| Selling weed cigarettes had become increasingly difficult for Augustus, aka 'Gussy', aka 'Soldier'. Police patrols were more frequent in the village and buyers had become scarcer through migration and incarceration. Marijuana production was also drying up due to army campaigns. He knew all about the army campaigns; he had been a soldier. But he'd left, because life was hard at the army bases in the steamy jungles of Guyana's interior. Once he had contracted malaria and it had weakened him. He still carried the virus, and would suffer relapses when he became malnourished, which was really quite often. "Listen, Soldier," said Sedge, Gussy's main supplier, "this weed-selling thing is slow and it ain't worth the risk, man." "So, what we going do, Sedge?" Gussy asked. He stuck a finger into his matted dreadlocks and scratched. "Man, me child-mother ain't get no money from me for weeks now and me son got to get school stuff." "I understand, man," Sedge said. He looked uncomfortable in the threadbare chair in Gussy's shack. "Hear, man, let's get into something bigger. I know a certain individual who going give you a lot of cash to carry stuff toa nice place in the Caribbean." "I know what you talking about," said Gussy. "But ..." "No 'buts', man, if you want the big money is either yes or no. You want this money for you child, right? And you smart, ain't it?" "Yeah, man. I want me son get an education. I don't want he to be like me." "Well, sh-t, man, Soldier, do it. Tek the risk. You going strike it big." "Okay, okay," Gussy said. "I'll do it, man, I'll do it, I need the money. Um, Sedge, can I have an advance on the job, man?" "We don't normally do it that way, especially for a first-timer ... But, all right, all right. A soldier's honour, eh?" "So it's going be okay?" "Yeah," said Sedge. "Tomorrow. Prepare to travel anytime." "Oh, by the way," Sedge said, "You'll have to cut off them dreads - today. And shave." "Okay," Gussy said. He wasn't a Rasta or anything like that, but his dreadlocks gave him a kind of image in the weed market. Also, he never smoked the stuff, but because of his lean and mean appearance people thought he did. He didn't mind that. You had to be tough, or at least appear so, in this business. A few of the youngsters roaming the streets and raiding garbage bins for food had once been his clients. That ultimate indignity was not for him. One day he would marry Adeola, his child's mother, and take good care of his seven-year-old son. Maybe the time had come for him to go a step further. He knew that he had to swallow the cocaine sacs all strung together like, in a straight line; he understood how to recover the sacs at the right time by pulling on the end of the string; and he was aware that a ruptured sac in his stomach could mean a slow, tortured death. Being a mule was sort of crazy, but he knew people who had done it more than once and were now driving fancy SUVs and spending money like water flowing in the wide murky river. If he succeeded he would do it again and again, until he had enough money to invest in a business; something like a craft shop was good. He could also manufacture sports and gamestrophies. He was a pretty good wood carver. 555 Belomorkanal Bond Camel Chesterfield Dallas Davidoff Dunhill Epique Esse Gauloises Karelia Kent L&M Lucky Strike Magna Marlboro Marlboro Mild Seven Monte Carlo More Pall Mall Parliament Peter I R1 Rothmans Russian Style Salem Sobranie Sovereign Viceroy Virginia Slims Vogue West Winston |
