12:44pm, January 29; Street Tacos, Robinson Park; Edward Nygma

"So I figured out a solution to the whole rotation thing," Flass said as he paid for their lunch and passed a terribly overstuffed burrito to Ed and got a drink back in return. He'd been invited out for a walk and talk since the day was nice even with the biting chill of winter in the air. The sky was even clear of both clouds or smog and the sun was shining brightly on them. A rare event for Gotham City. It happened perhaps seven days total out of each year. If they were lucky to even get that many.

But as far as solutions went, Ed had figured out a perfectly good and very fair math based one that even took into account next year's leap year and all holidays. But when he'd started talking about it, Flass had again waved it off because that was 'too much work for any sane man'.

"Shoot!" he said, grinning and sitting down on an empty bench with enough space that Flass could sit next to him. Just two friends having lunch together. How exciting to think this could become a regular thing!

"Well, the rest of us, we got the day thing down. We're used to it. Changing that's going to be hard. So I was thinking, we just keep to that. When we go out on Tuesday, I pay, Kowalski has Wednesday, Choi Thursday, Jacobs Friday, and Dougherty Saturday. It's a good system. Instead of you covering a specific day, you can just keep doing what we been doing the last couple weeks," he explained between bites. "You hand over fifty to each of us every week to cover the difference of whatever the cost would have been if you had taken a day. With six of us going out, it's more expensive all around so it's not like you'll be overpaying. And none of us are complaining, I want you to know that. We're just fine covering your fru-fru drinks. Not a problem."

Ed frowned, taking some time to chew and swallow while he did some mental calculations. He was pretty sure the average bar-tab most nights at places other than the Lounge usually ran around sixty to seventy, maybe closer to ninety if they assumed Ed's drinks were going to be about three dollars higher than theirs and he'd get four. The Lounge's price tag for the same level of drinking ran double the normal. That would be between one-hundred-twenty and possibly two-hundred a visit. Basic guesstimate was that he would be paying between fifty and a hundred a more each week than the rest of them.

"I think your math is off," he began, but was cut off.

"No," Flass rested a hand heavily on his shoulder. His eyes met Ed's and Ed had a mental flashback to two weeks before when he'd been confronted in the locker room with the same tone and a far clearer threat of bodily harm. Flass's hand squeezed just hard enough to start being painful before releasing the hold, "I got the math right. Fifty each a week. If you don't plan on going out with us that week, you can skip. Just don't skip too many. We might start to get the impression you don't want to be friends any more."

Ed blinked a couple times and nodded, eyes dropping as he murmured, "Okay."

Flass grinned at him, the hand shifting to his back where he got a friendly pat, "I knew you'd understand. You're a team player. One of the things I like about you."

He finished his meal and stood up, balling up the wrapper and tossing it toward a nearby trash can. It bounced off the edge and he tsked. Then turned and gave another pat to Ed's shoulder just before walking away, "See you tonight. Seven. Copper Flask."

"I'll be there," he forced a smile and hoped it sounded genuinely happy.

Fifty a week. To each of them. Two-hundred-fifty a week total. One-thousand a month. Half his paycheck.

But they were his friends. And they did pay for his lunches sometimes, outside of the nightly outings they did as a group. He hadn't factored that into his calculations of the bar tab shares. Assuming they did the same for each other on a daily or bi-daily basis, it probably did come out closer to about one-hundred-fifty to two-hundred spent by each of them on their friends every week. He'd have to pay more attention to what meals and drinks brought in for each other cost so he could be sure.

But if that was being counted, then yes, it was likely a fair number to expect from him. He just... wasn't used to that kind of expense. Yes, that's all. Having friends meant spending money on them the way they did on him.

It was expensive, but it was an expense he could work around. He'd simply have to tighten his budget a bit more.

7:17pm, January 30; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma

He wasn't sure what exactly possessed him to bring his books to the Lounge to try and work out living on just half his paycheck, but he'd been too distracted to do it at work. And when he'd tried it at home, his mind kept going in circles and he read the same simple equation at least twenty times before he had to admit he was getting no where. He'd needed a change of scenery and the first place that came to mind was the Lounge's Loft.

He entered the building and Wren greeted him again. It was with a strange sense of relief - one he didn't want to analyse - that he answered he was alone tonight. The guys were hitting the Tap Room again.

Wren led him to the bar and asked him to wait while she checked if there was a free table small enough for one or two people that he could claim. The bartender from before greeted him. He held up a hand to stave off the mixing of a drink.

"Water, please. I'm not really here to drink tonight," he admitted, feeling a bit like a mooch since the whole point of clubs like this was to drink and see and be seen.

The man shrugged and didn't lose his smile, "If you change your mind, let me know. Anything else I can do for you before I get to the rest of these orders, Mr. Nygma?"

He was about to say 'no' when a thought occurred to him, "Actually. Could you tell me if the Loft is open tonight?"

"No, sir. It's closed."

"And Mr. Pen- um, Mr... the owner. Is he here tonight?"

That question got a surprised eyebrow raise, but the man still answered, "Not yet, sir. He'll be in later. Should I ask if he'd be willing to see you when he does arrive?"

"No! No. No no no no..." He grinned and shook his head, "I don't want to trouble him. But... if it's possible... Could I go up to the Loft? I have some paperwork I need to do and I've been too distracted by other things at work and my apartment. I felt a change of scenery would help, but... I think it might get even harder to go through this with the crowd as packed as it is tonight. I didn't think it would be this busy. I'll understand if you can't bring the lights up. But even just sitting at the top of the stairs near the bar should give me enough to work by. I'd sit by the railing, but I don't think the light from down here would be strong enough or consistent enough to see properly."

"End of the month and beginning of the month are some of the busiest days. A lot of people get paid right about now," the man said slowly. He looked like he was thinking about the request and seriously considering it. A surprise because even as Ed had asked, he figured he'd be laughed out of the club for the presumption. "They like to spend what they can before the bills come due."

The man glanced down the line of the bar and waved the other bartender on duty over just as Wren came back. She was touching Ed's arm to get his attention when he held up a hand, "Mr. Nygma won't be needing that table. Nothing's wrong. He just has a special request. I'm going to see to it and then be right back."

Wren's concerned confusion cleared and she dropped her and, bidding Ed a friendly goodbye on the assumption he'd be leaving after the request was filled. headed back into the fray. The other bartender did the same.

"Arnold Wesker, by the way," he introduced himself as he led Ed into the back. Unlike his last visit through those halls, his presence gained questioning glances. Leaving didn't cause them, but entering did. Interesting. Arnold made a few faces and quiet hand gestures to reassure every look and turn attention away from them. He otherwise remained silent until he'd led Ed up the stairs of the service entrance.

"We can't turn the lights on full," he explained as he brought up a set of very soft, very low, blue lights that lit up the bottom edge of the railing and flickered in and out at random, casting over the burg and in doing so, imitated the look of water trapped beneath just enough to give the illusion it was floating. Another light came on, over the table at the far end of the room. The one the Penguin had been sitting in the second time he'd been here. "But that table can be lit up without turning the rest of them on. All the pendant lights are pretty low wattage, but that should be enough to see by. Do you think your paperwork will take very long?"

Ed smiled at the man, another Arnold, but with the luck of not being Flass, "It shouldn't, no. Thank you for this."

"You're welcome, Mr. Nygma. When you're finished and ready to go, shut off the lights and leave using the service entrance. No one will ask any questions."

That statement again. He wanted to ask about it, but that might be edging too close to the Penguin's known criminal element. Something he, logically, knew he should avoid. Oh, but his curiosity screamed at him to know why no one would question someone leaving, but had looked ready to confront him to a man if Wesker hadn't indicated it was fine when they traveled inward. Firstly, how did they know the difference?

He held back on it and nodded, bouncing on his toes, "Okie dokie."

Wesker gave him a funny look but didn't say anything about the answer before he went back downstairs to get back to his duties. Ed lifted a hand in a wave to his back and turned toward the booth. The Penguin had sat there before. Was it his booth? Or was it just the one he'd chosen to sit in that night? He had his choice of seats, after all. And he hadn't been there the first time around. He'd been behind the bar. Cleaning glasses.

He slid into the seat, scooting around so he could see the entrance as he flipped his notebook open and took several sheets out. All those other questions could wait. He needed to figure out how he was going to make this new budget work.

10:33pm, January 30; The Iceburg Lounge; Wren

Mr. Cobblepot was, of course, immediately informed of the man using his booth in the otherwise closed Loft. The whole staff knew he was there. Arnold hadn't tried to hide what he was doing, what he was allowing. Wren hadn't found out until a half hour later. The floor had been too busy for her to get word of it until then.

"Who authorized this?" the King of the Underworld asked in a too-calm tone that meant things could go either way for the offender, depending on who it was and what their justification for the actions were. Seeing as how Wesker was a low-level nobody on the scale of employee value, he was probably going to get beaten. And fired. Beaten and fired.

No one had tried to stop him doing what he'd done, of course. If someone decided to risk themselves like that, the rule was to let them dig their own grave. Still, Wren did feel a bit bad about it all. She understood his decision. Mr. Nygma had always been very kind to the staff and beyond polite, above and beyond what they were used to getting. It was kind of a shame his friends weren't nearly so good, but he, at least, always tried to apologize for them and make sure everything was paid for. Well, until his tab privileges had been revoked.

Since Arnold wasn't there to claim ownership of his actions, the bar being too busy, Finch spoke up and named him. Sure the rule was dig your own grave, but she didn't need to help him climb in faster. The only reason the two of them were even in the back and able to stand before Mr. Cobblepot was because Wesker had gotten Lark and Thrush to cover their tables and let them have a ten minute break.

Karma was a bitch, though, because she was just new enough not to have learned the other rule: don't be a snitch unless the Boss wanted you to be a snitch. It was a lesson Finch would take to heart and to her grave, delivered by a nine millimeter bullet from Butch.

"That sucks," he muttered, talking out of turn because he was one of the few people Mr. Cobblepot allowed that privilege. "I liked her. She was good at her job."

"Yes, a shame," Mr. Cobblepot agreed with a sigh like he was genuinely upset she'd proven herself so unable to follow the simplest instructions.

He would send for Wesker shortly and Wren figured the man might be given enough time to explain himself. Which meant he'd probably bring up Wren's involvement and lack of oversight on Nygma's activities.

"Mr. Cobblepot," she said softly, unable to control the shake in her voice, but powering on all the same, "I assume partial responsibility. You gave me direct orders to attend to Mr. Nygma any time he returned to the lounge and instead of questioning what Mr. Nygma's special request was, I allowed Mr. Wesker to assume my duties for me."

No bullet for her, since she was admitting to her own involvement.

"And why, Wren, did you allow that?" he asked, stepping toward her, close enough that if he chose to pull the dagger they all knew was sheathed inside his cane, she could be gutted in seconds. She hoped that if he did pull it on her, he chose to drive it into her chest or neck so she could have a relatively fast death.

"Thrush was late for her shift and I was covering her tables for her until she arrived in addition to my own. One of them was very rowdy and I decided to prioritize calming them down over Mr. Nygma's needs."

"You understand that that was a mistake?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if I allow you to continue to have the privilege of working for my organization, will you be able to make better, more appropriate decisions in the future? Be honest with yourself."

She didn't answer right away, taking a moment to consider how this could go down. For all that it was a waitstaff position and held the threat of death every day, it was probably the best job she'd ever had. Cobblepot took good care of his employees so long as they didn't break the rules and obeyed him in all things. And if he was asking this, he was very likely giving her a second chance to prove herself worthy of that care. A rare thing when it came to the mob.

She had been centering her gaze on a vague point past the Penguin's shoulders. She turned now to meet his eyes and spoke with conviction, "Yes sir. If I am given the name of a guest to attend to personally, I will prioritize them above everyone else, to the exclusion of all others than yourself if necessary. They will be my only concern when they are here."

It was a very harrowing minute and a half that Cobblepot waited to answer her, holding her gaze the whole time. It came to an end when his mouth turned upward and he decided she wasn't worth his scrutiny anymore, "Good. If you fail to do so, you'll be joining Finch. Now, if you would, please head upstairs to see if Mr. Nygma needs anything while I see about Mr. Wesker."

10:48pm, January 30; The Iceburg Lounge; Arnold Wesker

He stood now on the landing at the foot of the stairs to the Loft. Wren was coming around the corner from the main floor, tray in her hand with two glasses of white wine atop it. She flowed past him and upwards, moving to the side right at the top to make room for Mr. Cobblepot as he came down.

He stood stiffly, ready to face whatever waited for him. He'd been informed by Thrush that Finch had broken the snitch rule, so there was already a body bag going out. It was entirely possible his would join hers. Still, he felt he'd done the right thing.

"You let someone into the Loft while it was closed. You sat this man at my table. You broke two rules. One of security and one of propriety," his boss said, tone perfectly reasonable, as he stopped in front of him. "Do you care to explain yourself or should I just have Butch shoot you now?"

"I'd like a chance to explain myself, if I may have it," he answered. Hoping that would actually give him one rather than just launch right into it like he was begging for his life. He'd seen Penguin roll his eyes and execute enough people who did that out of pure annoyance and boredom alone.

"Go ahead."

"Following Mr. Nygma's last visit, you told me to fulfill any reasonable requests Mr. Nygma had and record them in the VIP comps log."

"So you took my order to provide him with reasonable food service requests and... felt this was a reasonable request?"

"You didn't specify it was only for food service, sir. Use of the Loft for private parties is not an unreasonable request, particularly when the party consists of one person and there is no reason to expect undue damage to the room."

That got a chuckle out of the Penguin, "Alright. That covers the use of the room. And the use of my table?"

"That... was more of a... guess, sir," he admitted, gulping and wetting his lips nervously. "The manner in which he requested use of the Loft indicated he had... he seemed very familiar with how it is when it's shut down despite there being no records of his visits in the security log. With your orders regarding his off the record VIP status, I thought it likely he'd already been your personal guest. And your personal guests are allowed at your table for short periods."

Penguin tilted his head, as if curious. He could just make out the action from the corner of his eye, not daring to look up from where he was staring at the spot the wall met the floor and both met the stairs. He wasn't afraid of confrontation normally, but the man before him decided his life or death and usually when his attention was on someone in Wesker's position, death was the final outcome. If he really was giving the case just made fair consideration, Wesker didn't want to seem disrespectful and screw himself over.

He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried when Cobblepot finally let out a soft 'mmmm' and turned away from him to make his way back upstairs. It was definitely a dismissal and he took it as such, returning to the bar to continue his shift. But he was left with a snake of fear coiling around his stomach and squeezing very tightly while his fate remained in limbo.