Up in Smoke by Ross Pennie

cards.”
    Zol took it, looked at it quickly, then laughed. “It’s for Rollies.”
    Her silvery earrings twisted and sparkled as she cocked her head. “And they would be . . . ?”
    â€œCigarettes manufactured on the rez and sold in bulk. In Ziploc bags, two hundred at a time. People who smoke Rollies don’t go in for silver cigarette cases, so they carry a day’s worth of fags in a plastic box the size of a cigarette pack.” He took the box and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Like this. See?” The weight of the plastic against his chest felt like a violation. He yanked the disgusting thing out and tossed it on the table. He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Smokers buy a dozen or so bags of Rollies at a time, store them in the fridge, and take them out as they need them.”
    â€œThe refrigerator?”
    â€œSo they don’t go stale.” As if anyone could tell the difference between a fresh Rollie and a stale one.
    â€œIs it legal?”
    â€œTo sell Rollies? Not the way the Natives do it. For starters, the Ziploc packaging breaks all the rules. And only fellow Natives are supposed to get them tax free. Status Indians are not required to pay taxes on tobacco, except for a token excise tax. Don’t forget, they invented the stuff.”
    â€œBut most of the kids at Erie Collegiate are not Native.”
    â€œOf course not. It’s the biggest contraband game in the country. Billions-worth every year.”
    Colleen’s pupils widened. “Anyone can purchase Native smokes tax free?”
    â€œThe government estimates that forty percent of the cigarettes smoked in Ontario come from Native reserves. Unburdened by government regulations, inspection, or taxes.” A memo to the health units from the Ministry had reported a rate even higher among teen smokers.
    â€œHow much do they cost?”
    â€œRollies? Bought on the reserve? Ten dollars for two hundred cigarettes. Some shops throw in an additional twenty per bag.”
    He watched her doing the math in her head. Her amazement was obvious. “That’s about a dollar for twenty-five cigarettes.”
    â€œLess than a cup of coffee, and ten times cheaper than premium, name brand smokes in an off-reserve store. They’re made in clandestine factories that make no pretence of legitimacy.”
    â€œExtraordinary. How do you know all this?”
    â€œDad harps about it all the time. He may have given up tobacco farming, but he’s still plenty pissed that the industry is forced to struggle on an uneven playing field where only the brand-name companies have to follow the rules. As Dad says, the tobacco pirates do whatever they like.”
    â€œWhere do these pirates have their factories? In China, like practically everything else?”
    â€œNo, no. Right here. Grand Basin Reserve. The tobacco is locally grown and purchased under the table from willing farmers glad to have a ready market.” He put his finger beside his nose. “Cash only. Undeclared farm income. No worries about income taxes, quotas, or a tobacco-grower’s licence.”
    He pointed to the two empty Hat-Trick packs she’d dumped from the bag. “D’you know what a hat-trick is?”
    â€œFor goodness sake, Zol. I know my hockey terms. I earned my Canadian citizenship, remember?”
    â€œSorry,” he said, his face reddening. “The Hat-Tricks are made on the reserve too. Supposedly higher quality than Rollies. Still local tobacco, but maybe better leaves and fewer floor sweepings. Not quite as harsh on the throat, but little government inspection or quality control of the factories that produce them.”
    â€œThe packaging makes them look like normal cigarettes. Are they more expensive?”
    â€œHat-Tricks are two or three times the price of Rollies, but a terrific bargain all the same.”
    â€œAnd tax free?”
    â€œAlmost, but not quite. The Native