched.
Jude checked his phone. 10:00 PM exactly.
"My shift's over. See you tomorrow."
He left.
The supervisor sat there, face red, speechless.
His colleagues stared at him.
"He just... left," Santos said.
"While you were yelling at him," Rick added.
"Clocked out mid-argument," Bridget confirmed.
Philip buried his face in his hands.
Next day, Jude showed up for his shift on time.
Philip gave his report to Donald in the back office.
"Yesterday's damage assessment is complete. No casualties on our side. Minimal damage to furniture. A few bottles of wine broken. Biggest loss was the high-end chandelier."
"No injuries to our people?" Donald leaned back in his chair. "Good."
"We fought for maybe three minutes before both sides called a truce. Overall losses were thirty percent lower than our last conflict with Penguin's crew." Philip paused. "But without Jude accidentally—"
"Philip." Donald's tone was gentle but firm. "I promised not to make Jude kill anyone. That chandelier bill is on me."
He stood, walked to the window overlooking the dining room.
"Besides. He's been driving the Death Car lately."
Philip blinked. "The what?"
"That cursed sedan. Nine deaths associated with it. Falcones dumped it on a dealer who sold it to Jude." Donald smiled slightly. "Guy has uncanny luck. I'm not sure the chandelier incident counts as bad luck or good luck. Either way, we're keeping him."
"So this matter ends here. As for saving face, the family will handle Penguin eventually."
"Should we retaliate against the Iceberg—"
"Nothing's decided yet. Don't spread rumors." Donald waved a hand. "The Godfather says we focus on the real problems first: the Bat, Gordon, and Harvey Dent."
Philip nodded.
"One more thing," Donald added. "Jude's not family yet. Don't let him shoot in a firefight. He might hit one of ours."
Philip's mouth twitched. He imagined Jude aiming at Penguin's men from behind and accidentally shooting a Falcone lieutenant.
Or worse—shooting Donald.
Cold sweat beaded his forehead.
"Understood."
Jude was eating the staff breakfast when Philip approached.
He set down his fork, smiled ingratiatingly.
"Hey boss! Sleep well last night?"
Philip, who'd been up until 4 AM directing cleanup, felt dizzy. He forced his blood pressure down through sheer willpower.
"Donald says he's covering the chandelier."
Jude's relief was visible. "Thank you, Boss Donald."
"Also." Philip frowned. "That car you're driving. It's not safe. What happened to the wheelchair you used to commute?"
"Got stolen." Jude shrugged. "I live in the East End."
"Find different transportation. Drive that car less." Philip sighed. "And Jude?"
"Yeah?"
"If you have free time, practice shooting. Mention my name, you'll get a seventy percent discount."