Losers Live Longer by Russell Atwood Read Free Book Online Page A

language was headed in. Rebuses and charades, grunting and pointing?
     
    At the left-hand corner of the TV screen was the current time and temperature. 11:11 and 81 degrees.
     
    I emptied my pockets on the desk. The photograph of Owl and the girl, Elena; the pink parking garage ticket; the three handbills, Owl’s hotel receipt, my business card…what else had there been? The money. She had taken that, but anything besides? Couldn’t put my finger on it. I looked at the wristband I’d found in the hotel wastebasket. Nothing new came to me.
     
    Everything but the photo, I sealed in an envelope. The photo I folded into my wallet.
     
    I took off my shirt and put on two new ones, one a bright lime-green t-shirt with a white collar, and, over that, a button-down long-sleeve blue dress shirt, which I buttoned all the way, except for the collar. It wasn’t a fashion statement, these were my work clothes. In case I was spotted, I could shed the dress shirt and, at least superficially, become another person.
     
    From a desk drawer, I got a folded paper painter’s hat and stuck it in my back pocket for the same reason.
     
    Finally, I slipped on my battered old camper’s watch.
     
    Checked the time against NY1 before switching it off, just as the handsome young face of Craig Wales flashed once more on the screen. The news loop reporting his O.D. was coming round the bend again, round and round all day long, same on every network, until it was no longer sensational or shocking, merely predictable, monotonous as a carnival wheel’s odyssey.
     
    I left the office with keys in hand and someplace to go.
     

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Five: LEGWORK
     
    It was a short walk to the Yaffa, back to St. Marks Place and a block east, and with my sneakers on almost a pleasure.
     
    Yaffa Cafe was a holdout from the old East Village, an enduring landmark still standing and in operation. It had survived the wave of upscaling gentrification that had swept through the neighborhood because it was a favorite with the yuppie crowd and tourists. Probably half the place’s income came on the weekends from late-night snackers and afternoon brunchers.
     
    It was still early for the lunch crowd, but the sidewalk tables were almost full. I didn’t go in, just took up position on the opposite side of the street and watched, pretending I was carrying on a cell phone conversation. My empty left hand held to the side of my face, I rattled off inane drivel.
     
    It dates me, but I recall a time when a person couldn’t stand around doing nothing without someone wondering what he was up to, maybe even approaching and asking outright, “What are you up to?” To stand around without attracting attention, a guy had to be smoking a cigarette or reading the paper. But that all changed when 90% of the population began walking around with cell phones attached to their heads.
     
    I repeated my location in a too-loud voice, then said, “Ah, yeh…hmm what…uh-huh…right, yes…eleven… before, uh-huh…” And on and on in a constant spiral, like a toilet that won’t quit flushing.
     
    To nail the cell phone disguise, you have to be completely unaware of and unresponsive to your immediate surroundings. Having a real phone isn’t even necessary; they’re so compact nowadays, just holding a cupped hand to the ear does the trick.
     
    I’ve picked out undercover cops trawling for drug dealers around the neighborhood using the method with real phones and, no doubt, actually conversing with someone at the other end, but they blow it by noticing me when I clock them. A true cell phone zombie you can stare at for hours and they’re unaware of your inspection. Off in another dimension, a connecting anteroom between themselves and whoever they’re talking to, half-between here and there, but nowhere.
     
    I said my location a couple times and paced ten feet one direction, ten feet the other direction, keeping my vision wide, attention on Yaffa.
     
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