Jude was not a good looking woman in wicked stilettos and a full-lipped smile or her sister, so yes, he did what he could to hustle for tips. The bar was off-limits to those peddling fixatives for life's ailments that erred on the side of illegal: everyone knew it, and everyone knew the Cat was not to be crossed. Even Jude and he'd been working here a handful of weeks.
Jude watched the color strip itself from her face, along with the belligerent laughter and calculated that it was threat from surroundings, rather than him, that had done it. Her hands bristled with thin, worn bills and Jude wasn't an old-hand at counting cash for nothing. His chin tilted down, his gaze thoughtful and absent all humor, and his hands splayed loose along the bar.
Yes, he didn't need to remember cash being eked out, day by day. Jude's smile was distilled sunshine in the face of soured disgruntlement. "One drink for the lady," he promised faithfully, rotating on a heel behind the polished wood.
He didn't look around from the tap. "You'll put it away while you're sitting in here." Pleasant, oh so achingly pleasant, but firm. "It would be rude to bring food to a restaurant, wouldn't it?" And it was hypocritical in the extreme, because Jude had filled his pockets full of sachets at diners until ramen tasted like salt and sauce instead of bland nothing: had brought his dinner into movie theaters, sneaked in the back.