Smuggler's Blues: The Saga of a Marijuana Importer by Jay Carter Brown

check on him every day. When the time finally came that the ship bound for Montreal arrived in port, I had my shipping broker send a truck to the house to pick up the sealed-up crate. Then I waited for the call from the broker to come down to his office and pay the shipping costs, once the crate had been weighed. This was the most dangerous part of the job because if there was a problem, it would probably show up after the crate was weighed.
    The first shipment of weed was shipped off like clockwork and I flew home to Montreal to report my success to Irving. He was ecstatic at the news. The wait for the weed’s arrival in Montreal was filled with jokes about our ship coming in. When the load finally arrived several weeks later, Irving was contacted by his dock connections. In order not to blow the scam, they needed us to send them a replacement crate with personal effects weighing what was reported on the shipping manifests for the crate of weed. The boys were going to grab the weed crate from Jamaica and replace it with a clean crate. I used my stereo andsome small furniture items to comply with the request and had the replacement crate delivered to the boys downtown. We never referred to them by name. It was always “the boys downtown.” Eventually the crate was delivered to us. I was informed by Irving at the last minute that we needed a stash house, and I quickly thought of a couple that Barbara and I used to get stoned with when we first started smoking hash. Alex Jones and his wife Suzette were people that we knew from my working days in the copier and printing machine business. Alex was a service technician who drove a Volvo and had about as much excitement in his life as a kindergarten teacher. He was a frugal Scotsman, and when I offered to pay him for looking after some weed, he asked how much money, not how much weed. He was tickled pink over the money he received, but he blanched pale when he first saw how much weed there was. The weed arrived in a panel van at Alex’s house and we parked the panel truck in Alex’s garage. Irving and I began unloading and as soon as Alex saw how much weed there was, he immediately protested. But his greed overcame his fear when Irving pacified him with an additional five hundred dollars.
    “Hung for a sheep or hung for a lamb. What’s the difference?” Irving told Alex while sweetening the pot with more money. Irving’s ability to read people and cut right to the chase was spot on, because Alex pocketed the extra few hundred Irving gave him and never complained again. In fact, Alex was subsequently promoted to replacement shipping crate maker, as well as stash house provider, until the weed came in by container loads that were too large to fit in his attic.
    After the weed was safely put away that first time, Irving asked me if I knew anyone who could sell it. I didn’t want to handle any pot in Montreal while I was taking care of the expediting in Jamaica, so I told Irving about Brian Kholder and recommended him as our local distributor in Montreal. When it became obvious that Brian alone could not handle the volume of weed that was coming in, I subsequently arranged a meeting between Irving and Jean Paul LaPierre. I hated the thought of giving the little Frenchman an opportunity to make money offus, but he was, without a doubt, the most reliable weed wholesaler in town. Not only was he able to sell the weed in bulk, he also took care of any bad debtors.
    Irv and J.P. met in a restaurant in downtown Montreal. The usually reclusive Jean Paul brightened immediately when Irving passed him a scrap of paper with three names on it as references. One of the names on the list was Jean Paul’s friend and an ex-partner of his future brother-in-law named Roger Ouimet. Roger was a dangerous man who had done bank robberies with Irving and hits with the infamous Hells Angels’ killer, Jacques “Apache” Francois. Roger Ouimet and Irving had also done scores together including debt