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The light changed. They crossed the street, Otis protesting against the sound of traffic. "No, man. I'm not into that stuff. No smuggling cocaine for me. Nor marijuana. Nothing!"
"They's dozens who do. You gettin' religion or something, eh? Or have you found some sweet pidididdy gal that's got standards?" Rodney laughed; his wide mouth emitted a guttural donkey sound, but his steely eyes examined Otis coldly.
Otis decided he might as well laugh, for Rodney pretended never to take anything seriously. It was always "Let's catch the action at Rockhead's" or "Let's inspect the chicks at Club St. Michel." He revelled in the nightlife around Montreal's Mountain Street, with its jazz entertainers and brown-skinned chorus girls imported from New York's Harlem. Both nightclubs were owned by former railway porters who, gossip contended, had made their initial nest eggs rum-running, in the decade when Prohibition in the United States made smuggling liquor across the border profitable.