"Do we?" he askes, and it is simple and calm. Faux-calm, of course, and the signs were there in bits and pieces. The tightening of skin around a single eye, the deeper indent in the paper he had been holding, the tightening of his lips into an even thinner line on a scarred face covered with enough makeup that it looked like an old and faded thing, instead of fetid and rotting.

He forced his lips into that smile that was so common amongst equals. A gesture toward the seat. "Please, you don't have to stand, unless it's that dire." Well, he was never going to be quite accommodating, but for Oswald, he would at least welcome him and offer him the usual niceties, because a happy competitor often would turn their sites elsewhere if greed and hunger turned eyes toward expansion.

Maybe he'd make sure Flynn was in his sights next time: two birds, one stone. (hah)

"Oh, help yourself, of course."

A vague second gesture at the carafe, but he doesn't lift a finger. Though he does tap a finger on the desk as he lowers the paper, and levels a look at him, mismatched and unsettling as always. Though he doubted Oswald would drum up the dramatics over nothing, the fact that he was starting to scramble through his mind for a reason there was a problem meant that it could have been something that he had missed.

He does not like the experience of being caught unaware. It had better be something unforeseen, or he was going to have to have words with some of his informants.