“How would you like to make an easy twenty grand this summer, Véro?”
She eyed him suspiciously. She had no problem doing something illegal, but this sounded too good to be true. “How?” she asked him.
“I need help running the cigarettes from the reservation.”
“Why me? Why not your dad?”
“You speak English,” he said. “I don’t. Problem is the Indians don’t speak French. We’re having trouble communicating with them. It’s been hard to build up trust.”
She almost laughed out loud. The first opportunity of her life to make some real money, and it was entirely contingent on her being able to speak the very language she despised.
“I’m talking about thousands of dollars a week for all of us,” Pierre went on. “Just for a short ride on the boat. And in the winter, we can use snowmobiles. We could be millionaires.”
Uncle Camil’s house was on the Quebec side of the lake, just outside the reservation, perfectly situated to run a smuggling operation. Cigarettes had gone up to eight bucks a pack by then, and the Triangle was becoming a mecca for smuggling tobacco from the reservation into Quebec, tax-free.
“All we have to do is load up our boat at Billy’s Marina on the reservation and bring the cases back into Quebec,” Pierre explained. “It’s only a fifteen-minute ride out there, another fifteen back. It’s the easiest cash you’ll ever make.”
There was never a question of conscience for Véronique. She considered the danger, but not the criminal aspect. That was of no concern. Pulling one over on the government—the greedy bastards who had hiked the taxes in the first place—would please her dad. They had it coming, he’d say. And money was money. It would benefit them all, especially her parents.
That night, Camil and Pierre explained to her how the whole operation worked. The Indians bought the cigarettes directly from the tobacco companies; they were at the top of the pyramid, making the most money without taking any risks. As long as they were on the reservation, everything was legal. Below them were guys like Billy, who sold directly to the smugglers from his marina. They were small-time operators compared to the Indians at the very top, but they weren’t taking any risks either. Then you had the smugglers who ran operations like Uncle Camil and Pierre. They made good money but risked heavy fines and possible jail time. They were mostly the French people who lived on the lake, had boats, and weren’t afraid of breaking the law or endangering their lives—none of which was a problem for Camil. He’d already been to jail twice for aggravated assault, and whisperings about his connection to the Hells Angels still persisted. While he consistently refuted those claims, he did admit to having some close friends in the outlaw biker gang.
Next there were the transporters, who loaded a few cases into the trunks of their cars and took them out to sell in various cities. Finally, at the very bottom of the pyramid, were the small-time salespeople who sold cartons to friends and neighbors out of their own homes or college dorms. As Pierre promised, it was easy money for everyone involved, no matter how low on the pyramid. Véronique would be multilevel, Pierre explained; she would smuggle, transport, and sell.
A few nights later, she smuggled cigarettes for the first time. Pierre took her out to the garage just as it was getting dark. “Here,” he said, tossing her a pair of army fatigues and a life jacket.
“Are you kidding?”
“Put it on,” he said. “And the boots and face mask, too.”
“Seriously?”
“This isn’t a joke, Véro.”
She put on the gear without saying a word. He pulled a shotgun out of the gun safe, the kind her uncle used for duck hunting.
“Sacrément,” she breathed. “I don’t know how—”
“Don’t worry,” he said as they headed to the boat. “You’re driving.”
Pierre’s job was to crouch down at the back of the boat and aim the gun behind them. If he saw or heard anyone suspicious, he was to shoot.
“Who’s considered suspicious?” she asked him, starting to feel a little nervous.
“Other smugglers out to steal our cigarettes. Don’t worry about it. That’s my problem.”
They climbed into the boat. Pierre went to the back and stretched his legs. He lit a cigarette. He was calm and relaxed. Véronique was shaking as she turned the key in the ignition.
She was an experienced boat driver, but not in the dark, not with someone holding a shotgun behind her. The lake was crawling with other smugglers, and none of them could turn on their lights; the point was not to be seen. She wanted to ask Pierre if he was afraid of dying like that, but it was the kind of question a girl would ask and she didn’t want to be that girl.
By the time she eased the boat up to Billy’s Marina, she was soaking wet. Pierre left his gun on the floor and got out of the boat first. He stood on the dock, waiting. Lit another cigarette from a pack of Export A green. “We’re meeting Tug here,” he said.
“Who’s Tug?”
“Billy’s brother.”
Pierre explained that payment for the cigarettes was made during the day. Pierre would ride out to the reservation in the afternoon and pay Billy in advance. He never carried cash on the night runs. It was too dangerous. Besides, Billy didn’t trust them enough to front them the product. It had to be paid for in advance, in broad daylight. “You’ll come with me in the afternoons from now on,” Pierre said. “It’ll be easier with someone who speaks English.”
Véronique was trying to take it all in, at the same time keeping an eye out for this Tug guy.
After about fifteen minutes, someone pulled up to the marina in a pickup truck and backed it right up to the edge of the dock.
“Who’s this?” the guy mumbled, getting out of his truck and jerking his chin at Véronique.
“I’m Pierre’s cousin Véronique,” she said in English. “I’ll be riding with him from now on.” Her English was a bit rusty, but Tug understood her.
He thrust out his arm, and they shook hands. They loaded the cases onto the boat that night without uttering a word. When they were done, Pierre and Véronique got back in their boat and she started the engine. Tug got into the speedboat that was tied to the dock, and together they pulled out of the marina. “Is he coming with us?” she asked Pierre.
“He escorts us out of the reservation. No one fucks with Tug.”
Tug followed them until they were about halfway home. Véronique was timing the ride with her Indiglo stopwatch. At the seven-minute mark, he held up his arm and turned back. Pierre waved.
Uncle Camil was waiting on the dock when they got back. His arms were folded across his bare chest, resting on the shelf of his beer belly. His expression was stern, menacing.
He seemed so different from the uncle of her childhood that night. When she was little, he used to let her put on his yellow hard hat, and he would knock on it with his fist and tell her knock-knock jokes until she keeled over laughing. He was the one who dressed up as Santa Claus every Christmas—except for that one year he got really drunk and threw the Christmas tree onto the frozen lake and disappeared. That was the only side of him she knew, and she wasn’t afraid of him. But that night on the dock, she could see the man who got into bar fights and hung out with Hells Angels.