The Johnson sputters. Between Phantom's admonishment, Harry's bombastic greeting, and setting eyes on the sheer hulking mass of Ram, he is utterly taken aback. He pinches his nose and exhales, and beckons for you all to sit at the large, dingy-red corner booth with him. A small light hangs several feet from the table, high enough that it's out of the way of everyone save Ram who has it sitting right in his eyes.
"Sorry 'bout the short circuit." he says to Cairo, "I was expecting more... discretion."
He jerks a thumb over at Ram. "I also wasn't expecting a trog—er, troll of his size. Seriously, you could fit like 3 humans in just his chest alone!"
He lets out a little laugh that sounds a little strained.
"Anyways," he continues, "to answer your question, 'Miss Discretion'"—he air quotes at Phantom—"this place is way more discrete than some strip joint or Palace of China or wherever you guys get your jobs at."
He nods vaguely toward the bar area. "Do any of you have a clue who owns this joint?"