Pickings are slim, maybe, but considering this holiday hasn't crossed his mind in about half a decade, this is pretty fucking decadent. And anyway, instinct has led Tony right: Party opens the first record enough to identify what it is, and stops still. There's no rattling of paper for a few long, reverent seconds, then the rest of the wrapping goes in frantic rustling.

"Where'd you find these?" He's breathless. "Fuck, where'd--how?"