I get a call from a buddy, "I need drugs."
"Jeez mate you've already got enough drugs with all that Chemo you're going through."
"I don't know who else to ask. You know loads of people who can supply."
"Errrrr I know of them. I don't exactly know them."
"What about all those dudes you write about?"
"They're not exactly the people I want to be dealing with. leave it with me I'll ask around."
I make a few phone calls and I'm directed to a dealer. Turns out I know him. I know him very well. Or I thought I did. He used to work at the cathedral. Now he's a suit. I tell Z I'm taking her to meet a big city drug dealer. She is not impressed. We drive across town to parts that are particularly dodgy. Places where workmen work in pairs one to do the job the other to guard the van.
I stop the car get out and walk up the drive. I knock on the door the dealers very nice wife answers, "Peter will be home in a minute he's just gone to collect George from Nursery". Sure enough Peter strolls up the road carrying George who is very excited about his painting. It's an abstract in mostly Primary colours in the da da ist style. His name "George" is written in biro in the bottom right hand corner to prove it's provenance.
George is chivvied into the kitchen to choose what he'd like for dinner, but he's far too excited about showing me his swords. Deals are not done in front of the children. So Peter tips a nod to his wife who scoops George up and whisks him away.
"Now what can I do for you?" asks Peter.
"I need an eighth."
"Ha Ha you haven't bought any for years have you?"
"We went metric it's in 10 gram lots now. So an eighth is approx 35grammes."
I look around his front room Certificates of Accredited Accountants are hanging up in frames around the room. "This is a nice house." I say to break the silence while he's doing some weighing.
"Yes not many people know this cul de sac, it's not obvious. We're out of the way here. It's nice. In the middle of a ghetto but nice."
"Do you get any trouble here?"
"NEVER" I felt I should not have asked that question.
The deal is done and we go to see my Buddy with the goods.
"Howzit my ol' china?" he says. He's from Zimbabwe via South Africa, as a child he and his mates used to catch Boomslangs for fun. He's now completely bald, the chemo has taken it's toll. I tell him the Yul Brynner look suits him, I can find him easily in the dark. His brilliant white bald head is like a beacon. He laughs. "Deed ya get it china?"
"Of course. I wouldn't let you down." I hand over the packet. He turns round and gives it to his brother. "There you go, I told you he'd come through."
"Cheers mate." His brother is from Australia.
"Hold up. I thought it was for you."
"No China, it fer me brudder. 'is nerves are shot looking after me. Ee needs tuh chill. It's de stress."
"Well I'm gonna spark one up right now, anyone want to join me?" announces his brother, but no one did.