by Jimmy Fox
“I can’t call it to mind, just now,” Girn said, delivering the drink to his old friend and retrieving the screwdriver. He then sat in a sloping, fringed Edwardian chair recently re-covered in a fabric of golden leaves falling on scarlet ground.
The cozy room was crammed with other museum-worthy furniture in various nineteenth-century styles; with Indian and Civil War artifacts dug up on the property; with fine old books; rare Marlin and Winchester rifles, vintage L. C. Smith, Parker, and LeFever shotguns; hand-carved duck decoys; excellent paintings and watercolors of the local Indians by a Tadbull forebear; and with curious gimcracks from many world tours.
Someone in the family had obviously been an antiquarian or an amateur anthropologist. This scholarly pursuit of knowledge seemed to have degenerated into Mr. Tadbull’s manic fascination with his timepiece.
“Was 1960, maybe ’62,” Mr. Tadbull said, now using the screwdriver to excavate earwax. “We just plum stopped planting cane, because nobody wanted to work hard like that anymore, in the fields and boiler-room and such. A lot of the coloreds done moved to Dee-troit to build cars for the unions. So we closed down the place with cane still on the carrier, that’s what we did. Yessiree. That’s just what we did.”
Mr. Tadbull examined the screwdriver head for a moment, and then bent down, grunting, and wiped it on the carpet.
“My daddy had the sugar house and all the other buildings stripped of everything he could sell,” he continued. “And these scrap-iron fellas from out West sent a special train over to the lumber mill to pick up the stuff. Well, my daddy heard it was the Japs gonna buy that iron. He went right on out on the tracks and stopped that gotdamn train with nothing but his bare hands! Stood right there in front of it till they gave up and went home. How you like that, Catfish? See, he lost a brother at Pearl Harbor, that’s what it was.”
“Maybe I have heard that one,” Girn said, “once or twice. Look here, Tadbull. Les us get down to business. I been talkin’ to Pokie, Coondog, Boo-Boo, and Gumbo, down in Baton Rouge.” These were just a few of Girn’s legislative buddies. “They don’t have no problem movin’ a bill with what we need in it through their committees. ’Course, we got to make it worth their time and effort. But that ain’t no problem, neither. They just have to get certain things out of my committee, and their usual consultancy fees. We can handle all that. If our casino deal comes through, there ought to be plenty for everybody—after we take care of you and me.” He winked, one bushy eyebrow closing like a hungry Venus flytrap over a bloodshot eye. “Now, here’s what’s been goin’ on since last time you and me talked.”
“Hold on, Catfish. When you get to jabbering about what y’all do at the legislature, it’s like reading the Bible or listening to a lawyer. I don’t understand one nor the other. Let me get my boy in here.”
Mr. Tadbull padded hurriedly to the door of the room. “Wooty! Ho, Wooty!” he shouted for his son. And then to Girn: “He’s the smart one. But you know that. You the one got him that full scholarship to Freret, and then sent him on to business school. Now that’s what I call real statesmanship!”
Both men laughed.
“I’m glad you remember that, Tadbull. We ever settle up on that little arrangement?”
Mr. Tadbull, still chuckling, walked past Girn and patted him on his lean leg. “Don’t you worry none, Catfish. We going to take care of you real good in this deal. Gotdamn, where is that boy?!”
Wooty filled the doorway. “Sorry, Pop. I was in the office, on the phone.” He wore expensive tattered jeans, an untucked Alexander McQueen tapered button-front shirt with a splatter print of human skulls, and black suede brogue boots with aggressive soles and rivets.
His flashy outfit clashed quite deliberately with his father’s imitation of a country gentleman.
“How are you, Rufus?” Wooty said, entering the room and shutting the door behind him. The rubber soles of his boots squeaked on the oft-polished wood for a few steps before he hit the old carpet. He shook hands with the representative. “Please, don’t get up. Enjoy your drink. I think I’ll have a Coke, myself.”
Wooty stood just over six feet. He was square of face and fit in body. His black hair flowed in one long salon wave on top, becoming short at the temples with hardly any sideburns. His brooding, speckled blue eyes were darker than his father’s. A certain cast of his full lips suggested frustration, perhaps disgust, with the life he had led thus far. Yet, even though his high-school quarterbacking days were over, he still had the peremptory, condescending air of a man accustomed to being obeyed, of a star player stuck on a team below his abilities.
Mr. Tadbull’s expression showed that he was proud of his son, of Wooty’s arrogant bearing and arresting good looks.
But Mr. Tadbull said, “Wooty, you look like some gotdamn homeless person. These styles today, Catfish. Got-awful, I tell you. Your pants, son . . . holes and tears in the gotdamn things. I bet they charged you extra for that.” The father shook his head in displeasure. This was obviously a scene repeated in variations over and over again. “And what’s that fairy shirt you got on? I tell you Catfish, once they get a taste of New Or-leenz, they hooked. Wooty, how come you never wear those good-looking wing-tips I bought you in Armageddon?”
“You know how I hate to shine my shoes, Pop,” Wooty said, with sarcasm lost on his father but not on Girn. He sat down in a chair matching Girn’s, released a sigh of heroic forbearance, and had a sip of his soda. “Rufus, I understand you’ve made some progress. Fill us in, why don’t you, before Pop really gets going on me. Ever since that watch of his stopped, he’s been crankier than a newborn. Like I can’t do anything right.”
Girn’s mustache jumped as he limbered up his mouth. “Well, here’s the deal. Them pointy-head Jew pinko faggot Trilateral Freemasons in Washington gave these here Katchatoula Indians—”
“Katogoula, Rufus,” Wooty interjected.
“Whatever,” Girn said, waving his drink in front of him to clear away any further petty objections. “Why this recognition shit happened now, I don’t rightly know. But somebody got paid off real fine, you can bet your ass. I only wish I could take credit for it, but our Washington delegation don’t ever tell me jackshit. Didn’t even get an in-vite to the Mardi Gras ball up there this year.” He worked his jaw around, chewing on this slight. “Anyways, it’s our fault if we let this chance get away from us. First thing is the question of an initial reservation for them Indians. Now I ask you, where the hell they gonna get one, huh?” He paused a moment for effect.
“They poorer than a tick on a dead man’s pecker,” Mr. Tadbull said, on cue.
“’Specially now that your mill’s done so conveniently closed.” Girn turned to Mr. Tadbull, a big, satisfied smirk of complicity stretching his fishy lips.
Mr. Tadbull cleared his throat. He retrieved the screwdriver and began to pry vainly at the watch, avoiding his son’s eyes. Apparently, Girn had brought up a touchy subject.
Wooty forcefully set his glass down on a side table crafted of a slice of pecan trunk supported on a tangle of deer antlers.
“Rufus, I never thought much of that idea,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Sure, I have no problem with making some money out of the Katogoula’s recognition, but I don’t want those people hurt anymore, okay. That’s all I’m asking. We shouldn’t have closed that mill. It was doing okay, providing most of them a pretty good living. I said it then, I say it now, it was wrong.”
“Son, we done explained it all to you,” Mr. Tadbull blurted out, in apologetic exasperation. “Old Catfish and me, we not getting any younger. We don’t got many days to mess around. So, we had to turn up the pressure, that’s all. Rufus heard about the recognition through the grapevine, and closing the mill sounded like the best idea at the time. Remember this, son: when it comes to making money, you can’t go worrying your head over right and wrong.”
“Them Indians can’t hold out long with no jobs or income, now can they?” Girn added. “They got to build this t
hing, and quick. And we’ll just happen to have all our ducks in a row, ready to help ’em out, like the nice folks we are.”
“Gotdamn!” Mr. Tadbull exclaimed. “This casino’s gonna be something else, son. Class 3 gaming! It’s a gotdamn gold mine for us. You watch and see. And the Katogoula’ll jump on it.”
“Like flies to shit,” Girn seconded. “We’re talking yearly revenues of two hundred, maybe three hundred million dollars, Wooty. It’ll draw suckers in from all over the South. And we’ll get a good fat chunk of the net profit!”
“What is it, Rufus,” Mr. Tadbull asked, “thirty percent for our group, and half of that for us? You hear that, boy? Fifteen gotdamn percent! We don’t have to do a gotdamn thing but count the money.” Mr. Tadbull’s tone pleaded for understanding. “Son, I’m only doing this for you, so’s you can have it all when I’m gone. I know you grew up with those Indians. Hunted with them, played that ball game—”
“Stickball,” Wooty said peevishly. He sat hunched forward, contemplating the faded geometry of the fine old Turkish kilim carpet, his hands wedged beneath his thighs, as if to stop them from doing something he’d regret.
“Gotdamn, Catfish. You ought to’ve seen this boy of mine playing with those Indians, knocking each other silly. All bloody and sweating. Sometimes the whole day, twelve hours at a stretch. They had the women with switches beating their men when things got slow. I say that went a long ways to making him into the all-state quarterback he was.”
No one spoke for an awkward minute. Outside, a gang of blue jays noisily harassed some enemy.
“Well, it’s done now, anyway,” Wooty finally said.
Girn swallowed the bourbon he’d been savoring in his mouth. “Boy, your Indians gonna be so rich they can wipe their asses with hundred-dollar bills. And don’t you forget, young fella, not for one minute, that these Krapafoolas are my constituents.” The politician held up his left hand, a solemn swearing-in expression on his face. “I look after those that look after me.”
For nearly two hours, the three men mapped out their strategy to lock in control of the Katogoula casino they were sure the tribe wanted to build. Wooty, apparently having knuckled under to the persuasive talents of his father and the representative, took notes while Girn held forth.
The initial reservation of a hundred acres was to be carved out of Tadbull land and placed in trust with the federal government, as required by law. The tribe would then have the coveted tax-free status that had recently become so controversial, now that tribes across the nation were scooping up unprecedented amounts of gambling revenue that was technically off-limits to governments.
A tribal casino had tremendous resources to plow back into the operation, and to share with non-Indian partners, who salivated at the chance, even though they would owe taxes on their enhanced earnings. But clever things could be done with profit and expense figures to ease that sting since Indian casinos weren’t required to open their books to the public. Governmental sanction, secrecy, huge tax-advantaged cash flow: a no-lose proposition, Girn assured father and son Tadbull.
Even though the current governor was loudly siding with the anti-gambling, Bible-thumping forces, he’d privately communicated to Girn that the state would sign a seven-year compact, with a rollover clause, giving the Katogoula permission to establish reservation gambling. This treaty would also guarantee the state and the parish a nice chunk of the casino profits, “rendered in good faith and voluntarily,” beginning two years after the opening. In fact, either the tribe agreed to pay this back-door tax, and, by the way, to hire the governor’s wife’s law firm for all legal advice, or there would be no treaty, and no casino.
The alternative was unsavory: a lengthy bureaucratic battle, with the state as probable winner, because tribes could no longer sue it in federal court for refusing to negotiate. The Katogoula’s only hope without a state compact would be special intervention by the Secretary of the Interior; but that was big-league politics, and Girn was certain the tribe wasn’t up to that yet.
“Sure enough, we got ’em by their red balls,” the legislator gloated.
As all of these machinations proceeded under Girn’s expert hand, the first of the federal benefits—roughly $300,000 in grants from various agencies—would soon help the tribe set up an administrative structure, and programs for job training, education, housing, and health care.
In stage two, if things worked out, Girn and his cronies would push for the elimination of gambling in the state.
“Eliminate gambling?!” Mr. Tadbull said in utter astonishment.
“That’s ‘gaming,’ Tadbull,” Girn said, winking. “And don’t you forget it. Louisiana constitution tells us we got to suppress gambling, but gaming’s just fine and dandy. So that’s what we called it, gaming. And see what happened? There’s more video poker machines than urinals, and everybody but me’s gettin’ rich. That’s fixin’ to change.”
“Gotdamn, Catfish, I don’t understand,” Mr. Tadbull persisted. “We’re going to all this trouble to bring the casino here in the first place.”
Wooty closed his eyes and shook his head, embarrassment and impatience twisting his mouth into a grimace.
Girn hastened to clear up Mr. Tadbull’s confusion.
The breathless predictions of the benefits of gambling had proved hollow. Retail dollars were disappearing from local economies, gambling addictions were soaring, gambling-related organized crime was spreading like kudzu. Even traditionally blasé Louisiana voters grumbled about video-poker “truck stops” that didn’t sell enough diesel fuel to fill a pickup; about casino riverboats—some without engines—that never sailed, in spite of the asinine requirement to do so, which was soon quietly repealed in a special governor-called legislative session; about a land-based casino fiasco in New Orleans that had cost taxpayers many millions; about videotaped payoffs to legislators in Capitol elevators and bathrooms.
Louisiana, always a laggard in most quality-of-life rankings, had one more dishonor to add to its sleazy reputation: first place on the FBI’s public-corruption list. Suddenly, “ethics” was all the rage in Baton Rouge. Every bill was sure to pass that contained this magic buzzword. A politician with the odor of gambling on his breath could expect his reputation to be flogged in newspaper editorials and his seat to be stolen by any minister willing to pay the filing fee. Because it seemed to be everywhere, video poker was the special target of the anti-gambling movement.
But Girn and his cronies had a trick or two up their sleeves to take advantage of the new moral tone while improving their personal balance sheets: a state constitutional amendment abolishing gambling, and even gaming—except for existing Indian casinos.
The legislators planned to spread fear about probable decimation of local and state economies if the Indian casinos were closed. Business confidence would be shaken by repudiating contracts with the national companies running the tribal casinos. These operations had required huge investments, and unlike video poker machines and riverboats, couldn’t be moved to other markets, the legislators would solemnly point out.
The amendment, as usual in Louisiana, would be so impenetrable, so stealthily handled, that the voters would have no idea of several important provisos until it was too late. The poor fools would think they were immediately voting out all gambling, under every euphemistic guise. And yes, video poker would indeed have to go. A scapegoat.
But actually, any other form of gambling too good to give up, that brought in obscene payoffs or helped balance the profligate budget or pleased a substantial number of powerful vested interests, these could be finessed into legality. Charitable bingo, horse racing, and the lottery, for example, were to be simply reclassified as “tests of skill.”
And thus, Girn explained, established Louisiana Indian casinos would enjoy a relatively protected market—for which favor he fully intended to hit up the other tribes and their corporate partners. Timing was crucial, though. Until the passage of the amendment, Girn’s legislative all
ies would need to kill any conflicting applications for new Indian casinos; there was talk of one or two in the works. No reason to let more competition in under the wire.
Moreover, the amendment had to hang fire until the compact between the state the Katogoula was finalized.
Wooty’s first job was to lock Tommy Shawe and his tribe into an agreement with their group.
“Congratulations, boy. You a lobbyist, now,” Girn told him. “Don’t let a little thing like friendship with that chief of theirs get in your way.”
The Katogoula would have to accept a land transfer that would be structured in the form of an exclusive option. The Tadbulls would donate the land for the initial reservation (assuring a nice tax break), in exchange for the irrevocable right to manage the Katogoula casino. The company that the Tadbulls and Girn would form would then hire an Atlantic City group, which was eager to build and run the casino.
Girn’s legislative pals would receive regular, substantial “campaign contributions” from the Tadbulls, and standing high-roller invitations for “comped” weekends in Atlantic City.
Girn lit a new cigar with a fireplace match and returned to his chair.
“Gotdamn, Catfish,” Mr. Tadbull said, with evident admiration. “You boys down there sure are earning your pay.”
“Ain’t no problem we can’t fix, if ’n we put our minds to it,” Girn bragged. “Worked out a lot of it at the Blue House.”
This was a remodeled residence in a run-down neighborhood of downtown Baton Rouge, a few blocks from the soaring Capitol, Huey Long’s monument to unbridled ego and graft. At the Blue House, lobbyists and legislators met to nail down quids and quos.
