Typhoid exchanged an annoyed look with the bartender before she shrugged and muttered, "Oh kay," because Rankin wasn't giving her much of a choice. Well, he'd figure it out once they stopped that she didn't have a cent to her name, let him deal with paying then. She would take him to the penthouse, sure why not, and if Hammer had anything to say about it later he would pay too, but probably with blood. It sounded like a pretty good night, to her, actually. Not for Hammer and not for Rankin. For him this night would end waking up in a strange place missing his wallet and his clothes, if Typhoid was feeling malicious enough. She thought that, tonight, she was. She was smirking to herself by the time they stepped out of the bar and into the bright light of day. What an opportunity this was.