Thirteen

Huddled up at a corner table at Rick’s Diner in Brooklyn Heights, Blaine opened his satchel, and spilled its contents over the table.

There was a Casablanca mug, a bound copy of the original screenplay, a passport, a wallet, and the studio shot of Bogart that had adorned desk number 52. Propped up in the chair across from him was the glassless picture frame, the smudged boot-print across the screen hero’s face.

A waiter glided over, notepad in hand.

‘What’ll it be?’

‘What’s the special?’

‘Couscous with prunes.’

‘I’ll take it... with fries, and a Bud Lite.’

The waiter scribbled, grinned robotically, and was gone.

Blaine sat quite still, his eyes locked on Humphrey’s, as he contemplated his tremendous loss. At first, he felt terrible remorse, as he remembered each individual object that had been swallowed and pulverized by the mechanical monster. He half-wondered whether there was any hope of making an insurance claim. But even if he had grounds, how could he put a price on a collection that had taken his entire life to amass?

The couscous arrived, fries at the side. The waiter raised the clay pot’s conical lid and clenched his face in another automatic smile. All he was thinking about was the tip.

Blaine dug a fork into the couscous, moved it to his mouth, swallowed, then grimaced. Across from him, it seemed as though Bogart was grimacing too.

‘Excuse me!’

The waiter gushed over, his expression taut and submissive.

‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’

‘I’m not gonna bore you with details, but I’m not having the greatest of weeks. So I came in here because couscous is the one thing I expect the universe to deliver without any surprises – especially here at Rick’s.’

The waiter narrowed his eyes.

‘And?’

‘And, this couscous tastes like gravel... salty gravel. It’s barely even cooked.’

‘We haven’t had any other complaints, sir.’

Blaine sniffed aggressively.

‘Yeah, well maybe your other clients are cement mixers, but I’m not!’

The waiter’s cheerful façade evaporated. He loomed down over Blaine and Bogart, his fingers gnarled like talons.

‘Listen to me, you schmuck!’ he roared. ‘I’ve had enough of you! If our couscous isn’t to your liking, you can go screw yourself! Or get your royal ass up to some chichi Moroccan joint on the West Side! Or better still, take a hike – to Casablanca!’

Blaine was about to explode. But something stopped him, something deep inside. All of a sudden, he was the personification of calm.

‘That’s it...’ he said in a whisper.

‘Huh?’

‘You’re a genius. What’s your name?’

The waiter looked down sideways, as if expecting a veiled attack.

‘Carl,’ said. ‘The name’s Carl.’

‘Well, thank you, Carl! I don’t know how to ever thank you enough!’

‘Thank you me what?’

‘For saving my life.’