At night, the main hall of the Iceberg Lounge was like a beast waking from slumber.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the three-story-high dome. A jazz band played in a corner of the stage, the sound of the saxophone winding between glasses and silverware.
Oswald stood behind the railing of the second-floor gallery.
Tonight, he wore a charcoal-black suit with a tiny iceberg brooch pinned to his lapel. His hair was impeccably combed, and the corners of his mouth curled slightly upward.
There were plenty of guests tonight.
Arms dealers from the East End sat by the windows, talking in low voices;
representatives of the crowd down at the docks sat at the far end of the bar, seemingly waiting for someone...
Oswald's gaze swept slowly across the crowd, inspecting every corner and making sure everything was running according to his plans.
Suddenly, he noticed someone was missing.
That woman named Ririko, who had fallen from the sky and come back from the dead, wasn't at any of the tables within his line of sight.
Oswald took out his phone and opened the tracking app.
A floor plan appeared on the screen, with a green dot blinking steadily over the staff lounge. She was still there.
His brow furrowed.
Everyone else was carrying plates and pouring drinks in the dining room, while she was doing who knew what in the lounge.
Oswald pressed his lips into a thin line.
He turned, ready to tell Butch to drag her out of the lounge and teach her what "working hours" meant.
He rounded the corner of the gallery, holding the railing, and was about to head downstairs-
His steps stopped.
Ririko appeared in the dining room, carrying an empty tray.
Oswald narrowed his eyes, his gaze following her.
He had seen that server's uniform countless times. On any other girl, it had the same effect: neat, proper, and restrained.
On Ririko, however, it was an entirely different story.
The high white lace collar hugged her neck, tracing the swanlike lines of her neck and shoulders. That was more dangerous than simply leaving her neck bare;
the black dress followed the curves of her body, drawing in at the waist and flaring over her hips, compelling the eye to follow it down to the pale skin above her knees;
the white sash was tied in a bow at the narrowest point of her waist. Its two trailing ends were like pointers, directing the gaze where it ought to fall...
As she walked beneath the chandeliers and crystal lights in that outfit, the eyes of men drinking, talking, and putting on airs were drawn irresistibly toward her, like iron filings to a magnet.
Ririko walked up to the table by the window.
Two men sat there. One had a knife scar on his face; the other had a skull tattooed on his neck.
"I'd like to order," the scar-faced man said.
Ririko stood before the table and coolly set down a pen and paper.
"Ordering here is self-service. Write down whatever you want."
Neither man had expected a server to dare speak to them that way. Both looked up at once.
But when they got a clear look at Ririko's stunning face, their anger instantly gave way to astonishment.
"Then... we'll do it ourselves," the scar-faced man said.
Ririko held her tray out in front of them.
"Ordering may be self-service, but you still have to tip."
She gave them the hint of a smile.
Both men reached for their wallets without thinking.
The scar-faced man drew out two hundred-dollar bills and gently placed them on the tray.
The tattooed man took out two as well, then felt that wasn't generous enough and added another two.
They had spent more on tips than on their meal, but both paid willingly.
Ririko reached out, lightly pinched the stack of bills between her index and middle fingers, and tucked it into a fold of the white sash at her waist.
"Thank you."
She turned gracefully, her black skirt fluttering slightly, as though announcing that service at this table had come to a satisfactory conclusion.
The two men watched her retreating figure, forgetting that they hadn't actually ordered.
After a round of "service" in the dining room, Ririko returned to the staff lounge.
She sat on a damaged barstool, pulled the stack of bills from her sash, and counted them one by one.
One hundred, two hundred, three hundred... one thousand.
She had earned a thousand bucks in less than an hour of work.
At Arkham, she had to log experimental data for an entire month to earn that much... assuming Hugo remembered to pay her.
She tapped the stack of bills against her fingers, rolled it up, and tucked it into the pocket at the side of her skirt.
The pocket bulged, leaving a small strip of pale green bills sticking out.
Not even an AK could have forced the corners of her mouth down. She had never enjoyed going to work this much in her life.
Suddenly, uneven, limping footsteps came from the corridor.
The smile on Ririko's face abruptly froze.
She quickly hid the bills in the pocket behind her apron.
The lounge door was pushed open.
Oswald stood in the doorway with a complicated expression.
His brows were furrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned slightly downward. He looked ready to unleash a stream of profanity at any moment.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Oswald's voice exploded through the room.
[Current Infatuation Value: 2/100]
That was the number displayed by Ririko's system.
Hugo had started at 20 when he first met her. Even Harley, composed as she was, had begun at 8. Even that idiot Jerome had 10.
But this bird of a man...
After she had spent all evening parading before his eyes in this carefully tailored dress, his infatuation value had only risen by a single point.
She slowly crossed one leg over the other, making the folds of her black skirt even more dangerous.
One black high heel dangled in the air. She propped an elbow on her knee and rested her cheek in her palm:
"I'm working, boss. Didn't you see?"
Her voice was languid, her gaze as innocent as a cat being scolded by its owner without the slightest idea what it had done wrong.
Oswald stood in the middle of the lounge, his black umbrella planted against the floor, his knuckles trembling slightly from the force of his grip.
"Who told you to make the guests write their own orders?"
Ririko flicked her long hair.
"It's more efficient this way. They write down what they want, I don't have to stand around waiting, and they don't have to keep flipping back and forth, agonizing over their choices."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Besides... they didn't complain. What are you complaining about?"
Oswald took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy lecture:
"What kind of attitude is that?" "The heart of good service is making guests feel cared for." "A smile is the most basic standard of professionalism." "Ignoring procedure disrupts the entire kitchen's timing"...
He rattled on and on like a cash register endlessly spitting out receipts.
Ririko didn't take in a single word.
She noticed that when he spoke, his lips poked forward slightly and his chin rose without him realizing it. When he got worked up, his whole body unconsciously swayed from side to side...
He really looked like an emperor penguin flapping its stubby little wings.
Halfway through his lecture, Oswald realized she wasn't listening at all.
He noticed that her gaze was fixed on his face, as though she were watching a penguin at an aquarium...
After so many years getting by in Gotham, he was acutely sensitive to how other people saw him.
Was she staring at his limp?
Was she mocking his less-than-imposing stature, just because she was pretty?
Was she calling him "Penguin" behind his back, like everyone else...?
"What exactly are you laughing at?" Oswald's voice rose another pitch.
Ririko sat a little straighter on the barstool, uncrossing her legs and bringing them together.
An ambiguously flirtatious smile played across her face. "I was thinking... maybe you aren't all that scary."
Oswald's expression froze.
"What nonsense are you talking about? When I-I get angry, I even scare myself!"
His face flushed even deeper, the heat spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears.
"Got it." Ririko unilaterally ended the conversation.
She slid off the barstool, her high heels striking the floor with a sharp click.
"All right, boss. If you're done, I'll get back to work."
Unwilling to miss out on any more tips, she headed for the door with quick little steps.
A black umbrella blocked her path.
"Wait."
Oswald couldn't let her keep doing whatever she pleased in his club. Even less could he accept how she always walked away after flirting with him.
He was going to make sure she knew exactly whose turf the Iceberg Lounge was.
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