Strange was generous with his magic, Constantine would give him that -- not that he wasn't already allowing for credit where it was due; the man clearly knew his shit and John would never be one to say he didn't. He wondered, idly, what the cost of that magic was, because there always was one, even if it wasn't outwardly obvious.
He eyed up the bar for a moment, taking in the band (very alien), the way people gathered in small groups at tables, or around the bar. There wasn't terribly much in the way of mingling, but that didn't matter much. John was good at that, charismatic. He smiled at Strange as if to prove that point, and folded his hands on the table. "I'm good enough at both," he admitted, almost a brag, and watched as a few people down the side of the bar paid. It wasn't paper, bills or coins so much as what looked like little chips. "I can work with that," he decided and raised his hand to get the bartenders attention, not rude, but not very politely either. Just enough to call attention to himself.
Bartends, no matter what planet or plane of existence, always knew who it was best to talk to for whatever was needed.