He sits, which means it is not that dire, but declines a drink, which means it's still... somewhat dire. Somewhere in the middle, but enough that he does not fill his own glass, which is slowly filling with water while the ice in it melts, watering down the dregs. He thought about lighting a cigar instead, something to do with his hands while they spoke, but Ozzie is quick to pull out the offending item, and he wants to give this his full attention.

Better to find out what it is first, and light up after, right?

When he reached into his jacket, he slowly let his fingers lower to the underside of his desk, ready to meet in kind if this is just a ploy — because it always could be — he knows better than to trust, and though there's muscle on the other side of the door, they generally know better than to interfere when Oswald swings by. These sorts of conversations aren't for the grunts, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want them close — and it's vice versa, of course. He can't imagine that Oswald lets the help stray far in his own territory.

After all, there's trust, and then there's trust.

Which is tested as soon as his eyes skim the card. Black, which would be nondescript if it weren't for.

Well.

His lips thin further, and it is half out of displeasure, and half to prevent him from giving anything away. Because while Silco very immediately knows who wrote this.. he does not know why. He flattened his hands onto the desk, very carefully, before he tipped his chair back and forth.

"Curious," he says, tone even. "Where was it left? Or rather... what was missing, exactly?"

And more importantly: how dangerous was it? Was that a headache coming on?