Shell Shaker

by LeAnne Howe

  Neither can her sisters. From the look on their faces, they must be comparing the woman with the broken front teeth to the older sister of their childhood. The one who held their hands when they walked to school, or mopped the floor after they’d finished bathing. Growing up, Adair and Tema were almost twins. Only a year apart, they behaved like two wild ponies with skinny legs, so nervous they’d bite if she kissed them too much. But now that it’s their turn to clean up her mess, she’s as uncertain how to act as they are.

  Her lawyer is the first to respond. “The Choctaw Superior Court has the last word on whether to accept your mother’s confession or yours, Miss Billy. Whatever the case, if you want me to represent you, we need to talk now.”

  All at once, Auda feels shocky. Her head throbs. For an instant she’s back on the floor of McAlester’s office. Is there blood on her lips? She looks at her feet—bare. She has jettisoned her bloody red pumps by the side of his chair. A deputy yells. Then her blown-out teeth. Then nothing.

  She blinks. She’s no longer on the floor. It’s Tuesday, she’s standing in her mother’s kitchen.

  Look at what is left of our people! A chin, a foot, a jawbone, and ten thousand feet of intestines hanging in the trees of Yanàbi Town.

  “Honey, I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” Tema says gently, as she pulls out a chair for Auda.

  “I said I did it.”

  “But after that?”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  Her lawyer is obviously uneasy, and her sisters glance at each other in the unspoken language they’ve shared since childhood. Auda usually knows what passes between them, but not this time.

  “Don’t do that,” says Auda, sitting down. “I’m not crazy ...well, mostly not.”

  “We don’t think you are. Remember I told you, we’ve all been hearing voices,” says Adair, lowering her voice.

  The lawyer drags out his leather-tooled briefcase and pretends he didn’t hear that last remark.

  “Eat something, please,” coaxes Adair, “while you tell Gore what happened.”

  Auda looks at her lawyer. “My sister wants us to get acquainted.”

  He sits across from her and is very solicitous. “I don’t know if you remember me Miss Billy, it’s been about eight years.”

  She nods, trying to conceal that she doesn’t remember him.

  “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances, but I’ve handled many criminal cases, and practiced in both tribal and state courts. Some of my cases have been ...”

  She cuts him off. “If my mother and sisters think you’re all right, Mr. Battiste, you’re hired.”

  “Let’s get to work then. With all the people coming in and out, we should really go to my office.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Tulsa—about three hours from here,” he says, smiling.

  Good, he’s trying to put her at ease. She wants to be at peace, to finally finish this. While he prepares to question her, she ticks off the places where they might have met. A tribal conference in D.C.? A National Congress of American Indians meeting?

  “Mind if I use a recorder while I take notes?”

  “Of course not,” she says, lighting another one of Adair’s strong cigarettes.

  “Start at the beginning.”

  But before they can begin, a neighbor woman with two small children walks in through the back door of the kitchen. The woman doesn’t raise an eyebrow at the sight of Auda calmly smoking cigarettes at the table. Like other Indians in the neighborhood, she knows all that has been said, and all that has happened so far in the Billy house. It’s a belief Choctaws have—that almost everything in life is meant to be shared. Especially tragedy.

  “I brought this for the Mother,” she says, in Choctaw. The woman puts a plate of roast beef in front of them and abruptly leaves the same way she came in.

  Tema and Adair join them at the table. Each takes a seat, one on either side of Battiste, which makes Auda feel as if she’s appearing before a panel of judges. He rewinds the tape and searches her face for signs of something, perhaps growing insanity. “Ready?” he asks.

  Auda slowly begins talking into the machine. She explains how she and Redford McAlester met, when she became Assistant Chief, what their original plans were in 1983 for revitalizing the Choctaw Nation. She’s stalling. Preparing herself for the impact of what must come next.

  “I want to know about you and McAlester,” says Gore, his candid brown eyes looking directly into hers.

  She waits a full minute before replying. The small cassette wheels of the recorder document her silence. Finally she speaks. “I loved the energy he put into things,” she says. “It’s funny...just now, I realize that I never saw him dance. Not at Green Corn, not at Stomp Dances, not ever.”

  Her lawyer doesn’t respond, but continues looking at her.

  “We were a popular Indian couple. We led a ceremonial life. Tribal dinners at home for local businessmen and state legislators. Elaborate banquets for senators in D.C. During our first two years in office we were continually in each other’s company.”

  “What happened?”

  “The casino.”

  “Go on.”

  “In 1988, after the National Indian Gaming Regulatory Act was passed, the Choctaw Nation built the Casino of the Sun. As you know, because we’re a sovereign nation, there’s no external oversight of the casino operations. Only three people—Red, Vico D’Amato, and Carl Tonica—were privy to the real set of books, not the phony ones they submit to the BIA. How much do you think the casino took in last year?”

  Her lawyer’s voice is impassive. “The Daily Oklahoman reported twelve, so I figure, fifteen million.”

  “Twenty million. But almost sixty million was deposited in our New York accounts. You figure it out, where did the money come from?”

  Tema looks shocked, but Gore Battiste’s expression remains placid.

  “So, the tribe made more money than they reported. But with that much money, we could have paid off the original ten million to Shamrock and be shed of them,” says Tema.

  “Hardly,” says Auda. “If you agree to always overpay, then you have a perpetual partner.” For the first time she sees mistrust growing in her sister’s eyes. She doesn’t want Tema to think she agreed with McAlester’s business dealings with Shamrock, so she tries to explain. “More than seventy percent of the casino income goes to pay our yearly contract fees to Shamrock Resorts. After the tribe pays Shamrock, and then pays the local bureaucrats to overlook all kinds of petty violations, we still have to pay tribal salaries, pay for the subsidized housing for the elderly, pay tribal health care costs, maintain the buildings, and operate our other tribal businesses on what little is left.”

  Auda’s energy is growing. Her pace quickens and she realizes that she wants the whole world to know this story. “Look where the Casino of the Sun is situated! Durant is just one hour from Dallas, a city with thousands of people who want to gamble. More important, the casino is less than an hour from I-35. Retirees from across the upper Midwest can stop and gamble on their way south to Mexico, or to the Texas coast for the winter. With so much customer traffic, it looks like the casino could have taken in sixty million, but it didn’t. We were set up to benefit the Mafia, not the Choctaw people.”

  Adair nods slowly. “There’s a rumor going around among the securities brokers that the Feds are amassing evidence against a tribe and their New York bank for violating federal money laundering statutes. Our analysts follow that kind of thing because it impacts bank stocks. I’ve suspected ...”

  Auda interrupts her. “Red was laundering money for the Genovese family. They’re the ones who own Shamrock Resorts, which bankrolled the casino. Sure the tribe had issued some bonds to raise money, but the bulk came from Shamrock Resorts. In exchange, Red received a percentage, and some bonds. Over the past couple of months he’d been siphoning off more than his cut. Last week he took an extra large bite, two million. It set off b
ells and whistles all over New York. Shamrock is missing ten million, and the D’Amato brothers probably think that’s the reason I shot him—for the money.”

  “What does all this mean, Auda?” asks Tema, sadly.

  “It means, now that McAlester is dead, your sister could be tried as his accomplice and his murderer,” says Gore. “But in federal criminal cases, the Feds must prove that the money being laundered is from an unlawful source, like drug trafficking, or that it’s being used abroad in ways that violate international law.” He continues writing.

  Auda mashes out her cigarette. “I wasn’t his accomplice, but I have an idea about what he was doing with the money.” She pops a piece of meat in her mouth, and for a instant savors the taste until she realizes she can’t chew normally.

  “Is that why Tonica de-tribed us?” asks Tema, impatiently. “If you tell him where the ten million is, the Billys will be reinstated in the tribe?”

  Adair sits up, stock straight, in her chair. At last she seems to grasp the situation. “No, Tema, kicking the Billy family out of the tribe is a public relations move to convince jurors that Auda stole the money. Don’t you see, they want everyone to believe that the chief discovered what she was doing, so she murdered him. It’s a perfect cover-up.”

  With difficulty, Auda swallows the partially-chewed meat, but nods to show she agrees.

  Her attorney keeps writing, then suddenly stops. “What a neat and tidy story, Miss Billy, I’m only sorry that it’s so full of holes.”

  They lock eyes. “I have Red’s wire transfer reports hidden in my room,” she says.

  “Documents are only half-truths; you’re an Indian historian Miss Billy, you know that.”

  Adair chimes in. “I’ve been doing a little data collecting myself ...”

  Agitated, Gore waves her off. “Doesn’t matter, Adair,” he says. “She’s not telling me anything I couldn’t find out in a few weeks of investigating the case.”

  Auda throws him another bone, to hold him off as long as she can. “Multiple sources of funds were wired to the Choctaw Nation’s New York accounts and mixed in with our casino and other tribal business deposits. That disguises their origins. From New York, the monies were transferred to London and Swiss banks in the name of Shamrock Resorts. I traced conference calls to the tribe’s ‘relationship managers’ in the banks in New York, London, and Zurich. I have proof.”

  He stares a hole through her.

  “C’mon Miss Billy, why did you take your mother’s pistol, load it, and shoot Redford McAlester in the head? A phone call to the FBI would have been a lot less messy.”

  He’s baiting her, just like the lawyers on TV. She looks to her sisters for help. They’re pouring all their love through their eyes, but they remain mute.

  “Most likely Carl Tonica was also involved, so why didn’t you shoot him too? So far, you’ve only given us reasons why McAlester should be in prison. He certainly didn’t deserve to be shot with his briefs pulled down. Tell the truth, why did you kill the Chief of the Choctaw Nation? Say it!” he yells.

  Auda slides her clenched fists down into the pockets of her robe and claws at the cotton lining. She utters a string of syllables that sound like a cry, mere redundancy. She can’t think straight, so she concentrates on her mother’s corn soup simmering on the stove, the red-and-white-checkered curtains above the kitchen sink, all things familiar, anything to delay the inevitable. But slowly and absolutely, she does what her lawyer asks. She abandons herself.

  “Oh God, he raped you,” says Tema, catching the shock of the news in her hands.

  Auda can’t bear to look at them. It doesn’t help that they know, somehow it makes her feel worse. She sighs, remembering the long-dead woman inside her, the way she used to be. She folds her hands as if in prayer and lets the pain escape from her mouth. She leaves out nothing, it makes the story easier to tell. Then gradually she approaches Sunday morning when she walks into McAlester’s office. “I really don’t know what happened then. I went there intending to shoot him, but ... I can’t see it.”

  Again the recorder collects silence.

  Tema tries to light a cigarette, but Adair’s lighter has quit. In frustration, she pulls the cigarette out of her mouth. “I don’t even smoke,” she says, wiping away her tears.

  Gore picks up his pen again, but he doesn’t write a thing. He seems to be measuring her words, then a look crosses his eyes, maybe pity; she can’t read him, yet. “I’m sorry, but you had to tell us,” he says, softly.

  Auda covers her face with both hands. Her mouth aches. “I wish I was dead too,” she whispers.

  “Shush! Don’t say that! Quick, take back the words!” urges Tema.

  But Auda is again half-lost, sliding between past and present. “I must have...” she slowly nods yes, but whispers “no, I don’t remember.” She goes on speaking softly into the air, no longer caring who hears. “To me, Red was like a hummingbird. He could fly forward and backwards, or just hover above you for hours. He had incredible energy. Who else could have maneuvered the state legislators, the city bosses, the horse racing lobby, into negotiating a casino compact with the state of Oklahoma? Think of the long hours he spent, the hundreds of promises he had to make to develop a casino on their federal trust land in Oklahoma. But he was the one who had the vision and the drive to make it happen.”

  She breathes deeply. “No, in the beginning Red was not Osano; he was a hummingbird, a necessity of nature, impeccably beautiful, devouring all that is sweet in life to stay alive.”

  When Auda glances at Tema, she sees the chords of her sister’s face are drawn into a tragic look of sorrow. She smiles, remembering Tema at five, who loved cucumber sandwiches, but only if she put them on gooey white bread.

  “I don’t think I could take back my words now, even if I wanted to,” she says, sadly.

  Gore turns off the recorder and goes to the sink. He drinks one glass of water, then fills the glass again, and drinks it too. When he comes back he seems propelled into action. He talks to her sisters, as if she’s no longer present. “Once I get your mother’s confession thrown out—”

  Auda interrupts him, just to let him know who’s in charge. “Don’t you want to know what Red was doing with the other money?”

  Gore slowly turns to her. His voice is low and terse. “So you do know where the ten million is.”

  “No, but I know what he did with his percentage.”

  “What percentage?”

  “The payoff money he got from the Mafia. He was giving it to the I.R.A. to bomb the Brits.”

  For a moment, no one has the presence of mind to speak. Auda is astonished when Tema laughs.

  “We’ve got to get you some help, honey.”

  “This has happened before.”

  “The Choctaws giving money to the Irish?” Tema asks. “I know that part, but the rest is too fantastic.”

  Auda gives them all a hard-eyed look. It is the look she usually reserves for her mother. “A man traveling under the name of James Joyce would pick up cashier’s checks in pounds in London, then carry them to Zurich, convert them into Swiss francs and wire them to Belfast into an account called Chahta Legends. Why Belfast, I wondered. I started compiling newspaper clippings on I.R.A. activities. Times and dates of their latest bombings, little incidents that I could compare with the comings and goings of Joyce. I think that’s why Red became involved with the Irish. He wanted to underwrite some of the I.R.A. bombings. The Feds must suspect as much, that’s why they’re investigating him and the tribe for violating money laundering statutes.”

  Silence holds until Adair throws up her hands, her voice now angry. “Our elderly have dire health care needs, we can’t hire a competent surgeon for the Choctaw hospital in Talihina, and you’re telling us that our chief funded the Irish Republican Army with money he stole from the corporate underworld? This sounds more like a B movie, and my God, Auda, if you knew...how could you live with yourself?”

  “I’ve asked my
self the same question every day,” she says, wearily, knowing that at last they believe her. “But when I realized I knew how his mind worked, I followed his reasoning so I could stop him.”

  Auda fixes her gaze on her lawyer. He looks as exhausted as she feels. Eyes puffy, dark circles underneath, he’s probably been up all night, but right now, she needs him to believe every word.

  “Remember, our tribe gave money to the Irish in 1847 for famine relief. The Irish were starving because English bureaucrats withheld food from them. Red knows ...” She corrects herself, “Red knew history. The English, who would become the ruling class of Americans, forced Indians to walk on the Trail of Tears, and they withheld food and supplies from them. Red appreciated historical ironies: Helping the I.R.A. get their revenge on the English was his own little joke.”

  “Do you have any proof of this?” he asks.

  “Yes. I stole the wire transfer records, and remember, you do have a witness.”

  “Tonica.”

  She exhales and leans back in her chair, satisfied that Gore Battiste believes her story.

  Gore immediately begins bending the ear of her sisters. He tells them they’re going to have to hire more lawyers and one or two investigators. He says he will notify the Choctaw Superior Court, and the U.S. Attorney’s office. They talk all around her, explain to each other what she already knows. It’s then Auda remembers that the Alabama Conchatys were always the mediators between the warring tribes in the Southeast. More irony.

  At this moment, there are several things she could ask her lawyer to do. Beg the court for mercy, plead insanity—not a far cry from the truth—or plead guilty. Before she decides, she climbs back into the past for one final visit.