by Jimmy Fox
He’d rather skip the appointment with a famous orthopedist, but since Sangfleuve Parish was footing the bill, hey, why not? Hawty had insisted he report to the office to handle a client problem—“You don’t pay me enough to argue with bigoted white women who don’t like the ancestors I’ve found!” And Val, the vixen from Bayou Luck Casino, had called him at the Greensheaves. She had information on the Katogoula murders. Couldn’t say on the phone. Had to meet him at her company’s riverboat casino, the Crescent Luck, the next night, Wednesday.
“You were right about that Tadbulls’ collection,” Nick said. “Fantastic.” Holly had not spoken since they left the house. “I know you probably won’t approve, but I felt it was my scholarly duty to liberate one of the prisoners.” He held up the small Bible.
She barely glanced his way before again staring down the rural, rutted two-lane highway, running the gears to the limit and then shifting ferociously, so that the boxy van seemed to be riding a rough sea.
“It’s my fault,” she said.
“That you slapped him?”
“He deserved that. It’s my fault we’re in deep doo-doo. I guess it’s time you know. Here goes: Wooty runs pot through Tchekalaya Forest. When we were going together, I was his mule, they call it, a few times, maybe seven or eight trips. I used my van to take some small loads to an airstrip near St. Francisville. He had a Cajun buddy of his weld a false muffler section or something underneath.”
Nick didn’t interrupt her; he could tell a free-flowing confession when he heard one. The fever must run its course, he believed; you’ll feel better afterward.
“At first I thought it was an adventure, you know, a blow against stodgy old Southern society. Then I realized how stupid, how incredibly un-idealistic, uncool, unsafe it all was. This was dirty, bloody business, that destroys lives. These people have no conscience, don’t care who they hurt.”
She sped past a slow-moving logging rig overloaded with pine tree trunks.
“I know, sounds hypocritical. Sure, we both smoked our share of pot in those days. The danger was a rush; real cloak-and-dagger. And the money was good. But now . . . he tells me he can’t quit. I don’t mean he’s addicted or anything; his suppliers are being assholes. And it’s my fault.”
She told Nick about their first years together. Holly and Wooty had met in college; she was going to LSU, and he was at Freret in New Orleans. “I spent more time on I-10 and in bed with him than I did in class,” she quipped.
Wooty was different then. A fiery rakehell of Shakespearean proportions, afraid of no one and nothing, always seeming to land on his feet, and get passing grades, even though he rarely attended classes.
His muscles and his hormones seemed to do his thinking for him. The aura of the jock superstar hung about him, even though he’d made only third-string, and in his freshman year quit the football team, which at Freret was pretty much of a joke anyway, Holly related.
But he had money—at least, more than anyone else in their circle—great looks, fine cars, lots of fraternity and sorority friends, and a contagious need for excitement. It was a kick just to be around him. In an undeclared competition, testing their newly fledged adult bodies, they tried to outdo each other in wildness. Who could fly closer to the sun?
“Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll,” Holly said. “Wooty finished business school and came home, so after school and some traveling, I moved up here for my job at the television station in Armageddon. Still a wild child. And following him, I guess. About two-and-a-half years ago I decided I was smarter than those Mexican guys, that we could have our cake and smoke it, too. Oh, I was in the media; I knew it all! Guess I was still trying to impress him, just like in college. On my last trip, I pretended the van was burgled, and the grass stolen. Instead, I sold it to some guys I know in New Orleans. He didn’t know anything about it, I swear, until afterward. I thought the creeps would just write it off, or at worst stop using us. What do they care about one load of dope, anyway?”
“That’s where the money for your documentaries came from, right?” Nick said.
She nodded contritely. “Most of it.”
“Was there ever a grant from the state?”
“A small one. But I went through that in no time. I’m sort of a perfectionist, so I never could meet their damn deadlines for funding. Anyway, the suppliers checked out my story. They didn’t believe us. Told Wooty he owed them a hundred thousand dollars for the lost shipment! Which is crapola, because I only got forty-five. And he didn’t even keep any of the money; he wanted me to have it. Said I’d taken the risk for it. So for over two years, they’ve deducted that much and then some. How do you argue with assholes waving Uzis or whatever around?
“Now something big’s come up. Wooty’s talked to a Louisiana legislator named Augustus Bayles about a dream job, and he wants to take it, just get out of here, go somewhere and start fresh. I interviewed Bayles a couple of times—I’m not sure who’s scarier, him or the druggies. But you can’t simply walk away from these creeps. Now they’re saying it’ll cost another hundred grand as an exit fee, and a hundred thousand every week he hasn’t paid! That was the phone call he got. They want the money, like, yesterday. It’s some honor bullshit. I mean, what’s money to them? . . . God must have been in a real sadistic mood when he invented men!”
“Can’t they just take it out of his earnings on his last few runs?”
She shook her head. “Telling them he was through was the last straw. They haven’t trusted him, really, since my screw-up; right after that they started these elaborate routines, never the same thing twice. It’s so James Bond-y. Now they’ve decided not to use him or Tadbull land anymore, period, no matter what happens with the Bayles deal. And if he doesn’t come up with the money, they say I’ll get hurt. Or worse. Christ! how could I be such an idiot!?” She hit the steering wheel with her palm, and the van swerved across the centerline and back. “It is all my fault. What do I do?”
“Know a good plastic surgeon?” Nick said, easing up on his death-grip of the armrest.
“Oh, that’s a big help!”
“Just kidding. Where’s all the Tadbull money? Can’t Wooty use that to get off the hook?”
“No. He draws a pretty good income from a trust fund, but can’t get at the principal until his father dies. His father . . . well, in case you haven’t noticed, he can’t stand him. I can take him, usually; he’s just, oh, I don’t know, shallow. The casino, if it ever happens—which looks doubtful—will take a while to build; and, from what Wooty’s told me, Mr. Tadbull will control that, too. He won’t ask Bayles for the money, though he says he’ll eventually make a potful.
“Every cent Wooty has is tied up in all kinds of illiquid projects—biofuel, solar, a construction company in Russia, Canadian oil sands, American fast food in China, fracking in South America, speculative real estate partnerships . . . God, every time I see him there’s some new screwball scheme. Of course they’re all bleeding money. And now here’s this Bayles thing. Wooty’s not your ordinary good ole boy, Nick. He’s trying to be someone, he really is. And if he’s a loser so far, at least he’s a heroic one. He’s more like the pioneers, warriors, and artists of his family, than his father.”
“Don’t forget the crooks,” Nick said.
“Oh, you’re one to talk! That Bible you lifted, I’ve never seen it up there; wonder where it came from.” But Wooty’s troubles soon put her curiosity to flight. “Anyway, he wants to do something major, something he can call his own. It’s a dangerous obsession, I guess. Could get somebody killed. Like me.”
“We all have our obsessions. If we’re lucky. Only one thing to do, then: raise the cash.”
Holly turned to him. The van drifted. “Didn’t you hear what I—”
“Watch the road, please. I have a plan. Maybe not a great one, but it’s something.” He waited half a mile before he asked, “He still cares about you?”
“Yes. But we haven’t been . . . close for about a year. Really
, since I pulled my dumb stunt, it’s been nothing but one long argument.”
“You love him?”
She thought for a minute, jerked the van back to the right side, and then nodded.
“Why’d you slap him?”
“He said I wasn’t a two hundred thousand-dollar piece of ass. But he didn’t really mean that. He just feels boxed in. I’m sorry I hit him.”
He was a fool if he did mean it, Nick thought. The love of a woman like Holly was more valuable than mere sex, worth a man’s last possession, worth the planet’s weight in diamonds, worth everything.
CHAPTER 26
“That money’s for education and health care,” Tommy complained. “I just don’t seem right.”
“But this is education,” Nick said, “and the health of the tribe’s history. Besides, it’s only a loan.”
The two men sat drinking strong coffee at a sturdy old homemade table in Brianne’s kitchen. Tommy was now tribal treasurer; for Nick’s purposes, this demotion was perfect.
Brianne had left the room earlier to bathe her little girl. Distant splashing and the indistinct, soothing words of the mother’s monologue flowed into the kitchen. Matt, the more seriously injured twin, was mending well and milking his temporary invalidism for all it was worth. Nick heard Sam outside in the blustery afternoon shooting a BB gun at an already well-perforated jack-o’-lantern, trying to amuse his brother.
“We’re saving up to fund a tribal center, too,” said Tommy, stirring his coffee. “Maybe we can at least have public bingo there since it looks like my casino idea’s pretty much dead. I sort of wish I’d never brought it up, what with all that’s happened . . . but it’s still a good idea and I’m not ashamed of it.” He placed the spoon back in the saucer, with a resolute clang; no more self-pity, apparently. “I can see Wooty being hard up for cash, if he was counting on our casino deal coming through soon.”
Tommy had told Nick of his worry over the increasing dissension within the tribe. A pro-development faction opposed the no- development faction led by Luevenia Silsby. Minor family jealousies and old petty quarrels had broken out like a virus with a long incubation period. At Three Sisters Pantry, fingers were pointed, bitter words shouted. Some even spoke of splitting off to form separate tribes, of allegedly purer descent than the main tribe. The casino companies, which had been so eager to sign up the Katogoula, had begun to lose patience.
The Katogoula were all capable of murder now, Tommy believed, and he was finding it more difficult every day to look his old friends in the eyes.
“But Jesus, a hundred thousand dollars, Nick! I’ve already disbursed some of the money on ‘emergencies’ everybody’s got all of a sudden. I’m not supposed to decide on an expenditure of this size. Miss Luevie’s the new chief, you know. And she’s not real big on doing anything to bring more attention to the tribe. That’s why she fired you. Says the tribe’s got enough problems without inviting in more outsiders for a free ride on our BIA money.”
Nick gave another shot at pressing his case. “Tommy, we’re talking about a priceless collection documenting Katogoula history. Have you ever seen it?”
“Maybe twenty years ago, when Wooty and me played together up in their attic. But I never paid it much mind. Just some old pictures.”
“Take my word for it: incredible! Hundreds of unique, very valuable pieces. After the loss of the museum, how can you pass this up? Everything owned by the Tadbulls relating to Katogoula history will come to the tribe when the new center is ready.”
“Wooty’ll pay back the money and give us the collection?” Tommy asked skeptically. “His daddy agrees to all this?”
“Says so right here.” Nick held up Wooty’s promissory note. “The tribal center will become a major attraction, a place of scholarly pilgrimage, with or without a casino. Hey, trust me. I’m the guy who risked his life for the Twins-Raccoon Bowl, remember?”
Earlier that hectic afternoon, while Nick did his courthouse research, Holly and Wooty put Nick’s plan on paper; Mr. Tadbull, in fact, knew nothing of the scheme. Nick realized his plan would make the lovers’ reconciliation easier. He consoled himself by recalling Chief Claude’s epithet: a “midwife” brings new life to love, with no envy of others’ happiness.
“Oh, I trust you,” Tommy said. “It’s Wooty I ain’t too sure about. He’s into some shady stuff I don’t want to get involved in.” Tommy got up to put his cup in the sink, thinking, looking out at his sons in the yard. He turned around to face Nick. “Wooty’s always played fair with us Katogoula, helped us out of some tough spots when he ran the mill. But it sure is a lot of money.”
“A refundable deposit on your future, my friend.” Nick joined him at the sink and slapped him on the back for positive emphasis. He felt like a used-car salesman inches away from closing a sale. “When’s the next tribal meeting?”
“First of the year, probably. Most everyone’s going to a big inter-tribal powwow on the Chitiko-Tiloasha reservation for Thanksgiving. Crash course in being real Louisiana Indians.” Tommy grinned. “Feathers and drums and dancing and all. Even a turkey shoot with atlatls . . .”
His words trailed off as, Nick presumed, he remembered the manner of his brother’s death.
“Great,” Nick said, covering the awkward moment. “You won’t have to explain the expenditure for a while. Holly’s documentary is almost finished. I’ve convinced her to donate half ownership of the program rights to the tribe. I just happen to have a signed contract from her, too.” He showed Holly’s agreement to Tommy.
“You sure been busy.”
“All part of the service. . . . So, by the end of the year, you’ll have your money back. When the tribal center goes up, you’ll receive the Tadbull collection. And to top it off, you’ll own half of a program that’s undoubtedly going national.”
“More white man’s promises.” Tommy crossed his arms and stared at the vinyl floor covering; a smile gave away his decision. “Okay, okay. You win. The deal don’t sound half-bad, the way you’re putting it. I got the checkbook for the tribal account yesterday. It’s in the den. I’ve been meaning to show you the BIA presentation, anyway. Come on.”
In the den, Tommy proudly pointed to a framed 8-by-10 glossy on the wall. The photo had been taken in Three Sisters Pantry a week ago, before Nick’s arrival, the museum fire, and the late schism in the tribe. Tommy—as the chief at that time, and as a descendant of the family that had pushed so hard for recognition for decades—and Miss Luevie received an oversized check handed over by a grinning fellow from the acknowledgment branch of the BIA. Squeezing into the shot behind those three were two of the district’s congressmen, angling for Indian support, which had become a new power in Louisiana politics.
Two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, made out to the Katogoula Indian Tribe of Cutpine, Louisiana. Tommy wore a nervous grin below his darkly circled eyes; Miss Luevie was even more ill at ease, looking away from the camera, her head slightly lowered, as if trying to hide her innermost thoughts from the prying eyes of the outside world.
Tommy took a seat before the fold-down secretary desk where Brianne paid the household bills.
“We want to keep this quiet, of course,” Nick said. “Wooty mentioned that he’ll call you soon. Something about a new development on the casino front.” Nick shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Just delivering a message.”
“This could land me in some serious trouble, you know. I’d feel better if I went to Miss Luevie and the council for approval.”
“They’ll thank you for this, one day. Don’t worry, you’re doing a good thing, Tommy.” If he only knew how good—saving the lives of two people. “Make out two checks, will you? One for $100,000 to Wooten Tadbull IV, and one to me for $500.”
Tommy held the pen poised in the air, a wavering needle on the gauge of his resolve. “What’s the five hundred for?”
“Your re-election campaign fund.”
Still reluctant, Tommy shook his head but continued writ
ing. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Nick slowly let out a quiet breath of relief and uncrossed his fingers behind his back.
Late that afternoon in the intriguing study of Tadbull Hall, Nick handed the check to a surprised Holly. So grateful, can’t believe it, you’re wonderful Nick. . . . She hugged him a long time. His heart thumped up into his throat. But it was a different kind of embrace for both of them.
In countless nature shows he’d seen on television, males of the wild know that when the antler-tangling contest is over, when the female has made her choice, the loser must limp away. Why couldn’t he, too, accept the judgment of selfish genes looking out for themselves, bow to the inscrutable dictates of DNA drawing us to one and not another? Hope, love, poetry, philosophy . . . mere distracting byproducts of the double helix’s indomitable instinct to survive. Free will? What a laugh. A biological microchip rules our lives, Nick was thinking as Wooty thanked him with real warmth; no sense losing your cool over it.
Wooty urged him to look through the attic closets now and anytime, as long as he liked. Mr. Tadbull had departed for another duck hunt on the coastal marsh. Nick would be undisturbed.
The cedar closets upstairs were dry and nearly dustless from decades of unmolested slumber. There were four main ones, two framing the plenum, and two at the front of the house. Nick first tried the closets nearest the stairs.
He could see no evidence of rodent damage. It was as perfect a storage area as he had ever come across in his genealogical excursions.
These closets were the size of some of the rooms downstairs, each one big enough for a glittering dinner party. There had been lots of those in Tadbull Hall, Nick could see, judging from the many china sets in zippered cases and silver tea and coffee services under plastic that had been banished to the attic as each new Queen Tadbull began her reign, with her own proclamations of taste.