'I know. As soon as he finishes the case, I'm out of there.'
Mitchell needed a runner to take the case to Canada. He said he'd give me ten thousand dollars. Great—I had a job again!
Another surprise—Mitchell was ready to go within days. We met at the airport to exchange luggage and were soon airborne. Since the world recognized Thailand as a drug depot, we figured it would be safer not to fly west from there. We went to Sri Lanka.
Sri Lanka Immigration. Similar to India's but worse. Total chaos. The mass of arriving passengers bunched around two Immigration officers, with no organization whatsoever. I had to push through the heaving crowd to show the Immigration officer my luggage and then accompany him back to his desk so he could stamp my passport. Mitchell and I had flown together and sat side by side during the flight, but once we landed we pretended we'd never seen each other before. I almost had a problem when the Immigration officer wanted to see money. You had to declare a certain amount before being allowed to enter the country. I had zero rupees and zero dollars. Somehow, I managed to signal Mitchell as I pushed my way through sweaty bodies (no air conditioning, of course). He slipped me a wad of hundred-dollar bills, and the officer smiled through this gold teeth as he stamped me in.
We stayed at the Sheraton while we planned our next move—entering Canada.
'Out-of-the-way airlines have nifty flights,' I said. 'They stop over in tiny countries you've never heard of. They're also the cheapest.'
'Well, let's look at this map and see where we're going,' said Mitchell.
'I'd like to stop somewhere, anyway. It doesn't cost more, and the country's stamp will look good on my passport, make me seem like a tourist—especially some little country that's never heard of drugs.'
'First we should find out which airlines go through Sri Lanka. There aren't many.'
'Oops, I hadn't thought of that. Aw, probably only Air Ceylon, and that's it.'
'I saw an Aeroflot office on our way in.'
'AEROFLOT!' I shrieked. 'The Russian airline. I want to go through Russia! That's it! That's it! That's the one! Perfect! I've been dying to see Moscow. I can't wait.'
'Don't get exited yet. We have to see how the flights go.'
'No, no, it's perfect. For sure flights leave Moscow for everywhere. And coming from Russia, the last thing the Canadians will look for is dope. A Communist maybe, but dope—never! Oh, how wonderful!' I jumped on the bed and started hopping up and down. I jumped to the next bed and then to a stuffed chair and back to the bed.
'Quit it, will you?' said Mitchell. 'You're messing up my bed. Jump on your bed, why don't you.'
I sang, 'I'm going to Russia wu wu Russia . . . '
'Cool it. We have to check it out first.'
It checked out fine. Not only was it the cheapest flight, smuggler wise it was the best strategy. Who would check me for drugs disembarking from Moscow? As I'd anticipated, the route to Canada called for a two-day stop over in Moscow. Yowee, I was going to Russia.
We didn't stay long in Sri Lanka. Mitchell still had most of his marbles, and he realized that every day on the road meant more of our import business was inhaled. Between me and Mitchell, we consumed over two grams of dope a day.
Soon, I was once again dressed in the boring-beige outfit, with my hair teased two Inches above my head, a dumb bag over my wrist, silk stockings, pearl earrings—yeck! Somehow, though, that look brought approving nods from ticket clerks, pilots, stewardesses. Those people had no taste. I had no problem anywhere. The nice Russian Customs man gave me no trouble. Oh, boy—Russia! Aeroflot lodged me at the Intourist Hotel in the centre of Moscow. I arrived late at night and couldn't wait for morning to go exploring. I had to keep my hair in the bird's nest, so I slept carefully. As soon as I awoke and had a snoot, I left the hotel.
But Moscow was no fun (was it because of my hair?). I found it tense and frustrating. Accustomed to being fawned over as a foreigner, I was unnerved that everybody was dose to rude. Gee, I only asked for help with minor things! Where can I buy postcards? How many stamps do I need? Which way to the Red Square? Everyone I beseeched for this secret information seemed harried, irritated, and impatient. They seemed to be hurrying with important things to do. I'd heard about a famous department store and headed for it with a pocketful of rubles. It was big and impressive, but what impressed me most about it were the lines. To buy anything, one faced a line of twenty or thirty people. Nobody spoke to me anywhere, and I didn't see anything vaguely resembling a Freak or a hippie. Russia was a bore. Not disappointed to leave for the airport, I disposed of my rubles in a tourist shop.
I had no problem entering Toronto. As usual I received a pass-through card and, POOM, I was stamped into Canada. A successful drug smuggler once again. Now a heroin smuggler—oh, how exciting!
I found Mitchell waiting outside the doors of the baggage area. I stayed overnight in his hotel room, and the next day we went to Iris connection, known in Toronto as the Jewish Connection. Jewish Connection was living in his parents' high-rise while they were away somewhere. He told me I'd receive my money in a few days, as soon as enough dope had been sold. Before Mitchell dropped me off at a hotel near Young Street, he presented me with a stash.
I had a colour TV and ten dollars worth of American candy, plus a soda machine and an ice machine down the corridor. What more could anyone want? I popped a peanut-butter cup in my mouth and turned on 'The Addams Family.'
When I didn't hear from anyone by the next night, I called Jewish Connection.
'Mitchell's out of the city,' he said, 'and I don't have money for you yet. I'll let you know when I do.'
I didn't want to be a pest, so I decided to wait as long as I could before calling again. Two days later I ran out of dope. I had to call. The phone rang and rang. No answer! After a few hours of trying every fifteen minutes or so, I panicked. I was out of stash! Oh, no! Help! I drove the hotel operator bananas calling over and over. By the time Jewish Connection answered the phone, very late that night, I was sweating and freezing.
'I don't have your money yet,' he said.
'That' what I'm calling about. I’m sick.'
He sighed and there was a pause. 'Okay. Come by in the morning.'
'I can't wait that long!'
He grunted. 'Okay. Come now.'
The taxi took forty minutes to reach the out-of-the-way apartment—long enough for me to worry about the situation. Where had Mitchell gone? Was he going to disappear on me? What if no one answered the door when I got there?
Jewish Connection did answer the door. I almost fell into the room in relief. After a few snorts, I asked about Mitchell.
'He left the country.'
'Oh . . . When can I get my money?'
Jewish Connection's voice dripped with impatience. 'As soon as I get it. I told you I'd let you know.'
'I can't wait here forever. I'm going to be sick again.'
'Here, take this packet, but that's it,' he said, herding me toward the door. 'I can't support your habit. I call you, okay?'
I waited another few days, until the last speck of powder ran out, and then, an anxious wreck, I called again. Canada was no longer tutti-frutti.
'Tomorrow afternoon,' Jewish Connection said, his words slow and precise and bursting with annoyance.
'I can't wait that long.'
'Tomorrow afternoon, take it or leave it.'
'Alright.'
I considered calling Esther in Montreal but discovered I didn't have my address book. By the time I was en route to the apartment, my legs were killing me. I alternated between sweating to the point of dehydration and shivering with goose bumps. I didn't like it one bit. I worried again whether anyone would be there when I arrived. I wanted to shoot Mitchell.
