He shrugs a little. "Best guesses put me about a buck-sixty. Maybe one seventy-five. Ish."

Stepping out of that smoke shop together he looks around a bit, as if to clock just how many eyes are on them. When the coast seems clear a couple inches of metal claw juts up from between his knuckles and he clips the end of his cigar with it.

"All right, I'll take yer word for it," he says like a man not terrible concerned with the idea of getting kicked out in the first place.