“Oh, don’t pay him any attention,” the Albino said. “He takes his work too seriously. I had no interest in sending those three men from New Jersey after you. It was overkill. Literally. Unfortunately, my associate went ahead with the order.”

“Some might call that ‘initiative,’” I said. “Where I come from, it’s called ‘insubordination.’”

“Ah, well—the help one gets these days, right?” The Albino smiled and glanced at Jimmy.

“He’s not ‘the help,’” I said. “He’s a friend who has nothing to do with this. He walks or I do both you and Bondi Beach fast and ugly.”

“I abhor violence,” the Albino said. “Your friend is free to leave.”

“Think I’ll stay,” Jimmy said. “I hear they make a really good bacon cheeseburger.”

“A man should be free to follow his own path,” the Albino said with a decisive nod to Jimmy. “So. You’re not uncomfortable with or intimidated by my albinism?”

“I’m uncomfortable with people who chew with their mouth open,” I said. “Or people who say ‘awesome’ for anything that doesn’t involve the cosmos or Lupita Nyong’o. And I’m intimidated by really smart people. You’re none of those, so I’m good. Far as I can tell, you’re just another shitty human being making consistently bad life choices.” I jabbed my thumb toward his young killer associate. “And him I’d get a leash for.”

Ben Breitler approached our table.

“Why don’t we do this?” the Albino said. “Let’s have this gentleman decide if I keep my moniker or if I give you what you might call my ‘Christian’ name.”

Ben greeted us and took out his order pad.

“What’s it gonna be today, gents?” he said.

I ordered the turkey Reuben special with buffalo seasoned fries and coffee. The man seated across from me—the Albino ordered a small salad with French dressing (on the side) and sweet iced tea.

Before Ben left, the Albino said, “Pardon me, sir. May I ask if you notice anything unusual or unsettling about me?”

Ben scanned the Albino with narrowed eyes, thought for a moment, then said, “I probably wouldn’t have worn that tie with that shirt.”

Ben left for the kitchen to put our orders in.

The Albino reached across the table, and reluctantly I shook his hand.

“You may call me Bojing,” he said. “Bo for short.”

“August,” I said. “August Snow. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

“You’ll pardon me for the nickname,” Bojing said. “I am considered something of a dangerous genetic anomaly where I was born.”

“Like being born Black in ’Bama.”