Fiona was planning to bring some money to New York, and she didn’t want to take the risk all by herself. The dough was to be delivered to one of her new American runners who lived in Soho. I didn’t mind. In those days, it was ridiculously easy to smuggle money. No customs agent would have dreamed of bothering two nice Canadian girls on their way to a shopping spree down Fifth Avenue, not unless they showed up with syringes stuck in their arms.