They unloaded the cases into the boathouse, and then Véronique pulled off her camouflage gear and life jacket. She was sweating. Pierre made a joke about Véronique driving like a girl, and Camil laughed. Véronique laughed with them, out of nervousness. She was relieved, giddy. They ran down to the lake, and Pierre pushed her into the water and then dove in after her. They splashed around; the water was warm and glorious. It was a clear night.
Camil went inside the house while they were swimming, and then he came back outside with a handful of cash. It was a thick wad, all twenties. She’d never forget the first time she saw that much cash. Her eyes bulged. Her heart was racing from the adrenaline. Playing the system and getting away with it was a rush. People like her weren’t used to that kind of money, certainly not for a half hour of work.
Véronique jumped out of the water, and Camil counted out $240 into her wet hand. “You get ten dollars a case,” he said.
She did the math, calculating up to December, when the lake would freeze and they wouldn’t be able to continue by boat. If she were to go out four or five times a week over the course of the summer, she could make as much as thirty grand.
Next, Camil doled out $360 to Pierre. Pierre got fifteen bucks a case. Véronique didn’t complain about that until about a month later, when she threatened to quit if Camil didn’t pay her the same as Pierre. She’d only been bluffing, but Camil agreed. What did he care? He was making hundreds of thousands by then. He’d already added an extension to the house—a living room with glass walls so you could look out onto the lake if you were eating supper or relaxing on the couch. He’d also put in a Jacuzzi and renovated the kitchen with shiny white appliances. He’d bought a sound system, a big-screen TV, a Jet Ski, a new speedboat, and a shiny black Harley-Davidson.
Their market expanded quickly. In the pharmacies and dépanneurs, cigarette cartons were up to forty bucks. If customers bought contraband, they only paid twenty-five. Véronique felt like she was doing her people a favor. They all smoked. Why not help them out a bit?
She put her first thousand bucks in an envelope and gave it to her uncle to keep in his safe. She’s been doing that for exactly a year now. After a while, she lost track of how many envelopes were in the safe, but Camil keeps track. Right down to the last dollar.
She’s just trying to make as much cash as she can before the whole thing blows up. And it will. The government will eventually catch on and slash taxes, rendering their business obsolete, or they’ll have the RCMP bust the entire Triangle and put them all in jail.
For now, it’s a windfall. She’s twenty-two years old and rolling in cash. What a part-time job! Her mother thinks she’s always in Ste. Barbe because she’s painting houses with Pierre. It’s the same routine every day. She drives up in the afternoons, music cranked, hair blowing out the window. There’s no stress during the day, just fun and relaxation by the lake. Sometimes they bike over to the butcher in town and splurge on expensive cuts of meat and slabs of cheese. After, they feast; they swim and jet-ski and play cards on the dock while Uncle Camil takes cigarette orders, writing names down in the customer book, totaling up exactly how many cases they’ll need. At some point in the afternoon, Pierre and Véronique will go out to Billy’s Marina with about twenty grand in a money belt.
Billy is always there, sitting on his dock with his feet dangling over the edge. He’ll fill their boat with gas, without a smile or any kind of acknowledgment. His face is wide and coarse, his features smudged into deeply tanned, pockmarked skin. His black hair is short, not like his brother’s, and he always wears tinted shades and a blue-and-white trucker cap that says BILLY’S MARINA. They’ll hand over the cash—twenty grand for a tank of gas—but no one is ever there to question them. Véronique has to make small talk—that’s her job. She’s always polite, thanks Billy, tells him to have a good day. It’s important that he likes her. She’s trying to establish a relationship, build trust—that’s what she’s there for.
When it’s all done, she’ll typically pack about five cases in her beat-up old Pontiac Acadian to sell to customers in Montreal, Quebec City, and Valleyfield. She tries never to drive more than two hours for a delivery, and she always makes sure she’s got other business wherever she goes—usually politics. She can afford not to work, but she bores easily and doesn’t want to waste her time lazing around and getting high every day like Pierre.
After they’re done stashing the cigarettes in the boathouse, Véronique and Pierre run back to the lake for a swim. She dips her head below the surface of the water and pops up, exhaling deeply. The water is still warm, even without the sun. It envelopes her, calms her nerves. It’s a quiet night on the lake tonight.
Pierre holds her head underwater, and she retaliates by pulling his boxer shorts down to his knees and then teasing him about his shriveled dick.
They’re still close. Twin cousins, Lisette calls them. With Marc being eight years younger, it was always just Pierre and Véronique at the Christmas parties, Easter egg hunts, weddings, First Communions, and confirmations. How many games of hide-and-seek and tag and 500 did they play together? How many shows did they put on for the grown-ups, pranks did they pull, punishments did they incur? Mischief makers, shit disturbers, partners in crime. They were inseparable. Véronique spent a lot of time in Ste. Barbe in the years before her dad got out of prison. Her mother wanted her to have a father figure in her life, and Camil fit the bill—Hells Angels connections notwithstanding. The boys liked the infusion of Véronique and Lisette into their world, with their feminine wisdom and perspectives, of which they were sorely in need. Pierre was always getting into trouble. Véronique was supposed to be the good influence, Lisette the grounding mother figure. What usually ended up happening though was that Pierre would drag Véronique into whatever escapade he had concocted and they both would wind up in trouble.
Pierre hoists himself onto the dock, and Véronique joins him. They lie side by side, shivering.
“How much have you saved?” she asks him.
“What do I have to save for?” he says. “I’m making three grand a week.”
“The future?”
He laughs, pulling a fist-sized chunk of hash from the pocket of his shorts, which are lying next to him in a heap. He rolls a fat joint and lights it. “I’m living my life now,” he says. “As it comes.”
“What about when this ends?”
“Why would I think about that now?” he says, sucking long and hard on the joint. “Things are good. I’m enjoying it.”
Véronique takes a haul. She doesn’t know whether to be pissed off or feel sorry for Pierre. She worries about him. He thinks too small; he’s an underachiever. She wants him to want to be more than what he is. Pierre is lazy and lacks ambition. He grabs whatever is put in front of him, greedily and without forethought. Véronique is different. She’s no less a criminal, but she’s cautious and thoughtful; she has principles. She doesn’t squander the money she makes.
She’s already saved $15,000 by her uncle’s accounting—that’s with paying rent, buying a car, and splurging on a few things she couldn’t resist: a necklace for her mom, a new TV with a built-in VHS player, a pager. Pierre has saved nothing. He’s too busy buying dope and booze and fireworks, which he sets off over the lake every weekend. Camil and Pierre are always throwing wild parties, buying expensive booze—wine and cognac and enough beer to get the whole town loaded—and thick slabs of meat, all of which cost literally hundreds of dollars a day. They’re rich. Why not?