Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne

shaved a month ago. He’d wrapped himself in an oversized black wool overcoat he’d managed to grab from an Uff secondhand store or recycling center. His body twitched and trembled. I knew the symptoms from my Manhattan landlady’s body language. Mary had used every substance in existence that could screw with her head. I had saved her life a couple times, though I wondered why on earth I’d bothered. I was just postponing the inevitable. I slipped nearer to the man. The phone display was an open shelf where the devices were attached at the base with a metal coil that couldn’t be cut with ordinary scissors. The druggie was fooling around with the latest Nokia model. I waited for his next move. Not many addicts were clever thieves. They’d just pocket anything easy to snatch and then sell it cheap to pay for their next hit. The professional leagues were a different story: they calculated the potential supply and then created a demand for it. At Tallinn’s Mustamäe Market no one asked where the bargains came from. When I approached the junkie I saw that his left little fin- ger was cut off above the top joint. So the chap hadn’t paid his debts. I slipped forward slowly, like a cat stalking a mole. The man kept looking around nervously. Both nearby salespeople were keeping an eye on him and I also saw one of the store detectives appear at the back left. Damn. I would have liked to see the man try to steal.

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