Thirty-eight

After much agitation and the purring of cats, Blaine managed to get through to the international operator from the lobby of Hotel Marrakech.

Having smoked himself into a delirium with a fresh supply of kif, the clerk was lying outstretched on the floor, his head nudged up against the bowl of milk.

‘Hello, operator, I’ll repeat the number, a little slower this time...’ said Blaine, enunciating.

There was a click, then a shrill whistling sound.

‘Hello? Charlie? That you?’

‘Blaine? Where the hell are you, man?’

‘I’ve had a change of scene. Got thrown out of my apartment... and I lost my job. No, no... I don’t need a bed... Why not?’ Blaine paused, relishing the moment, his grin sliding into rapturous laughter. ‘Because I’m in Casablanca, that’s why!’