Guilty

“Dia dhuit, Wicker!”

Ozzie walked into the rather remote, yet quaint record shop, peppy attitude and a spring in his step. He only broke out the other languages when he wished to impress others — which is to say, he liked to impress those he genuinely liked, and it was no skin off of his back.

Wicker slowly nodded, acknowledging Ozzie’s existence. This was normal for Wicker, who was the stoic type, only really talking when it found words necessary. Ozzie didn’t mind that, as he was commonly told he could talk enough for two people.

“Do you have anything new in stock?” Ozzie pondered out loud, racking his eyes across the records in the store, “My zii like a bit of music with our… family dinners.”

Really, Ozzie had no reason to hide his dealings from Wicker, especially since most people knew. In the same regard, Wicker was in a rather notorious bike chapter, The Phantoms, and while they weren’t getting into the same legal issues as he was, it was a shared commonality.

Wicker motioned their hand to their left, clearly answering his question. Ozzie smiled, nodded his head, and quickly rushed over to inspect what was there.

Ozzie’s zii — which was to say, the Mafia connections he had — were not picky when it came to music, they only asked that it was something new every time. Ozzie didn’t mind this, as he was rather into music himself, and it was some nice background noise. He flicked through the records.

“You’ve got some good ones here!“ Ozzie called out, “Love Tracks! That album’s always been a personal favourite of mine! Who doesn’t love Gloria Gaynor!”

Wicker nodded, clearly listening to Ozzie’s rambles, so he continued.

“Arrival! ABBA does some amazing things!” Ozzie picked up the record, “I don’t think I have this one at home actually.”

Ozzie smiled at the record, “Did you know my father took me to Sweden? I don’t remember it, but it was apparently lovely!”

When you left out the reasons he went to Sweden, an important part of the story that Ozzie tactfully decided to not say. He lightly put the record under his arm and continued perusing.

“You know Wicker, I don’t think I’ve ever asked where you get these records from?” Ozzie smiled and hummed, “I’d be delighted if you could enlighten me.”

Wicker shuffled slightly in his position, “Sometimes I find them, sometimes people find me.”

Ozzie stifled a laugh, not wanting to sound rude, “That’s awfully cryptic, and could apply to a lot.”

Wicker shuffled again, “Collectors tend to sell off their records to me, or I go looking around at concerts and such.”

Ozzie nodded, feeling rather smarter than when he walked in, “I see. Well, you’ve made quite the record Empire, here. It’s a comforting place.”

Without saying much else on the topic, Ozzie took the ABBA record up to Wicker’s counter and gently placed it down, “So, how much will this be?”

“Seven dollars and ninety-eight cents.”

Ozzie fiddled around with the pocket on his chest, struggling for a few seconds before pulling out three twenty dollar bills. He handed them to Wicker, a smile wide on his face — genuine, too.

“You can keep the change!” Ozzie chirped out as he grabbed the record, “It’s more than worth it! I’m sure my Zio Achille will love some ABBA, it’s his kind of music.”

As Ozzie walked away, he turned slightly to Wicker, “You know, you’re always free to come for dinner too! That house gets awful lonely with just me in it.”

And without another comment, he left the store with a little chuckle.