Eloise understood something and made a low noise in her throat and I looked at Claire and she looked at me. Marie cleared her throat and smiled serenely. “When my friends rescued her from the camp Eloise weighed seventy-three pounds and was dying of cholera. She was so weak she couldn’t kill herself.”
Marie looked at Eloise and her smile dipped and vanished. “No one should have to do any of that. Ever. Not just because they want to go somewhere else. Does her story help you change your mind?”
I smiled too and it was not a nice smile but Marie didn’t know that. Claire did and frowned as I asked, “What exactly is it that you want me to do?”
“Help us set up the smuggling operation. Help us run it right. You can stay on the Canadian side and walk away at the end. I and my friend will be the only ones who know who you are. Simple enough, yes?”
“Next time, Tim Horton’s or Starbucks will be fine. Because this …” I gestured at the room. “This all makes me feel manipulated. Blackmailed.”
Marie frowned and looked ten or twenty years older and I waited for her to say anything. When she didn’t I went on. “And my response to blackmail is ingrained. And neither of us would like it. So I’m going to walk out and think for awhile. I’ll talk it over with Claire and decide.”
“I understand.” She bit her lip hard and her brow furrowed. She was trying to understand. “I won’t do it again.”
When Claire and I were standing Marie spoke in a bantering tone: “Out of curiosity. Just what is your response to blackmail?”
I didn’t smile. “I hurt you. I hurt you badly enough so you remember it forever. I burn down your house. I take an electric drill to your kneecaps. I blow up your workplace. Memorable shit like that.” I gave her space and time to respond but she had nothing to say to that so I went on. “Claire and I are going to take a walk and when I’m not angry anymore we’ll come back. Then we can talk and you can tell me what you want and I can answer.”
We left.
#3
Outside Claire wrapped her fingers in mine and led me down the walk and towards the river. The night was warm but the wind was cool and every few minutes there would be a gust that made the drifts of leaves on the ground dance. After a few hundred metres I spoke up. “So we have to talk about this?”
“Yep.”
“Right. We could use the money; it would make a difference in our lives. But I don’t want to break the law.”
“Bullshit, try again.” Claire said it without turning.
“’Kay. I don’t want to get caught.”
“Better.”
We walked down Cathedral Street and crossed Main. When we reached the Red River and the start of Scotia Street I stopped and Claire stopped with me. There were two houses that attracted me for some reason, one brightly lit and one dark. Beyond them was the river itself. The night was peaceful, serene, and I wished someone would try to rob us so I could beat the shit out of them. But nothing happened because shit like that never happens when you expect it to. If someone tried to rob me then I could take them apart and thereby make myself feel better.
So of course it didn’t happen.
The truth was I did not want to think about helping Marie. I did not want to become involved. I did not want to risk anything. But the desire to work—to rob, to pillage, to move, to act—that was fucking powerful too. The urge to steal was strong in me.
The brightly lit house beckoned to me and I stood there and stared and thought dark thoughts. Equal chances. It could be a happy house with a fine father and upstanding mother, smart children, and happy pets. Or it could be a home of a pedophile father, alcoholic mother, abused and psychotic children, and vicious animals.
Black or white.
Right or wrong.
Pick one. Take your chances. Put your money down.
The rage at the attempted blackmail left along with the pain and only the two houses were left and beyond them, the river.
“Five grand is a lot of cash.” When Claire spoke her voice was very thoughtful.
“It is.” I agreed with her but kept my voice level.
“We’re doing okay. But five grand would make things better. And it wouldn’t be so bad if all you have to do is set the whole thing up and not break any laws on your own. Fifteen hundred and change would pay for a real estate licence. That would put me in the way of some serious cash further down the road. I could broker houses then and pull in a percentage instead of a salary.”
“True?” I was listening carefully and my voice was still level and calm.
“True. And the rest could go into savings for when we can buy our own house.” After a few seconds she added in an undertone, “Plus it’s a good cause.”
“Strong point.”
I laced my arm into hers and we turned to go back to Marie’s place. As we walked Claire leaned against my side and I whispered into her ear. “Tell you a secret; I’m starting to think that stealing is easier than being honest.”
She giggled and I asked, “So what do you know about Marie?”
Claire shrugged and I watched her chest out of the corner of my eye. “Stop looking at my boobs.”
“I thought you’d be flattered.”
“I am. I don’t know much about Marie. I think she is educated and determined and used to speaking to people and convincing them to do things. I’m starting to believe she rented the house from me because of you.”
“So she’s smart?”
“Yes. As opposed to you.”
“Another strong point. What else do you know?”
Claire squeezed my arm. “Marie knew what kind of house she wanted and how much to pay. The account she uses to pay the rent belongs to an incorporated business and her references were from universities in Toronto and Prince George. The job she listed is as an executive secretary with the company that pays the rent. I can look all that up again if you want tomorrow, when I’m back at the office. Maybe there’s more.”
I looked at her and was impressed. “How did you find all that out?”
Claire smiled, “In business we call it ‘due diligence,’ making sure our client can pay their bills. I called the bank and her references.”
I nodded. “Bad guys call it ‘being nosy.’”
She squeezed my arm again and we kept walking.
When we were back at Marie’s house the first thing I asked her was, “Why did you choose me?”
Marie thought about that question for quite a while before answering. “I’m dealing with people who are in the country illegally, that single truth overshadows everything else. I help them find jobs, arrange their papers, bring their families to them, I do whatever is necessary, but the people we help have their own special problems and are especially prone to abuse. They can’t go to the police, can they? They become easy prey to everyone.”
Claire was sipping more ahwah and answered. “Sure.”
Marie gave her a wide smile. “Glad you agree. I thought it made sense. Then I thought that if I can’t find a good guy to help me, maybe I could find a bad one.”
She turned to me. “Which is you. You’ve smuggled.”
It wasn’t a question but I answered it like it had been one to give me time. “Sure I’ve smuggled. Jamaican marijuana from Montego Bay, Brazilian pistols from Imbituba, French paintings from Tokyo, Russian vodka from Vladivostok, North Carolina cigarettes through the Akwesasne reserve, classic cars from Cuba, Harley Davidson motorcycles from Pennsylvania, farm-grade gasoline off the farm, Canadian CFC’s to Atlanta, Inuit sculpture to Reno, Turkish hashish via Marseilles, Aztec pottery from Brownsville. So on and on and on.”
“Have you ever smuggled people?” Marie seemed genuinely interested.
“No … yes. Twice; bad guys in the States I smuggled into Canada and bad guys in Canada I smuggled into the States. One-time deals only though.”
She held her hands out like she was balancing something. “Smuggling humans is maybe a $30-billion-a-year industry, mostly people for the sex
trade but also ordinary economic refugees, mostly from poor countries to rich ones.” She started to count off on her fingers. “Forgive the lecture here but this is the best way I know how to explain it. The key transshipment countries include Spain, the Ukraine, the Balkan nations, Malaysia, Mexico, and South Africa. The key target countries are America, Canada, and the European Union, the West mostly. Wherever the smuggled and displaced settle down they slip into those societies and vanish in a generation or so.”
Marie kept eye contact with me. “Except when the shipper keeps a leash on them and makes them steal or pimp or whore or gamble or become slaves; in those cases anything can and does happen.”
The woman in the corner brought more ahwah. I was unused to the personal service and it distracted me as Marie kept talking. “I’ve heard stories of migrants forced to become prostitutes to pay for the smuggling or forced to carry drugs. I’ve talked to migrants who had to steal and gamble to pay for the smuggling and I’ve met some who were raped and tortured for fun. There are other stories of migrants murdered or sold into slavery and even being chopped up for their organs.”
Claire cleared her throat. “So who does it?”
Marie shrugged. “The smuggling? Everyone. Russian Mafiya moves Russian sex-trade workers and Chinese Triads move anyone looking for the good life. The Sicilian Mafia transships workers from Africa and Asia to Europe. Scandinavian human rights organizations move refugees when the red tape becomes too thick and South American drug organizations move anyone as long as they agree to carry a little something with them. The US military smuggle ex-Nazis and ex-Communists to fight whatever they call terrorism and Saudi Arabians smuggle the poor from anywhere into their country to fill menial jobs graduates of religious studies don’t want to do. People smuggling has been going on for centuries.”
Marie fiddled with her cup and looked off into the distance. “In the late 1800’s Chinese men working on the railroads smuggled their wives to America to live the good life. In the early 1800’s Americans smuggled black slaves past British blockades to sell in New Orleans. In ancient Egypt Ethiopians were considered to be the best slaves and were smuggled despite official prohibitions up into the Nile Valley.”
I looked at Claire and she at me and then she asked Marie, “What kind of people do you smuggle?”
“Anyone who is refused entry to the US or Canada. I have friends and colleagues who refer them to me from all over the place. Baku, Kinshasa, Algiers, Asmara, Yangon, other places. I have friends who work in aid groups and they give me names and other information, scrape together funds, and send the people on. They fly to Toronto on tourist visas, then other friends pick them up and truck them to here and then I help them into the States or I help them stay in this country, whatever they want. Most of them want to be in the States though.”
Great, me vs. the United States and Canada. Semper fi, do or die! In the back of my mind the only thing I could hear were the Crash Test Dummies playing the “Superman Song.” And the only thing I could feel was a profound desire for a fix, which kind of took me my surprise. Drug addicts are never really free of their habits, it just becomes a long time between fixes, so I tried not to think about it. “What kind of cross-border route do you have?”
Marie smiled and stirred her coffee. “A good one. Are you in?”
Claire interrupted, “Let’s be straight about this. Monty will be helping you set things up on this side of the border, right? Not crossing?”
“And helping me set up the safe houses here in Manitoba, making sure they’re secure. Can you do that?” Marie looked at me expectantly.
“Sure.” I asked about the route again and she thought it over before answering.
“There’s a First Nations band on the border with Minnesota, right on the Lake of the Woods. We move the people there and then smuggle them across the bay in small boats and up a river to where they’re off-loaded.”
The ahwah was cold and I finished it anyway. “Who takes over from there?”
Marie smiled and intricate patterns of wrinkles showed up beside each eye. “Some Mennonite farmers and people take them from there; they’re very reliable. And very close-mouthed.”
Claire asked quietly, “What about out on the water?”
“What about it?” Marie was puzzled by the question.
I put the cup down. “I’ve smuggled before. In Canada there’s the RCMP in Manitoba and sometimes the Ontario Provincial Police cross borders. Then there’s the Federal Border Services and whoever is providing policing for the band itself.”
Marie dismissed everything with a wave of the hand. “The band is clear. There’s only a cop there on an as-needed basis and the band is small, 200 people, and we have friends there. We just don’t bring people through if the police are awake. As for the rest of them, the RCMP are stationed twenty kilometres away in the town of Sprague and don’t come on the band’s land unless asked. As for the Border Services, they don’t have a customs post nearer than Fort Frances, a long way away.”
Sounded good. “Okay, what about on the US side? Their customs service is pretty good.”
“It is. And they concentrate their attention on the posts in the eastern and western parts of the country. We’ve done research and, frankly, they don’t have a lot of resources. There’s also the anti-terrorism net and that is mostly holes, the middle of the country is wide open.” She was being dismissive.
I probed a little. “And the crossing is in Lake of the Woods, so that means the US Coast Guard?”
“There’s nothing. The Great Lakes are controlled by the 9th Coast Guard District, which has some Minnesota bases and some cutters stationed there but they’re all in the Great Lakes, none in Lake of the Woods. They’re never anywhere near where we are. As for the Canadian Coast Guard, they have a post in Kenora, which is over 100 kilometres away through some really complicated waterways.”
She smiled again and shrugged. “Your best bet is to let me show you. Tomorrow?”
I looked at Claire and she at me. We both shrugged at the same time and I answered, “Might as well; can’t dance.”
#4
Marie showed Claire and me out and we started to walk hand in hand the six blocks back home. Out of curiosity I directed us along a different, slightly circuitous, route, along streets neither of us normally frequented. About halfway home we turned down a narrow, elm-lined street that was strangely dark. That didn’t slow me down much; being an ex-bad guy thug means I’m fairly confident I’m the most dangerous thing standing—at least most of the time.
Halfway down the block there were no street lights at all and sitting on the boulevard was a torn and battered chintz sofa covered in yellow floral pattern cloth. On the sofa was a Caucasian man in his early twenties with a gaunt face and deeply sunken eyes. His hands trembled in the cold and despite the weather he wore a HARD ROCK CAFÉ HONOLULU T-shirt and a pair of unlaced leather work boots—nothing else. From the nearest house came hard rock and too-much bass and glimmers of light from heavily blocked windows.
When we were close I pushed Claire a little behind me and, when I was two yards away, the man stood up with his hands out to his sides: “Hey man, how much for your …”
He started to laugh somewhat hysterically and changed whatever it was he was going to say. “You got money? I need something real bad.”
I stopped and looked him over. “What do you need?”
“Coke man, snap-CRACK-and fucking pop!” He smiled and I saw teeth rotted black in the almost non-existent light.
He gestured towards the house the music was coming from and I turned slightly to look at a dilapidated brick two-storey house with an expanse of garbage-littered grass in front.
“Hey man, never mind.” His voice was shrill, but as I turned back to the half-naked man, he lowered his voice. Then he leaned towards me before saying something that made me blush: “I got a better idea. How much for …?”
I let him finish the question before shifting weight and kicking hi
m squarely in the testicles. His eyes bulged out and closed and he collapsed face down slowly onto the sidewalk.
Claire looked at me with horror and I gestured with my chin at the house. “… and that, my fine and lovely wife, I believe is a crack house.”
She ignored me and started forward to kneel beside the man. “Why the hell did you kick him?”
I looked around the empty streets and saw no one running so I answered. “He said something very rude.”
“That’s no reason to …”
I told Claire what he had said and she stood up briskly, brushing her hands. “Well. Fine. He deserved it.”
“I felt so.” I took her arm again as we started away, and Claire accidentally-on-purpose managed to kick the semiconscious man hard in the top of the head.
About a hundred yards farther on Claire asked me why I thought it was a crack house.
When I answered I did it slowly, thinking my way through my opinion. “Actually we could more correctly call it a drug house, which is where one goes to buy drugs; crack or regular cocaine, crank or crystal meth, PCP or angel dust, OxyContin or hillbilly heroin and, of course, T’s and R’s, also know as Talwin and Ritalin. In other words, the heavy stuff as opposed to the lighter, fluffier drugs like ecstasy, GHB, cannabis, caffeine, and nicotine.”
Claire made a snorting noise and I kissed her fairly hard and then went on. “Now drug houses are similar to marijuana grow operations in several ways and can be easily identified from the outside. Both suffer from short-term visits from pedestrians and cars, increased vandalism in the area, and increased noise from fights. Both also have untidy exteriors.”
Claire leaned down to pick up a leaf which she idly examined. “I know about grow ops, the cops send us real estate workers warnings all the time to keep our eyes open.”
I nodded. “Sure; however, grow ops generally have residents in attendance for only brief periods of time, they don’t generally allow stoned assholes to hang around. Also, grow ops have garbage like plastic sheeting, bags, and piles of dirt thrown all about outside, none of which I saw back there.”
Your Friendly Neighborhood Criminal Page 2
