Up in Smoke by Ross Pennie Page A

producers of the nicely packaged cigarettes have an arrangement with the federal government. They collect the small excise tax the law says everyone, Native and non-Native, has to pay.” He picked up a Hat-Trick pack and showed it to her. “See, that’s the excise stamp they put on every pack. It keeps the feds happy and lets everyone delude themselves into thinking they’ve bought fully taxed cigarettes at a bargain-basement price.”
    â€œOnly they haven’t?”
    â€œNot even close. Anyone without a Certificate of Indian Status has to pay all the other federal and provincial taxes — amounting to about fifty dollars a carton — whether they purchase cigarettes on or off a reserve.”
    Zol sipped his Glenfarclas. It slipped down his throat like warm honey. “Native smoke-shop operators figure they’re doing business on sovereign territory, where they refuse to collect taxes on behalf of a foreign government. They leave it up to the non-Native buyers to own up and pay the various taxes owing when they leave the rez.”
    â€œCould honest smokers do that, pay the taxes due, if they wanted to?”
    â€œThat’s the rub. The taxes are complicated and multi-layered. And different in every province. There are federal excise duties, federal tobacco taxes, provincial tobacco taxes, federal goods and services taxes, provincial sales taxes. Even if you wanted to be a model citizen, where would you go to pay the taxes on that carton of smokes you purchased on the rez?”
    He pictured a guy with five bags of Rollies in one hand and a wad of ten-dollar bills in the other, standing in line with people renewing their drivers’ licences.
    â€œAnd of course,” he continued, “the police don’t set up checkpoints at the exits to the reserve and confiscate smokes from non-Natives as they drive out.”
    There were many reasons for such inaction on the part of the police. The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, for starters. You couldn’t go searching people and their cars without a good reason. And a warrant.
    â€œCan you imagine the hue and cry,” he said, “if the police set up road blocks outside every Native reserve in the country?”
    â€œSorry, you’ve lost me. Every reserve in the country?”
    â€œSure, smokes get shipped by the millions from cigarette factories in large reserves like Grand Basin to tiny reserves located in every nook and cranny of the country.”
    â€œRollies and Hat-Tricks are sold coast to coast?”
    â€œYep. In any of the six hundred First Nations reserves across the country. Quite the network, eh? Sort of like Walmart. Cheap Smokes R Us.”
    Colleen gathered her evidence and swept it back into her bag. “My God, this stuff stinks.”
    He dipped his nose into his glass and breathed deeply, erasing the stench of tobacco and stale mint. He closed his eyes and Joni Mitchell sang softly in his ears, “A Case of You.” Sometimes, Joni was the best part of two fingers of Glenfarclas. He savoured a deep drink.
    â€œBut it gets worse,” he told her. “A good portion of the tobacco trade originating from reserves isn’t controlled by Natives.”
    â€œDo I want to hear this?”
    â€œNo one knows what really goes on, but my dad and the other tobacco farmers are convinced that the factories making most of the Rollies on Grand Basin are operated by Asian gangs.”
    Colleen swirled the ice in her Amarula and stared into the glass for a long time. Finally, she took a sip. “I suppose that makes sense. The Asians put up the start-up money, pay the local Natives a royalty, and reap most of the profits.”
    â€œYep. Most of the local guys in the Rollies trade are factory owners in name only. They could never finance such a large operation or have access to the expanded off-reserve market.”
    â€œOff reserve?”
    â€œKorean and Middle Eastern