Everglades (15 page)

He was standing face-to-face with a seventy-year-old man in a brown security guard’s uniform. The man had a silver badge on his shirt pocket. He was holding a flashlight, not a gun.

“Can I help you, sir?”

A ridiculous question for the guard to ask. The old man, Izzy realized, was as startled as he was. Scared, too.

Izzy relaxed a little. “Just going out for a walk. See you!” He waved as if saying good-bye, but was really using his open palm to mask his face.

“Are you a friend of Mrs. Minster?” The old man was following him. Then the old man said, “Hey, hold it right there, buddy,” and he shined the flashlight directly on Izzy’s face.

Izzy stopped, turned slowly to face the man, and said, “Do you know how fucking
dumb
that was, mister?”

Izzy got to the guard before he could get the handheld walkie-talkie to his mouth. He held the old man, choking him with his forearm, squeezing harder and harder until the man suddenly quit struggling. Went from being a frightened old man to a rag doll.

Just like that. He quit. Or maybe he’d had a heart attack. It was so unexpected.

It was funny how that went. Some people fought like hell when they knew they were dying. Others just gave up, surrendered, as if to get it over with faster.

Izzy was now doubly glad that the woman’s dog was gone. The animal would follow him around, lick his hands, bring him a slipper or a towel or something like he wanted to play. Which completely ruined the mood.

Right now, for instance, the dog would have been in the pool enclosure, yapping its head off.

So Izzy was glad he’d gotten rid of the dog—though the damn thing tried to bite him the first time he shoved its head under water.

The dog wasn’t like the old man.

The church lady’s dog had fought back.

chapter thirteen

Riding
in the Freon capsule that was Frank DeAntoni’s Lincoln, looking through glass at sawgrass touching April sky, I listened to Tomlinson say from the backseat, “If an infinite number of drunken rednecks pull shotguns from the rack and shoot an infinite number of road signs, I hate to say it, but, one day those bastards are bound to produce a very good haiku in Braille. What’re the odds, Doc? It’s gotta happen, man.”

DeAntoni didn’t much like Tomlinson. He made it obvious, ignoring him when he could, shaking his head in reply to questions, rolling his eyes when Tomlinson made one of his eccentric observations.

DeAntoni rolled his eyes now, saying, “As if some blind dude is gonna roam around down here feeling for road signs, searching for something to read.” Then after a few more seconds, thinking about it: “Like they could even find the fucking signs way out here in this godforsaken swamp. How stupid can you get, Mac? They’d need a ladder to even
reach
’em.”

DeAntoni was not a man whose life was complicated by an overactive imagination.

At a Mobil station, intersection of 951 and Rattlesnake Hammock Road, east of Naples, DeAntoni pulled me aside and whispered, “Jesus Christ, next time that weirdo takes off those John Lennon shades of his, check out the pupils. I think he might have been smoking
marijuana.
”

“Really?” I replied. “Using drugs this early in the morning. Hum-m-m-m. I guess it’s
possible.
”

“And wearing that crazy Hawaiian dress. I practically had to threaten him to make him change into shorts.”

Actually, Tomlinson had been wearing his black-and-orange sarong, swami-style, like a pair of baggy pants. He knew a couple of dozen ways to tie the things, depending on the occasion. I’d had to issue a threat or two myself. Nothing to do with his sarongs, which I’ve become used to. If he didn’t get rid of Karlita, though, he wasn’t going anywhere with me.

Which is why he informed Karlita that she couldn’t accompany us.

DeAntoni said, “What I don’t understand is, you two guys are pals. But you’re like exact opposites.”

I said, “I know, I know. It’s been worrying me for years.”

I think DeAntoni decided that the best way to keep Tomlinson quiet was to fill the silence by asking me lots of questions.

Speeding east on the Tamiami Trail, the remote two-lane that crosses Florida’s interior, all cypress swamp and grass savanna, I explained to Frank that the sawgrass growing out there, ten feet high, got its name from its three-edged, serrated blades.

“Sawgrass is deceptive,” Tomlinson added. “Looks like Kansas wheat, but it’ll cut you like a razor.”

Referring to the thatched huts along the road, and state road signs that read INDIAN VILLAGE AHEAD, I had to think back to the Florida history I’d learned in high school.

Trouble was, I wasn’t certain the information was still accurate.

I told DeAntoni that ’Glades Indians were derived from mixed bands of Creek and Muskogees, on the run in the late 1700s, who’d sought safe haven in Florida. The earliest group, Mikasuki-speaking Creeks, became known as the Miccosukee, then Trail Miccosukee, as in Tamiami Trail.

Another group, mostly farmers, were called the Cimar rons, which is Spanish slang for runaway or wild people—possibly because of the runaway slaves who sometimes lived among them. Cimarron became Simaloni in the Miccosukee language, then Seminole.

I told him, “I’m not sure if that information’s up to date. Tomlinson’s an expert on indigenous cultures, Native American history. He’s like an encyclopedia—literally. You should be asking him.”

DeAntoni shrugged, ignoring the suggestion, then changed the subject to wrestling.

I could see Tomlinson in the rearview mirror, chuckling, not the least bit offended, enjoying the man, his quirkiness.

We drove past Monroe Station and the dirt road turnoff to Pinecrest, then into the Big Cypress Preserve. At Fifty Mile Bend, in the shadows of tunneling cypress, we approached the cottage that is Clyde Butcher’s photo gallery. Tomlinson said why not stop in, say hello, take a look at some of the great man’s black-and-white masterpieces, Clyde was a hiking buddy of his.

DeAntoni replied sarcastically, “You got a swamp hermit buddy who’s an artsy-fartsy photographer? That’s a hell of a surprise,” and kept driving.

We didn’t slow again until we entered the Miccosukee Indian Reservation east of Forty Mile Bend—beige administrative buildings among pole huts, airboats, brown-on-white Ford Miccosukee Police cars—then the Florida deco tourist attractions, Frog City and Cooperstown.

At the intersection of the Tamiami Trail and 997, DeAntoni got his first look at the Miccosukee Hotel and Casino. It was in the middle of nowhere, elevated above the river of grass, fifteen or twenty stories high.

The casino was a massive stucco geometric on the Everglades plain, abrupt as a volcanic peak, painted beige, blue, Navajo red. It had a parking lot the size of a metropolitan airport. The lot was already half full at a little before noon on this Saturday. Lots of charter buses and pickup trucks.

“GAMING AND ENTERTAINMENT,” DeAntoni said, reading the marquee. “Now, that’s one place I
wouldn’t
mind stopping. Back in New York, I’d drive to Cornwall—the Mo hawks got a pretty nice casino there. Best one’s in Connecticut, though, a place called Foxwood Resort, run by the Pequots. You think this Miccosukee place is big? This place ain’t nothing compared to Foxwood. It’s the biggest casino in the world. They take in one
billion
dollars a year.”

Tomlinson whistled, then said, “Far out, man. A billion? You’ve got to be exaggerating.”

“Nope. I read it in the
Times
and the
Post,
too.”

“I knew it was big, but not that big.”

“Bigger than anything in Vegas. A clean one billion a year, and they’re proud of it—which I don’t blame ’em for. Man, they got three or four hotels, golf courses, more than twenty restaurants, everything open twenty-four hours a day, and the state doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it. No say at all. Not even taxes, ’cause they’re Indians. They even got their own police department.”

He glanced away from the steering wheel to speak to me. “Why is that? Why do Indians get to open casinos, but regular people can’t? I never checked into it.”

“I’m not sure myself.” I looked over my shoulder. “Let’s ask the expert.”

Still smiling, Tomlinson answered, “I’m allowed to speak? I don’t want to irritate our driver.”

DeAntoni said, “Your weird talk, that’s the only thing that drives me nuts. Gambling and casinos—that’s something I like.
If
you got something to say.”

Tomlinson told him, “I know something about it. I have lots of Skin friends—that’s what they call themselves. As in Redskins. The AIM people, man, I was really into their act, occupying Wounded Knee and Alcatraz. The American Indian Movement. The best of their warriors are still out there, fighting their asses off. The right to run gaming businesses, casinos, that’s all part of the movement.”

He said, “The Skins call it the New Buffalo—casinos, I mean. Tribes used to depend on the buffalo for survival. Get it? Gaming houses are what they depend on now. It’s become the same thing. A way for the tribes, their families and children, to live, stay healthy.”

I turned and gave Tomlinson a warning look—he tends to ramble and this was not a good time to ramble. But he’s also quick to catch on. So he straightened immediately and gave us the concise version. He explained that Indian reservations are on federal trust land, governed only by federal or tribal laws. States have no jurisdiction over Indian reservations, unless jurisdiction is specifically authorized by Congress.

In this way, reservations are actually sovereign nations. Unless prohibited by federal law, each Indian nation can decide for itself what gaming may be conducted. Gaming, not
gambling,
which is considered a dirty word by those involved.

Tomlinson said, “Back in the nineteen eighties, when the state of California tried to screw over the Cabazon tribe, that’s what really got the ball rolling. There were less than seventy people left in that little tribe, almost extinct. This little ghost band, out there on the rez, not bothering anybody.

“So what happens? State bureaucrats tell them they can’t play bingo on their own rez. Old ladies sitting around smoking, watching Ping-Pong balls fly up the chute. Their thrill for the week. But then the U.S. Supreme Court said, screw you, California, individual states have no say over Indian land. Which is when the idea for Indian casinos started booming.”

But that wasn’t the end of the controversy, Tomlinson added. Concerned about the Cabazon decision, Congress passed the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act of 1988 (IGRA), attempting to balance the interest between the state and tribal sovereignty.

Tomlinson said, “Roughly, what that law says is, Indian tribes have the exclusive right to regulate gaming activity on Indian lands. The state can’t say crap unless
all
forms of gambling are prohibited statewide. For instance, here in Florida, we’ve got a bunch of state lotteries to generate income because we’ve got no state income tax. So IGRA says it’s hypocritical and illegal for the state to interfere with gambling on sovereign Indian territory.”

I said, “That’s how the ’Glades Indians got into the gambling business. I didn’t know.”

“The Seminoles, man. Yeah, they were the first. Their chief at the time, James Billie, he was a genius. An old Vietnam combat vet, and he didn’t take any shit. But, in Florida, the Skins have always had to fight.”

As an example, Tomlinson told us that, for more than two hundred years, the state and federal government refused to officially recognize the Florida Miccosukee as a tribe.

Every twelve months, Miccosukee leaders filed petitions with the Bureau of Indian Affairs for “tribal confirmation.” Every twelve months, their petition was denied.

In the 1960s, the Miccosukee came up with a brilliant finesse. They sent a tribal delegation to Cuba where Fidel Castro signed documents recognizing the tribe as “a duly constituted government and a sovereign nation.” It assured them of international legal status.

Embarrassed, the U.S. government had no choice but to finally “confirm” the Miccosukee as a tribe.

“Florida hasn’t made it easy for any of them,” Tomlinson told us. “Back in ninety-one, the Seminoles had to sue the state in federal court because Florida refused to abide by IGRA statutes. The state insists it has the right to regulate gaming, so the Skins were all pissed off—Miccosukee and Seminole—and it’s still in the courts.”

Tomlinson tapped the car window, indicating the casino. “So the kind of gambling you can do in there is low-stakes stuff—compared to other casinos, anyway.”

DeAntoni said, “Too bad. Up at Foxwood, the Pequot Indians, they got thirty-some crap tables going day and night. I love to play those double-thunder slots, too. Or get a vodka on the rocks and play baccarat. Man, that’s
recreation.
”

Parroting DeAntoni’s earlier sarcasm, Tomlinson replied, “You love to drink hard liquor and gamble, huh? A big-city guy like you. That’s a hell of a surprise.”

 

 

At the gatehouse, a guard dressed in tropical whites—including pith helmet—told us that he was sorry, but, unless we were accompanied by an owner, or on a member’s list, or unless we had an appointment with a Sawgrass real estate representative, he couldn’t allow us to enter.

In Florida, most gated communities hire security people who look like retired wallpaper salesmen. Minimum-wage guys killing time between visits from the grandchildren.

This one was different. He looked like he spent his off-hours in the gym. Had that hard cop formality which is a form of controlled hostility.

DeAntoni opened his billfold, showing his badge. “I’m here on business.”

The guard looked at the badge; shrugged like it was invisible. “No, sir, you’re not
here
on business. Not unless someone from management notifies me.”