Oh, this is not good.

Patrick still has his eyes down, his quasi-shaved head gleaming. He is not aware of the approaching men until Melon Shirt is nearly on top of him. I move closer. In all likelihood, Patrick has been on the streets for some time. I think about that for a moment, about what his life must have been like, snatched from the comforting bubble of American suburbia and dumped into . . . well, who knows what?

But in all that time, Patrick might have developed certain skills. He might be able to talk his way out of this situation. The situation might not be as dire as it appears. I need to wait and see.

Melon Shirt gets right up in Patrick’s face. He says something to him. I can’t hear what. Then, without additional preamble, he rears back his fist and slams it like a sledgehammer into Patrick’s solar plexus.

Patrick collapses to the ground, gasping for air.

The two camouflaged bodybuilders start to close in. I move fast now.

“Gentlemen,” I call out.

Melon Shirt and both Camouflages spin at the sound of my voice. At first, their expressions are those of Neanderthal men hearing a strange noise for the first time. Then they take me in, narrowing their eyes. I can see the smiles come to their lips. I am not a physically imposing figure. I am above-average height and on the slight side, you’d say, with blond-heading-toward-gray hair, a skin tone that runs from porcelain in the warmth to ruddy in the cold, and features that some might consider delicate in, I hope, a handsome way.

Today I’m wearing a light-blue Savile Row hand-tailored suit, Lilly Pulitzer tie, Hermès pocket square in the breast pocket, and Bedfordshire bespoke shoes custom made by G.J. Cleverley’s lead craftsman on Old Bond Street.

I am quite the dandy, aren’t I?

As I saunter toward the three thugs, wishing I had an umbrella to twirl for maximum effect, I can feel their confidence growing. I like that. Normally I carry a handgun, often two, but in England, the laws are very strict about such things. I’m not worried. The beauty of the strict British laws means that it is highly unlikely that my three adversaries are carrying either. My eyes do a quick three-body scan for locations where one might conceal a gun. My thugs favor extraordinarily tight attire, more suitable for preening than weapon concealment.

They might be carrying knives—they probably are—but there are no guns.

Knives do not worry me much.

Patrick—if it is indeed Patrick—is still on the ground gasping for air as I make my arrival. I stop, spread my arms, and offer them my most winning smile. The three thugs stare at me as though I am a museum piece that they can’t comprehend.

Melon Shirt takes one step toward me. “Who the fuck are you?”

I am still smiling. “You should leave now.”

Melon Shirt looks at Camouflage One on my right. Then he looks at Camouflage Two to my left. I look in both directions too and then back at Melon Shirt.