Walter feels it and relishes it now -- the knowledge that they have entered a space that unequivocally "belongs" to him. Despite the aching in his belly from the man's unforgiving fists, he straightens his posture and assumes his role with nearly four decades' worth of experience in the management of such spaces. It is largely a facade; he exists here as strong and certain and worthy only in as long as he keeps his mouth shut. Something of the illusion will fade when he's made to speak, but for the time he looks happy to lead them as he directs them to a table amid far fewer passengers enjoying their meal on a covered but open air section of the promenade.

They catch a few eyes as they settle, but Walter is happily defiant in his own space. He gestures to Abraham as though he understands the tipping of the scales and the mercy of his own repayment. "See? Isn't this better anyway?" When the waiter comes he orders himself another vermouth before signaling at Abraham. "I think it's soup he wanted? Nothing too complex."