A few hours later she returned with a friend.
"This is Toad," Esther said. "He's going to help sell." Toad was another Canadian Goa person. She counted out forty-five hundred dollars in small denominations and gave it to me.
I was ecstatic. "I'll have to hit every bank in Montreal to change these tens and twenties into large bills," I noted, amused at the problem. "Sorry. That's what they paid me."
Esther and Toad took three pounds each and left. It was working. I was really doing it. An entrepreneurial drug smuggler! I felt like Genghis Khan conquering land. I snorted the last of my powder and chomped a Mars bar.
When Esther returned, she cascaded Canadian dollars over the bed. We counted them giggling. She left again with more weighed-out Baggies, and then Toad appeared. I counted his money, and he too took more and left. I went to the lobby and crammed the cash into a safety deposit box, where it barely managed to squeeze in next to the money belt stuffed from the last trip.
By night time, all the hash had been sold, and I was $26,250 richer! I couldn't believe it.
"Wow. That went so fast!"
"I told you it would," said Esther, surveying the traces of our day's labour. "What are you going to do with the suitcases?"
I glanced at the slashed-up wrecks. They looked like they'd been attacked by Norman Bates from the movie Psycho. Oh, shit. What to do with the cases? Another little detail I hadn't asked about.
"Oh, god!" I wailed. "I never thought about that what do I do with them?"
She chuckled. "You could throw them out the window."
We went and looked out the window, which faced an inner courtyard, fourteen floors down. We laughed.
"Should I do it?" I asked, laughing at the thought. "Nobody would know where they came from."
"Can you imagine the people in their rooms seeing the cases fall by?"
We laughed louder and held the window sill to prevent ourselves from collapsing.
"How about the elevator?" I suggested. "I could wait till the middle of the night and put them in the elevator. Then send the elevator to the lobby."
We could no longer hold an and fell to the floor in a giggling heap. "I still think you should throw them out the window," Esther advised when she could get enough air to talk.
Amid the guffaws, though, I realized I had a problem. "I can't do that," I said. "These cases are a new scam. The narcs don't know about them yet. If I left them someplace, Narcotics would find out and know to look for that type of suitcase. The airports would be alerted. I'd ruin it for everybody; nobody could use them again." I groaned. "I MUST dispose of them where they won't be found."
"So what will you do?"
I hadn't the faintest idea. It seemed I wasn't yet the hot-shot professional. I said, "I'll ask Dayid. He should be arriving tomorrow. Oh, no! I can't let the maid in till I get rid of the cases. We really made a mess, didn't we?"
The next day, Dayid and Ashley called, and we arranged to, meet for dinner that night. I spotted Ashley as soon as she floated through the lobby's revolving door. She wore a floor-length red fox coat, with a red fox hood framing her blonde hair and a red fox muff encasing her hands. I was feeling sick again.
"I can't go to dinner with you," I told them. "I'm freezing and sweating. My legs hurt and I have no energy."
They looked at each other and smiled. "Don't you know Ni hat your malady is?" Dayid asked.
"No. Do you? What's wrong with me?"
"You're withdrawing," said Ashley. "You have a habit."
Addicted? Me? No. Not possible. "I can't be!" I said. "I haven't been doing that much smack."
But I knew immediately they were right. How come Monica and I had never figured that out? Especially since we knew enough to go to Neal's for a little taste whenever we felt too bad.
Dayid agreed to dispose of the cases for me, and I watched Ashley got out the door with him as I shambled back to the room. Goose pimples crawled over my body. I swallowed some over-the-counter Valiums I'd bought in India and took hot baths to ease the ache in my calves. After two days of that, I was fine.
Planes full of Goa Freaks arrived, and Montreal soon turned into a continuation of the party begun in Bombay. After Monica landed safely, Ashley told us about an apartment building that rented by the month. The next day Monica and I moved into an apartment, with Dayid and Ashley taking another one down the hall.
"Want a hit of smack?" Monica asked as we settled in. By this time, she too had figured out what had been making us sick. Sickness or not, though, the stuff was pure paradise, and I accepted. She winked as she handed me her stash. "Souvenir from Neal."
Every day brought another familiar face to Dayid and Ashley's apartment. The overflow filled our living room. Although no one mentioned the details of his or her business, I assumed we Goa Freaks were in Canada for the same purpose. I loved being part of these drug-smuggling outlaws, an underground community vibrant in the straight world of North America.
Though the Goa Freaks didn't discuss business specifics, they recounted dose calls with gusto.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Canadian Jacques told stories in his French accent. "This time, they detained me in London," he said. "There I was, peacefully waiting in the transit lounge for the connecting flight."
Goa Freaks crammed every corner of the room. Jacques scanned our attentive faces and tossed his waist-length hair over his shoulder. He fished a stash bottle from the sack hanging on his belt.
". . . and suddenly a man approached me," he continued as he snorted from an ivory spoon, "and asked me to follow him." Jacques scooped another spoonful and extended it to me. I leaned forward, and my nostril met it halfway.
"Hoo, boy—what happened?" prompted Monica.
Jacques went on with his story as he offered powder to the rest of his audience. "I knew they were going to search me," he said. "The man led me through a corridor and down a stairway." Despite the crowd, the room was quiet as the Goa Freaks listened. "The Customs official walked in front of me. I had a stash in this pouch tucked in my pants. I palmed the pouch, like this, and let him get ahead of me, then I threw it under the stairs where you couldn't see it. He took me to a room and had me undress." Jacques paused, and we waited expectantly. I was angry when he couldn't find anything."
The Goa Freaks cheered.
"My suitcases were there, and he searched everything. I was afraid he would give me a rectal exam or make me stay overnight. Sometimes they keep you to see if you shit anything out. But he didn't. He said I could go."
"Did you get your stash back?" someone asked.
"I bet he did."
"Of course he did."
Jacques smiled, raising and lowering his eyebrows. "Bien sur! When we walked back, I waited till we passed the stairs then felt around in my pockets and said I'd forgotten my cigarettes. I ran back and picked up the punch."
The Goa Freaks clapped.
"The man gave me a funny look when I caught up with him but said nothing. Poor guy was so disappointed."
The Goa Freaks moaned and then laughed.
"To celebrate, I had champagne on the plane."
One close-call story brought another and another.
"That's like what happened to me."
"Once when I was leaving Orly."
"Germany's the worst. You know what they did to me?"
"No, Heathrow's the worst. Did I tell you about the time . . . ?" Weeks went by laced with coke, smack, and stories. At night, we'd go clubbing and spend time in the bathroom snorting and giggling. Everyone was free with their cash and stash. We felt rich, wild, and infinitely superior to everyone else. We were the Goa Freaks from India.