Chapter Nine: Barbara Wants A Club

Six months had passed since Strange's monsters had been released. While Oswald was more than happy to concentrate on that fact (as well as Fish Mooney having disappeared without so much as a blip on anyone's radar but his own), his current priority was planning the best day ever for him and Sylvia.

After all, it was their third-year anniversary.

And a simple fact remained: Oswald had known Sylvia for nearly five years. He loved her to death and beyond, and yet, planning something for her was always a pain in the ass.

While working for Fish, he and Sylvia had met at 'Mooney's'. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Oswald and Sylvia had worked together, each bringing something to the table that Fish liked or wanted. Whether that was Sylvia's cynicism and ability to keep Regulars coming either for the drink or her company, or Oswald's subservience—whatever it was that Fish wanted, they gave it to her in hopes that they could endear themselves to her.

It wasn't until after he and Sylvia were dating that Oswald discovered that Sylvia's main ambition to getting closer to Fish was so that she could get closer to him. While working for Fish, they had exchanged platitudes, subtle notions of interest and flirts—mostly on Sylvia's end. She had chased him until he finally said 'fuck it', downed a shot of Jim Beam, and then asked her on a date. Her response still made him laugh to this day when he thought about it: Well, it's about fucking time, she had said.

They had been married for three years. Courting each other for five—the technicalities could really muddy things up, but with love, was there really such a thing as timelines or technicalities? Oswald couldn't believe so.

Still…

He'd gone this far without realizing one difficult matter: Sylvia was the hardest person for whom to plan a perfect day. When it came down to it, all she ever wanted was to spend time with him. Money, gifts—she didn't care about any of it. That wasn't to say that she didn't appreciate anything he gave her from jewelry to buying her lavish dresses; she had many ways of showing it either with praise, hugs, or a gift of her own. However, she was so minimalistic that she was actually high maintenance; it was ironic!

Fish Mooney was out plotting whatever it is she was planning; Strange's monsters were stalking streets, victimizing Gotham's people; and yet, Oswald's predicament remained: What could he do for the love of his life when she really didn't require much of anything?

He'd sent Sylvia out to negotiate prices with the current GCPD Commissioner, talking down the latter's asking price of 10% of all the under-the-table cuts made with his dirtier officers. Oswald had told her that he wanted it at least the 5% range. He could have done this himself; however, it was a distraction. It was just a way to get her out of the mansion so he could talk more openly about what he wanted to do for her.

He held a conference.

Sitting around the table was Gabe, Butch, Delilah, Mr. Bell, Victor Zsasz, and Oswald. Aside from Jim Gordon, these were the people who had known Sylvia the longest. Had Fish Mooney been on his side, Oswald would have even invited her. That's how desperate he was to make sure their anniversary day would go without delay, without interruption, and more importantly, without any hitches.

However, after much deliberation, there wasn't much being accomplished. Exhausted by either the outlandish ideas being tossed around or no bearing to reality, Oswald kicked them out of the room; the only people left in the room were Mr. Bell, Butch, and Gabe; primarily, they were there to be given further orders, and Mr. Bell's placement kept him in the mansion at all times to serve either Sylvia or her husband.

Oswald rubbed his face with his hands, and, almost comically, laid his forehead on the wooden table as though he had exhausted any idea that had been brought to him.

It wasn't as though the crew hadn't come up with any good ideas.

Gabe's inexpensive idea of just staying home, ordering in, being typical homebodies had been the most profitable. It incorporated what Sylvia loved most: spending time with him. Still, Oswald knew that at any moment, someone (be it enemy, gang member, Family Member, or others) could demand to be let inside and the thugs would be intimidated. Especially if it was Jim Gordon who demanded rights to see his own sister. The perfect evening would be interrupted, and therefore, ruined.

So the homebody experience was out.

Mr. Bell offered to buy tickets for Sylvia and Oswald to go to an Opera. That would have been just fine for Oswald, but as superficial and sophisticated as Sylvia tried to make herself seem, he knew better. They shared common interests, but when it came down to it, Sylvia was a Gordon. That fancy life—seeing Operas, wearing fancy dresses and ball gowns—that wasn't his wife. She did wear beautiful tresses and lovely ball gowns, but it was either for her club, his events, or basically to show off her toned legs in short skirts and high heels. When it came down to it: that sophistication just wasn't Sylvia.

So, that was a no-go.

Then there was Butch's idea. He'd met somewhere in the middle.

Going out to the movies. Not a fancy movie theater, just a common, upper middle-class viewing of a hot film. That was almost perfect, except people knew who he was and they knew Sylvia. Going to the common ground where—let's be realistic—there were people who wanted them dead….? Not the safest route. While it was a good idea since Sylvia loved watching movies (especially the horror genre), he wouldn't be able to relax. The movie theater wasn't safe.

There were ways around the gaps of vulnerability, however. Sylvia was not just his wife, or his chauffeur (he could drive but he chose not to), but she was a body guard and an impressive body builder. They both kept a knife on them any time they went out—his knife was kept hidden in his cane; Sylvia kept a switchblade in her pocket and always had one strapped to her thigh (the latter was most common if she wore a dress.).

Despite the arguments Butch cleverly lied out in flattering fashion, the fact remained: Whatever their resources or physical attributes of arming themselves, they would still be left defenseless if the assassin popped up at the right time.

To further eradicate the need for paranoia, Butch offered to go, but Oswald declined. He was trying to find a moment with his wife alone. Having Butch there would ruin it.

Then there were suggestions made as to what he could buy as a gift.

Chocolates. Flowers. Jewelry.

Oswald only scoffed. Those were basic.

While he had been admitted to Arkham, Sylvia had kept the kingdom afloat all on her own. For someone who never wanted to manage anything as king-sized as Gotham's Underbelly, she had done it beautifully. And she had done it with a great deal of sacrifice on her part, and she'd only done it for him. He'd never been more in debt to her; and while Sylvia had more than once told him that he owed her nothing in return because she had kept the empire running out of love, there was still much appreciation to be shown on his part.

Something as basic as a box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers, and a necklace would not be enough. At least, not in his eyes.

Mr. Bell let out a small groan.

Oswald glanced up to see that the manservant was standing a little off, as though he were trying to hide an ailment. He'd heard Sylvia talk about Mr. Bell's unfortunate drop on the coffee table, which had been taken to the carpenter's for repair; perhaps her misgivings about the servant's back injury were not just out of empathy.

"Mr. Bell."

"Yes, sir?" Mr. Bell said, quickly straightening—when he did, that painful grimace of which Oswald was all too aware, returned.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"A little achy," He responded honestly, shaking his head. "But nothing to be pressed about, I assure you, sir."

Oswald considered his words with a nod of his as he, too, straightened. He sat back in his seat, one hand on the table while the other rested on the head of his cane…. ah the cane…yet another gift that Sylvia had given him. It wasn't even for a special occasion—it had been just out of the blue!

Thoughtfully, he peered up at Butch, who readily smiled.

"How long do you think she'll be?" asked Butch, glancing out the door before looking at Oswald once more. "She's pretty good at bargaining—I don't think she'll be much longer with the Commissioner."

He answered unhappily, "You're right, of course. One of her most valuable assets is her ability to negotiate. She and the Commissioner have frequently debated in the past year. He knows how she works, by now."

Gabe muttered, "I figure after all this time, he'd just accept it and go."

"I know, right?" Butch chuckled. "He should know the drill by now; she's gonna eventually wear him down…might as well just go with it." He paused. "It's been, what, about twenty minutes, wouldn't you say?"

"What's your point, Butch?" Oswald said irritably.

"If you were going to plan something in the next ten minutes, you better come up with something quick."

"This isn't a surprise party."

Gabe asked, "When's your anniversary date?"

"Next week."

"And you're planning now?"

"Yes." Oswald answered. He leaned forward and said pointedly, "I don't care much for your tone."

Butch raised a hand and his metal one as though defending both himself and Gabe, and said calmly, "We're just saying, Boss. Some people wait until a day or two before they start to plan something. You're planning pretty early…you know…in comparison."

"I would have actually started months ago," Oswald admitted grumpily as he sat back once more. "If not for Fish, Strange, and everyone else…well, that doesn't matter now."

Butch stepped up and then sat in a chair closest to Oswald, who looked at him expectantly. Hearing another groan, Butch and Oswald turned their sights to Mr. Bell who, for the moment, was bent forward, his hands on his knees and that painful expression back on his face. This time, there was no attempt to hide it.

"Mr. Bell."

"Sir, I assure you, I'm fine."

"Be that as it may," Oswald sighed, "I think you ought to make an appointment to see your doctor."

Mr. Bell lifted his gaze to him, pleading.

"If you don't do it for yourself, do it for Sylvia," He warned. "You know how she is."

Taking his suggestion under advisement, Mr. Bell bowed his head as though in defeat, and then with a noticeable slower gait, he walked out of the living room towards the nearest phone to place a call to his doctor. When the servant had left the room and was out of ear shot, Butch looked at Oswald inquisitively.

"Seems like he's starting to go down."

"Yes. I've noticed too."

"If something happens to him, I'm not gonna be the one to tell Liv." Butch said quickly, tapping the table top with his fleshy hand. "She gets so emotionally attached to her people…whenever I've had to tell her something about one of them, it feels like a death sentence."

"If he ends up having to go to the doctor, either he or I tell her."

"Right. You can soften the blow better than I can."

"At least we can agree on that."

There was a moment of silence before Butch spoke: "Are you sure you want to pass on the movie idea? I could sit in the back row."

"In the back row? That'snot going to solve anything."

"I won't be in the way."

"No."

"I won't even talk. I'll even pay for the tickets."

"No."

"You can think of me as a chaperone. When you two are together, you act like a couple of teenagers in love anyway."

"Get out."

"Okay, okay. I'm leaving." Butch said although he was chuckling as he let himself out of the living room.

After Sylvia had finished negotiating with the Commissioner, she went to a coffee shop. Not only was it because her sweet tooth egged her on for a vanilla latte, but because she had received one simple text. The sender: unknown. It only read: We need to talk. - B.

Seeing as the coffee shop was small, remote, and not sanctioned in the seedier places of the city, she didn't plan on anything horrific happening. Sylvia ordered two coffees and sat at a booth furthest from any windows; it was in the corner, in a smoking section. A black, plastic ash tray was provided in the center of the table, along with condiments of regular sugar and sweet-n-low packets, salt and pepper shakers, creamers (French Vanilla, and original), and assorted brown and white napkins.

At the moment, she favored jeans, open-toed flats, and a black sweatshirt. Casual, but comfortable. Her visit to the Commissioner had been nearly the same.

After a time, the Commissioner had become easier to negotiate with. By all means, he was a lot more reasonable than Loeb.

It had been a fair discussion; the debate of prices had only lasted five minutes; the other twenty minutes was mainly talk about movies—she even recommended a few films which had been rated R for gore and language, two things that Sylvia absolutely loved.

She took her phone out from the back pocket of her jeans, and sent a text to Oswald.

Cut is 3%. Also, he says 'hi'.

A minute passed, probably during the time where Oswald would feel the received vibration of her message. Sylvia could practically see the look of satisfaction when he read her text. A small 'ting' sounded as she received his response.

I knew you could do it. Thank you. Where are you now?

Sylvia chuckled. Always asking for her location.

Coffee shop. Do you want anything?

His message almost came back immediately:

You know I don't drink coffee.

Sylvia's only response was a smiley-face.

:)

The small cow bell hanging over the door frame of the front entrance rang.

Sylvia wasn't surprised when she looked up from her phone to see Barbara Kean walking in, wearing the most beautiful ocean-blue sequenced, silk blouse and knee-high short black skirt that money could buy. The woman's heels tapped the tile with a sharp 'click'.

If Sylvia had an alter ego, its name would be Barbara Kean.

The woman was dressed from head to toe in glamour, as she always had been in contrast to Sylvia's attire which were jeans and a T-shirt. Armed with a passion for all that was finery, Barbara had grown up with these sorts of mannerisms, which included a greeting of a Euro kiss.

Sylvia stood, appeased her with one of her own kiss-on-the-cheek greetings, then Barbara sat across from her in the booth. Wordlessly, Sylvia gently pushed the extra coffee cup in her direction, and Barbara smiled gratefully.

"Is it...?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You remember how I like my coffee," Barbara said appreciatively. She took a sip. "Extra sweet."

Sylvia leaned back in her seat, sitting crisscrossed with her feet on the cushion as Barbara took a few more sips, closing her eyes, savoring the flavor. Meanwhile, Sylvia eyed her carefully.

Back in the day when Barbara hadn't been insane, they had been good friends. Barbara had been dating her brother, and Sylvia had always made a point to bond with any of the girls Jim claimed to be his significant other...even if Jim didn't care to return the favor. For a long time, she and Barbara had lunches—she would go to Barbara's art museum, talk trash about the other art galleries, and even talk about Jim's snoring.

Seeing Barbara now, it felt like two lifetimes ago. And she expressed the same sentiment.

"It's been a long time since we did this, huh, girlfriend," She said happily, winking at her.

"Yes, it has."

"You have a weird look on your face. What's wrong?"

"You really don't know?"

"How could I know? I'm not a mind reader."

"No. You're definitely not."

Barbara sighed, raising her eyebrows high while her gaze was fixated on her coffee. It was an expression of apathetic defeat, as though she knew Sylvia would see through her intentions immediately, although she had hoped to fool her a little while longer.

"Fine." Barbara said, frowning a little. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"You don't want to know what I think." Sylvia said, ghosting over her response. She glanced at the other space on the cushion beside Barbara, asking, "Where's your lesser half?"

"My lesser half?…Oh, you mean Tabitha."

"You are hardly ever one without the other these days. I thought she'd come here too."

"Did you?"

"Why do you think I only bought you coffee."

"That's a little childish, don't you think?"

"Childish, but effective." Sylvia folded her hands on the table, her phone lying beside her on the cushion. "You had a purpose for coming here, didn't you?"

"Maybe I just wanted to see my favorite—"

"Cut the shit, Babs."

Barbara looked surprised, putting a hand over her chest: "Well, I can certainly see that you've not changed in the slightest, have you? You still have that mouth of yours."

"Your parents were rich assholes." Sylvia said pointedly. "You should know that—you killed them, after all. Personally, if you hadn't slaughtered them, I would have, so kudos. But as far as I am concerned, you can keep your upper class goody-goody-Miss-Lady crap to yourself. I don't change my language or my attitude, no matter who sits in my company. So I'd hope you would do me the same respect and stop acting."

"Acting...?"

"You didn't come here to talk, have coffee, or just catch up on good times. You came here for a reason. And you came by yourself, knowing I hate Tabitha. That wasn't by incident, that was on purpose. You're buttering me up. That tells me you want something from me. So, what is it?"

Barbara drank the last of her coffee, scooting it across the surface so she could put her hands on the table. She looked as though she might try to argue her way out of Sylvia's observations but seeing as she was caught in the act, a small smile tightened her lips.

"Fine." She said softly. "You caught me."

"An admission of guilt," Sylvia chuckled. "I bet Strange didn't get that much from you, did he?"

"Well, he got something, obviously."

"Right. Because you have a certificate."

"That's right. I do."

"Congratulations, by the way." Sylvia said, smiling sincerely. "I've been in that place a few times. Not as a patient, but as a guest—and one time, as an intruder. The place looks and sounds like hell, from what Oswald has told me. I can't imagine what it was like being in there. So congratulations for getting out. I mean it."

Barbara sighed, shrugging a shoulder carelessly: "That's the past. I can't live in the past. I can only live in the present."

"True. Good outlook."

"Yes. It's helped me move forward."

"So where are you living now?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Butch kicked you out," Sylvia recalled, gesturing to her. "You were creeping him out or something, I don't know. He kicked you out of the mansion. I just wanted to know where you were living."

"Why, so you can kill me?"

At this, Sylvia frowned.

"I don't want to kill you, Babs." She reassured, leaning forward. "I do want to help you. If you needed somewhere to stay, I would be able to help you, you know. While you're, by no means, the same person you were when we met, I still consider us to be friends….in some weird, awkward, frenemy type of way."

"I'm living with Tabitha."

"Now her on the other hand—"

"Liv."

"What?" Sylvia responded defensively. "You know what she's done. She isn't innocent, by any means."

Barbara chuckled, "Oh, I know. Believe me."

Sensing that she meant that in a whole other way, Sylvia rolled her eyes and decided not to discuss Tabitha Galavan any further. However, the topic itself seemed to relieve whatever tension that had been stirred up, and Sylvia felt herself become complacent enough.

"For what it's worth. I prefer you this way."

Barbara smiled: "Well, thank you. I like me this way too. So….do you care to listen to what I have to say?"

"If you buy me another latte, I might."

"Deal. Waiter!" Barbara called, signaling the waiter over to them. She glanced in her direction, saying, "I hate these people. They never come over in time."

Sylvia frowned: "I used to be a waitress."

"Oh…well, then I take back what I said."

"Mm-hmm. The damage is done, Babs. Let's just accept it and go on."

The waiter came by, took Barbara's order for two more lattes, and was about to leave but Sylvia made a soft sound so that the waiter returned back to the table, expectantly. He was a tanned man who wore polished black shoes, pressed and creased pants, and a steamed white shirt. Everything about him was squared away, not even a lock of brunette hair stood out of place.

She looked him over, while Barbara watched interestedly.

"Hi," Sylvia greeted sweetly. "What's your name?"

"Byrd."

"No, your first name. What's your first name?"

"Demetri."

"'Demetri'. How old are you, Demetri?"

"I'm eighteen."

"Eighteen? You don't look a day over fifteen."

He was muscular, toned well in his forearms and biceps. He even had some definition in his chest and neckline. While he actually did look his age, Sylvia found his reaction to her compliment amusing as he damn near blushed to the color of a tomato.

"How long have you been working here, Demetri?"

"A few months."

"Do you like this job?"

"It's...it's okay."

"How's your boss?" Sylvia interviewed.

"He's…also okay."

"Do you mind if I ask how much money you're making in an hour?"

"No, ma'am. Um, I make about seven dollars."

"In an hour?" Sylvia responded incredulously.

"Yes, ma'am. Well, that's without tax, you know."

"Mmm."

Demetri cleared his throat and said curiously, "Ma'am, if you don't mind…Why are you asking me these questions? Did…Did I do something wrong?"

"Wrong? Of course not," Sylvia said, smiling sweetly. "You're doing a fantastic job, love. In fact, I was wondering whether or not you would be interested in making a better wage?"

"I mean…sure?"

"It wouldn't be for this kind of work," She explained, gesturing to the coffee shop. "Have you heard of a place called 'Lean on Vee's'?"

"Yeah, I've heard of it."

"You look like you're in really good shape, like you take care of yourself. Have you ever been a bouncer before?"

Blushing harder, Demetri let out a nervous laugh, "Well, I don't think—I mean, I've never been given the chance to be one…"

"Do you have any kids?"

"No, Ma'am."

"What about a wife or husband?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Are you easily intimidated by people?"

"Only beautiful women." Demetri answered.

Barbara, who had been watching the conversation with subtle interest, chuckled, "Ooh, smooth."

"Shut up, Babs." Sylvia hissed.

Demetri seemed shot down by Barbara's comment but he glanced appreciatively at Sylvia, who stood from her seat. She asked for a piece of paper and pencil, both of which Demetri eagerly gave her. She wrote down the address to her club, the duty hours, and then her own phone number.

"If you want the job," She stated, business-like, "it's yours. You seem like you can take care of yourself." She gave him a once-over. "Strong. Muscle-y." She poked his bicep, adding, "Very muscle-y. Tell me, do you bench press?"

"About two-hundred."

"Hm, I got you beat," Sylvia said, smirking at him. "We're gonna have to fix that, got it? I'll even pay you for your time in the gym as long as you are able to intimidate my Regulars into not destroying any more of my furniture."

Sylvia glanced at Barbara, ignoring Demetri for a second as she explained, "There was a bar fight the other night, and I've never had to order so many repairs in the past."

Demetri smiled shyly, saying, "What…What will I be making an hour?"

Both women glanced at him simultaneously.

Sylvia answered him: "I'll start you at about fifteen an hour. If my Regulars don't scare you the first week, your paycheck doubles. Acceptable?"

"More than acceptable! I'll do it, I'll do it! Wh-What should I wear?"

"Whatever you want. But make sure it's decent, you know. If I come into work and I see your bits and pieces hanging out of a speedo or something, I'll have to kick you out, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am! Oh my god….!" He praised, and he was about to leave before Sylvia pulled him back by the collar of his shirt. He looked surprised.

"Don't forget the lattes."

"Oh, right! Right!" He left shortly to fix them.

She watched him do so and then sat back in her seat. Barbara looked plenty amused.

"That's how you find people, huh?" She asked, smirking.

"That's how I find my people." Sylvia confirmed victoriously. "I find people who want to prove themselves, or who want respect. Normally, I just take people off the streets, you know. Give them a job, some food—once I do that, they're normally glued to me."

"So why him?" Barbara sniffed, glancing after the waiter, clearly unimpressed. "He's not homeless."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Look at how he's dressed."

"Well, you can't go off looks. He could be homeless. He could wear the same clothes every single fucking day until he gets enough money to put them in the wash so he can come to work and earn more money. You never know."

"Classic Sylvia Gordon," Barbara sighed. "Always cheering for the Under Dog."

"Damn straight."

"And marries them too."

Sylvia shot her a warning look.

Demetri came by with the two vanilla lattes. Sylva gave him a fifty-dollar tip. He looked like he might have had a heart attack when he saw how much she'd given him. Gently, she pulled him to the side. He looked like he was ready to do anything for her.

"Let me ask you a personal question."

"Anything, ma'am. Anything!"

Sylvia said quietly so only she, Demetri, and Barbara could hear her: "Are you living anywhere right now?"

Demetri turned that familiar shade of red. This time, to his chagrin.

"Ma'am, I…I don't know what you mean."

Barbara watched him with a predatory gaze, eager to know whether Sylvia's hunch was correct. There was nothing at stake, except for the man's humiliation.

"You know what I mean." Sylvia responded softly. "Tell me."

Demetri's eyes were glossy, like he was about to cry. His face appeared nearly sunburnt as his shame came to the surface. In a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, "Ma'am…I don't live anywhere. I-I live in a car. It's…not even my car…I…."

"That's enough." Sylvia reassured, patting his shoulder.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looking at her fearfully. He hoped that his truth didn't befall him in what looked like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To his amazement, Sylvia's words were not only comforting, but shocking to him.

"I don't want my staff sleeping in cars…especially in one that doesn't belong to you. I don't need that on my conscience. Now, Demetri. If you want to work for me, you'll have to come to work looking your best. In the same way you look now, you got it?"

Demetri nodded.

"Here." Sylvia took out a checkbook, wrote a check, ripped it out of her book, and placed it in his hand. "You take this, you go to the bank, cash it now, and find yourself an apartment that you can afford. Preferably nothing in the Narrows, okay? I've conducted business disputes there, and let's just say, it's not the best."

"Right, ma'am. Right. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you—I can't even begin—oh my god, thank you," Demetri said repeatedly, shaking Sylvia's hand vigorously.

"Okay, okay," Sylvia said, taking her hand out of his grip. "No problem. You can leave now."

"But my boss—"

"I'll tell him." Sylvia reassured.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Demetri bowed to her and then quickly left. Sylvia sat back down, looking at Barbara, who looked back at her with a knowing smile.

"You knew he was homeless." She said slyly. "Didn't you?"

"Mm-hmm. Been watching him come into this shop with the same outfit over, and over, and over, and over again. And I was in need of a bouncer for quite some time."

"I'm surprised you didn't offer the job to Jim."

"Well, I did, but he refused."

"Good ol' Jim."

"Yeah."

"Still holding onto that White Knight complex?"

"By a thread."

"So, is Demetri Byrd the only reason you agreed to come meet me at this coffee shop?"

"Yep." Sylvia sighed contently, leaning back in her seat and relaxing her arms on the back of the couch-like booth. "I figured if you were going to come here on business, I'd conduct a little of my own. Speaking of business, what is yours?"

"Nice segue."

"Thanks! I thought so too."

Barbara sipped from her second latte, and said with her own business tone, "I want a club."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I'm guessing the art gallery doesn't have the same appeal to you anymore."

"'Art'," Barbara scoffed. "I think I only owned that gallery just to attract wealthy men and women."

"Well, that really backfired on you, didn't it?"

"Well, I admit that Montoya and Jim weren't the people I had in mind when I opened the club, but you were."

Sylvia cocked an eyebrow, saying humorously, "Whatever gave you the impression I was rich back then?"

"I figured you'd have eventually gotten to that point." Barbara said, smirking at her. "What with you robbing banks on a biweekly basis. You'd have found your way to me eventually if you hadn't married Penguin."

"You mean the 'Under Dog'."

Barbara found her own tease biting her back, but she climbed down from her pedestal and chose to take the heat; after all, she'd been so daring to stoke the flame.

They drank from their lattes for a minute before the business was further conducted.

"You want a club," Sylvia said, encouraging her to continue.

"Yes."

"You need money to start that club."

"I'm well aware of that."

"And you're coming to me for that reason?"

"Is it not that obvious?"

"I just wanted you to say it. After all, I feel like I deserve that much."

"For what?"

"For the crap you pulled at the church."

"What crap?"

"Oh, please, like you don't remember."

Barbara shrugged innocently.

"You kidnapped Jim and Lee, brought them to a church, and held the two of them at gun point. You tried to kill the both of them!" Sylvia reminded harshly, making Barbara flinch. "That was a lot of unnecessary stress you put my family through. And that's just the crap you did. Should I tack on the times where Theo Galavan was actually involved? You know, when he was holding Gertrud for leverage over my husband's head?"

"I wasn't involved in that."

"You knew about it, didn't you?"

"Well, of course I knew about it, but I wasn't a part of it."

"You played a part in all of it. You didn't do anything to stop it. Taking that into consideration, you were involved, whether complicit or otherwise."

"I fell off a church and I was in a coma for weeks. That wasn't enough?" Barbara asked indignantly.

Sylvia gestured to their situation and said smoothly, "Obviously not."

"Well, I'm sorry for what I did."

"Which part?"

"For what happened with Jim."

"But you're not sorry for what you did to Lee?"

"Lee can suck my left nut sack."

"Since you don't have one, that means little to me," Sylvia remarked, grinning widely. "Normally, I'd tell you to fuck off. But I'm trying to be more forgiving, you know? A little more lenient. So, this is what I want in exchange for giving you a down payment for your club. I just want to hear you say 'I need money from you, Sylvia'."

"You just want to gloat, don't you?"

"Oh yes! Yes, I definitely do!" Sylvia laughed. "This is fun for me. I'd be happier if I had Tabitha begging for it, but let's be honest: We wouldn't have gotten this far in conversation if she had been here."

Barbara sent her a look of absolute loathing.

"Just be happy that I'm not asking you to do anything so risqué. They're just words, you know. You don't even have to mean it. Just say the words."

Barbara rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Fine, fine…I want money from you, Sylvia."

"Nope. Not the same."

"I said it!"

"You don't 'want' money from me. You 'need' it. After all, that's why you're coming to me, isn't it? You can't get it anywhere else—except for robbing stores, or what-have-you. But you're classier than that, aren't you, Rich Girl? Why rob from anyone else when you can just make a deal with me? And for what you're getting, I'd say it's a really damn good deal." Sylvia said smugly. "Now, say 'I need money from you, Sylvia'. You say that, exactly. Then we have a deal."

Barbara groaned and managed with a forced smile: "I need money from you, Sylvia."

"Cool." Sylvia said happily. She wrote a check and then handed it to Barbara, who reluctantly pocketed it in the front of her blouse. "Just so you know, that felt really good."

"I'm sure it did," Barbara returned sarcastically.

Sylvia drank the last of her latte, and watched Barbara look at her with some amusement. She checked her phone for any messages.

Oswald's had come in about ten minutes ago:

I love you, Pigeon.

She sent one back:

I love you too, sweetheart

Sylvia said lightly, "What kind of club are you thinking of building?"

"A nightclub."

"Do you have a name for it?"

"I want it to be called 'The Sirens'."

"Is it an all-woman's club?"

"No. It's just going to be owned primarily by women."

"Just women."

"Yes."

"And by 'women', I assume you mean it's going to be owned by more than just you." Sylvia said coolly.

"Liv…."

"You don't hang around many other women, so that must mean you want Tabitha in on this as well." Sylvia figured it out before Barbara could put a little positive spin on it.

"Liv, she doesn't want the club. I do."

Sylvia crossed her arms, almost in a pout. Still, her voice was calm, however, it did contain a tinge of resentment: "You wanted me to give you money for a club you want but you and Tabitha are going to run it. That's what you're telling me."

"Basically."

She scooted out of her seat and then sat directly beside Sylvia, who watched her with curiosity, if not suspicion.

"I should rip up that check right now." She uttered through gritted teeth. "I hate that bitch."

"It's a favor you'll be doing for me. I'll owe you one in return. I know how much you and Oswald appreciate favors." Barbara mewed as she made a sweet, pouting baby face: "Please, let me have the club? Please? Pwetty, pwetty please?"

When Barbara put a hand on Sylvia's thigh, Sylvia didn't just get out of her seat; she hopped over the table, and jumped down on the ground.

"Whoa," Sylvia gasped. She held her hand out to Barbara, almost cautiously, as she said, "It's not that I wouldn't take that offer. I wouldn't—couldn't—Never mind, look, if you want the club enough to try and do…well, whatever it is you were about to do, then fine, I'll let you keep that check. But none of that."

"You've thought about it, haven't you? You and me…"

"Who hasn't." Sylvia said, glancing up at the ceiling. It was her turn to feel her face get a little hot from the thought. To save her dignity, she said strictly, "From here on out, our relationship must stay professional. Nothing more."

"Understood." Barbara acknowledged, smiling. She stood and held out her hand.

Sylvia shook it.

"Just so you know," Barbara said lowly, stepping closer to her. "Your demands—whether they were risqué or not—were lenient. Still, you had me in the palm of your hand."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, let's just say…I know I have thought about us. On more than one occasion." Barbara said, smiling wickedly. Her lips grazed Sylvia's cheek, as she whispered, "When I'm in bed, left alone with that thought, I daresay it's climactic."

She kissed Sylvia on the cheek, but her lips lingered too long for it to be considered a 'Euro-kiss'. She pulled away, smiling impishly before waving ("See you later, girlfriend"), and then she was out of the coffee shop.