Mort was. He'd become one of the shadows lingering in front of the bank, only the end of his lit cigarette giving him away. He had enough sense not wait out in the open and, from this vantage point, he could observe the entire street. Nothing could sneak up on him here.
He was humming an undefinable little tune, blending the song seamlessly with his smoking routine. When Harlow re-emerged from the bank, Mort gave him a quick look-over. Blowing out some smoke through his nostrils, he commented: "Nice shirt. Guessin' you ain't like other boys." Apparently, that was the only thing Mort had to say about Harlow's sudden outfit change.
He ground out the butt of his cigarette with the heel of his boot and tapped a new one out of the pack. Cigarettes were expensive goods these days, luxuries that became rarer (and staler) every day. Still, even older smokes beat the half-assed tobacco they were growing these days. Mort wordlessly offered one to Harlow. "So, you live at Library too? Ain't ever seen you around. I'd have remembered you, I reckon."