“Sometimes, after my group lesson, Sifu Yang, me and him, we just meditate, you know?” Jimmy said. “Sometimes he tells me stories about martial-arts masters from a hundred, two hundred years ago. Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Filipino—all these dudes! And it ain’t all about fighting and stuff. It’s spiritual. Directing the soul’s energy. I like that. And I like spending time with Sifu Yang. Drinkin’ that oolong tea. It’s like being around a grandpa who can’t wait to tell you his stories and can’t hardly wait to hear yours.”

“Listen,” I said. “Jimmy. I, uh—I invited you to lunch—”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “So you could apologize to me.”

“Video game chat between you and Lucy?”

“Yeah, we—you know—talk sometimes,” Jimmy said. “But seriously, ain’t nothin’ in this world you got to be apologizing to me for. Not a gosh-dang thing. I—That gun? I just wanted you to know they’s people—folk like me and Carlos and Lucy and more—that will step up for you. Anytime, anywhere.”

“I appreciate that, Jimmy—”

A burst of cold air rushed over the table as the front door of the restaurant opened. My eyes target locked two men who had entered the restaurant. One of the men had threatened me at gunpoint while I lay in my hospital bed. Xiang. The man who had more than likely taken City Council President Lincoln Quinn’s head.

The other man was shorter, stoutly built and wearing sunglasses.

A man with albinism.

Both were well dressed.

They were staring at me.

Jimmy shot the men a look. “Trouble?”

“Could be,” I said. “You have to leave, Jimmy. Now.”

The kid smiled at me. “Ain’t always about what you want, boss man.”

The two new restaurant customers walked to our booth.

The Albino smiled down at Jimmy, gestured to Jimmy’s booth seat and said, “Would you mind, young man?”

“No, sir, not at all,” Jimmy said, standing and gesturing for the man to take his seat.

The tall, lean man accompanying his boss gave Jimmy the slow once-over. Jimmy smiled again and slowly took a stool at the counter.

“You may have guessed,” the man seated across from me said, “I’m the Albino.”

“And I’m the Blaxican,” I said. “Tell you the truth, I’m not a real big fan of addressing people based solely on which chromosome got added or subtracted. You got a name, or should I just make one up—like Mookie or Chad?”

The man calling himself the Albino laughed.

“ I don’t think you’re funny,” the accomplice said in his thick Aussie accent, staring at me with dead eyes. “I just think you’re an asshole.”

“You might be right, Crocodile Dundee,” I said to the young killer. “But unless or until you’re called upon in class, you’re on mute.”