Attempting to look incognito in the sort of big black wraparound sunglasses which usually come accessorised by a Labrador and a white cane, the small figure is hunched over a table.
But the disguise is never going to work. Maybe it's the loud monogrammed white jacket. Maybe it's the impish demeanour and fastidiously manicured facial hair. Or maybe it's the two body-guards, one a Tysonesque black guy, the other a shave-headed white guy whose suit is set off by a pair of combat boots and who spends much of his time menacingly adjusting his many finger rings.