Crowley downs another slug of rum while Frank and Sadie toss out options, and nearly chokes on it when Sadie asks him very sincerely, with very much the attitude of an earnest private detective, whether he possesses gills. The choke evens out into a laugh after a moment.

'Nnnnnope, no, and no. Not at the moment, anyway.' He could probably manifest gills if he wanted to, but being as he doesn't actually need to breathe in the first place, it feels like it'd be a wasted effort. 'Demon, actually.' Lifting one hand to the temple of his sunglasses, giving them a little wiggle to show off his golden, slit-pupilled eyes. 'Anthony J. Crowley at your service. Actually,' he corrects himself, 'probably not at your service; not that kind of demon, strictly freelance; summoning and demanding contracts and service is so 14th Century.'