“Precisely!” He laughed. “I’ve learned to embrace my anomalies—the unwanted offspring of a Chinese naval officer and a native Djiboutian nurse. Plus, my albinism. The yellow man in me hates the Black man I am and vice versa. A grotesque reflection of conflicting and misunderstood cultures. Then again, I’ve grown to trust my white skin. As I’m sure you already know, white doesn’t give a shit about yellow or Black. Only debts that are repaid.”

It was then we heard the rising voices of Bo’s accomplice and Jimmy. Apparently, under the impression Jimmy was my gunhand, the accomplice had decided to goad him.

“This guy’s going to be a problem for any discussion we have, Bo,” I said. “Control him or I will.” Xiang had the one thing he needed to be a quick, efficient killer: complete and indiscriminate disregard for human life. Jimmy on the other hand . . .

Bojing spoke in emphatic Chinese to his accomplice, but the young killer would have none of it; he produced a six-inch switchblade and laughingly jabbed it at Jimmy. I started to get up from my chair, but Jimmy shook his head. Instead, he unraveled silverware from a rolled napkin, took out a fork and held it up.

“You taking the piss, mate? You think I’m a joke?” Xiang said.

“No,” Jimmy said. “But you bringin’ dishonor on your boss.”

“Put that away, Xiang!” Bo commanded in English.

Instead, Xiang thrust the blade at Jimmy’s midsection.

Jimmy caught the blade in the tines of the fork and redirected the knife—and Xiang—away from him.

I took out my Glock. Bo took out his Type 06 9mm.

Bo yelled again at Xiang, again to no avail.

Ben came out from the kitchen carrying my sandwich and Bo’s salad.

He casually set the salad on our table in front of Bo, walked up behind Xiang and hit the side of Xiang’s head with the heavy ceramic plate holding my sandwich and fries. Xiang, banging his head on a booth table on the way down, fell sprawled on the floor covered in fries.

Ben turned to me and said, “I can remake that sandwich, five minutes, August.”

“Yeah, no problem, Ben,” I said.

31

31

Jimmy and I were was kneeling by the unconscious body of Xiang, clearing away the remains of broken plate and what was to have been my sandwich. His switchblade was near his right hand. I took it, retracted the blade and tossed the knife to Jimmy. He caught it.

“Souvenir,” I said.

As I was preparing to give the unconscious killer a thorough pat down, his boss said, “Stop.”

I looked at Bojing still seated in the booth; he was discreetly holding his 9mm on me.