Jackpot Blood: A Nick Herald Genealogical Mystery (20 page)

“I never looked myself, never much cared, but I think you can have a better conversation with my Chenerie cousins up there, in Oklahoma, like I said. They’re probably all Choctaw by now. If any are left.”

He pointed northwest—Nick supposed, for he had no idea otherwise. Nooj would know compass directions intuitively, as part of his job, as part of his heritage. He knew the lay of the land as well as any duck that cupped its wings to land in this major stop on the Central Flyway, a knowledge passed down through generations.

“Thanks. You’ve been a big help,” Nick said.

A bit of an overstatement. Nooj had been long on generalities, short on specifics. It would be exceedingly difficult to get beyond his Chenerie grandfather, if the family lore proved true. But at least now Nick had
a specific tribe and a general location for his search of the bewildering number of Indian censuses and other Indian records the U.S. government had compiled since the early nineteenth century.

“Your mother’s family is well represented in parish censuses locally and in Chitiko-Tiloasha tribal censuses from the 1840s and on,” Nick said. “The Bellarmines consistently state that they’re Katogoula, even when they’re living with another tribe in another part of the state.”

“Would’ve been easier if they’d just lied and said they were Chitiko-Tiloasha,” Nooj said. “They could’ve gotten on the tribe’s official roll, pocketed a nice handout, maybe taken some allotment land. But the strong ones in my family’ve never been much on selling out. Either side.”

“Don’t worry,” Nick said, “you’re a bona fide Katogoula. What we already know about your mother’s line proves that.”

“I’m not worried. I know what I am,” Nooj replied.

“Yeah. I can see that. But I’ll keep working on your paternal line. Thoroughness—that’s what I’m getting paid for. . . . I wonder, would there be anything useful for me in the tribal cemetery in the forest? Can you take me?”

Nooj shrugged. “Sure. You won’t find any graves more than about a hundred years old. Katogoula didn’t use the white’s burial practices before then. We were still mound builders. I’ll show you the mounds, if you want; but those don’t come with headstones.”

A small gibe to put him back in his place as a permanent outsider, Nick supposed.

“The cemetery’s on state forest land, but the mounds are private property.”

“Tadbull property?” Nick asked.

“Um-hmm,” Nooj confirmed through a last puff of his cigarette. He crushed out the glowing end with fingertips as tough as leather.
Smoke streamed from his nostrils. “Call me when you’re ready to go out there. Keeping tourists safe is my job, too.”

He handed Nick a business card, and without another word walked to the edge of the porch and hopped down two feet to the ground. He strode into the dark woods, making no sound on the carpet of fallen pine needles.

Nick pocketed the card and entered the quiet, empty dining room, wondering about the Tadbulls, who seemed to pop up in most conversations delving into Katogoula history.

CHAPTER 14

H
urrying to their next road-show venue, the Las Vegans had departed Three Sisters Pantry. Most of the tribe members had left, as well.

The Shawe twin boys, possessing apparently inexhaustible energy, chased each other with fallen pine branches on, off, and under the front porch. Their mother, Brianne, visible through the store windows, cradled her sleeping infant and chatted with Luevenia and Royce at the cash register.

Two men stood beside a car in the middle of the nearly deserted parking lot. Above them, a mercury-vapor light on an aluminum arm arched out from a pine tree and cast a bone-white glare around them.

Dodging the darting twins, Nick deposited his briefcase in his car and headed for the two men, an easy stone’s throw away. He recognized one man and had no doubt who the other was.

Tommy Shawe talked with a mahogany giant. Strongly disagreeing or denying, Tommy shook his head repeatedly. The big man reached in a pants pocket and handed Tommy something that caught the light momentarily. Tommy held the item in a tight grasp before carefully depositing it in his own pocket. The big man propped one massive arm on the open door of a white police-model Chevrolet, emergency lights on the inside.

“Sangfleuve Parish—Sheriff,” Nick read on the car door.

The big man Nick presumed to be Sheriff Higbee wore a businessman’s semi-casual clothes—large ones, to get around his three-hundred-plus-pound body: button-down, long-sleeve striped shirt, neatly pressed and unencumbered by a tie; dark-gray pleated trousers; and dressy Rockports of double-digit size.

Nick’s first impression suggested that the sheriff was a self-assured, dynamic man aspiring to higher positions than chief ribbon-cutter of a parish in the sticks.

Higbee wasn’t packing a gun, Nick could see as he got closer—at least not a visible one. Why should he? Sheer physical intimidation was probably sufficient in most tense situations, and in others that weren’t destined to end violently, words—a politician’s weapon of choice—would do the trick. The sheriff ’s badge gleamed on his belt. That, too, struck Nick as an unnecessary reminder of authority: who wouldn’t know this walking mountain of a man?

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Jonathan Nicholas Herald, genealogist extraordinaire,” the sheriff said in a booming voice that shattered the nuanced sighs of the forest night. His tone was full of jovial sarcasm, but the beaming political grin put Nick at ease as the man’s large hand surrounded his. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Herald. I take the
Times-Picayune
. Seems like you’re regular front-page material in New Orleans. NOPD won’t make a move without consulting with you first, I hear.”

Nick’s body shook as the sheriff pumped his arm a few times.

“A left-handed compliment, but I’ll take it,” Nick said. “Genealogy’s usually a pretty sedate field. But, hey, I do what I have to do. It’s a living, you know.”

“Not for some of your clients,” the sheriff countered. “Seems like when you point to somebody’s family tree, it gets struck by lightning.”
His practiced smile and probing stare waited for a reply Nick didn’t offer.

“This is Sheriff John Higbee,” Tommy broke in to say. “But I guess you already figured that out.” Tommy’s preoccupied eyes wandered to the darkness as he lost the thread of the introduction.

Tommy’s good humor was more anxious and forced than it had been earlier in the evening. The two men apparently were friends, but unsettling words must have passed between them before Nick arrived. Maybe Brianne, Luevenia, and Chief Claude were right to be concerned about how Tommy was handling all of this. He looked a bit dazed, but determined to retain control of himself, like a drunk man trying to act sober. Nick considered the possibility that Tommy might have a drinking problem.

After an awkward moment he himself didn’t seem to notice, Tommy said, “Big John, we call him. You remember, Nick, he played defense for LSU awhile back? Intercepted a pass in the conference semi-finals and ran it for the winning touchdown.”

“Oh sure,” Nick lied. “Who could forget
that
?”

Tommy leaned closer to Nick, in mock secrecy. “Just don’t call him ‘boy,’ and you’ll get along fine. Last guy who did is missing a few teeth. And he was the coach.”

“Now hold on, Tommy, you’re giving Mr. Herald the wrong idea, and some wrong facts. I hit the
assistant
coach, and it wasn’t anything racial. He wouldn’t put me in another big game. That’s all it was. You know as well as me this is the
new
Louisiana, where a black man can get elected sheriff right in the middle of redneck country.”

Tommy managed a self-conscious laugh. “Yeah, Big John. Sure.
Everything
is racial in Louisiana, and don’t tell Nick no different? The state where the only thing worse than being Indian is being black. John’s main opponent in the election was a senile old white man who’d been
sheriff going on fifty years. Only reason Big John got elected was the old geezer died during the runoff.”

“And it was still close!” Higbee exclaimed. “Some folks preferred to vote for a dead white man instead of a live black one.
Blazing Saddles
always was one of my favorite movies.”

“’Round here, Nick,” Tommy said, “they wouldn’t put white and dark meat chicken in the same bucket until a few years ago. Big John sure got lucky in that election.”

“No,” Higbee declared, “I got Katogoula power. My family and this tribe go back a long ways, back to the bad old times of slavery and segregation. When I was young and radical, I marched with ’em down at the Capitol, in the late seventies or early eighties, I think it was, huh, Tommy?”

“It was several times we protested to support civil rights and the unions, thinking it would help with the recognition. Didn’t do shit. They left us high and dry when they got what
they
wanted. The big one that got all the press attention was 1984. I remember ’cause my parents let me take off grammar school to ride our buses down there, and I heard them speak highly of you later during your LSU glory days, when you were in the paper a lot.”

“Yep, Katogoula power,” Big John said, patting Tommy on the shoulder, “that’s what put me over the top. And I’ll never forget it. That’s partly why I’m out here tonight. I don’t take kindly to someone knocking off my loyal supporters. Now that I’ve asked my friend Tommy, here, a few questions, I got one or two things to ask you, Mr. Herald.”

“Me?” Nick said, choking slightly on the word. When would he learn not to expect a normal conversation with a cop, even a seemingly nice guy like Big John Higbee?

“Yep. Tommy, I think Brianne and the kids are about ready to go home. You look plum tuckered out, yourself.” It was a gentle dismissal
from a skilled manipulator. “You let me know if you see anything funny going on around your place. Y’all drive careful; it’s late. And watch your ass, you hear?”

“Got my shotgun in the rack, Big John,” Tommy said, with the slight hesitation of a man who would never fire first at an assailant. “Nick, can you use a guide tomorrow?”

“Could I ever!” Nick answered, relieved. “I’d like to start working with the courthouse records in Armageddon, but I’ll just end up lost again. All these trees start to look the same after an hour or two.”

He was grateful for the cool, humid openness of the parking lot, recalling the disoriented despair he’d experienced a few hours earlier among the dense pines. Like a Greek chorus witnessing the struggles of a doomed character on stage, the trees had watched him, their enigmatic prophecies soughing in high branches.

“The Katogoula once knew how to listen to the forest,” Tommy said dreamily, his tentative easy spirit now gone. “Each tree, the sky, the clouds, the ground . . . they all spoke to us.” His hand made a quick pass across his face. “Listen to me. I must be tireder than I thought. . . . Nick, tomorrow at eight okay by you?”

They agreed eight was fine; Tommy would take him to Armageddon, the parish seat, site of the courthouse, and, Nick hoped, the home of a trove of useful genealogical records.

“I like his style,” the sheriff said, as Tommy gathered his family and loaded them into the truck. “He’s got backbone, knows when to make a stand, when to back off. He cares about folks. Maybe too much. He’ll be a good chief.”

“‘Tribal president,’ Nick said. “They’re organizing things according to the Chitiko-Tiloasha model. Decisions democratically voted on, the president or chairman basically first among equals. Lots of checks and balances.”

Nick and the sheriff waved as the Shawes drove off in their old truck.

“Is that right?” said Big John. “You sure know an awful lot about Indian stuff, Nick.” The admiration in his tone sounded devious.

Without apology, the sheriff had slid easily into familiarity. Clearly he was used to directing conversations toward destinations he chose, Nick concluded. How many criminals had he cracked with that disarming affability?

“I can do a competent Indian ancestor search. You interested in hiring me? Lots of black and white Americans have Indian blood and don’t even know it. Especially around here, I would imagine.”

“No, thank you just the same. But let me ask you, how much you know about ancient Indian hunting methods?”

Odd question
. This wasn’t a genealogical inquiry; it was detective work. The sheriff studied Nick’s face intently as he waited for the reply.

“Only what I’ve read in passing,” Nick said. “Anything specific on your mind?”

“How about the atlatl, the old Indian spear thrower?”

“Oh, you mean the weapon that killed Carl Shawe?”

Big John shook his head and scratched one stubbled brown cheek. “Should’ve known you’d pick up on details of the case. The NOPD detectives I talked to warned me about you. But they said I could probably trust you, call on you to help. And that’s what I’m doing.”

So, he’d vetted him. Nick wondered if the sheriff had talked with Shelvin Balzar, a newly minted detective on the New Orleans force and a friend of Nick’s. They’d met a few years before during a case involving deadly secrets lurking within the history of Shelvin’s family.

“Yep,” the sheriff continued, “Carl Shawe was nailed to a cypress knee with an atlatl spear. Went right through his neck. Just like that.” Big John snapped thick fingers. “I tell you, though, that wasn’t the worst way
to check out, even if it was one of the strangest. I seen some pretty bad deaths in my uniform and detective days, down in Baton Rouge and over in Armageddon. Drownings, burnings, beatings, shootings, stabbings, overdoses, a couple of lynchings, even.”

A one-eyed pickup ambled down the road, mud tires thrumming loudly. Conversation would have to wait for a few seconds. Big John’s attention turned inward. Nick’s thoughts turned to the sheriff.

This man had seen the most awful aspects of human nature, but he fought on, determined to make a difference. His heroism lay in knowing that he could never truly win against evil. Nick had already learned that Big John earned a law degree while working on the force in Baton Rouge. And though Nick was fonder of flesh-eating bacteria than lawyers, he couldn’t help admiring the sheriff ’s drive. Sheriff Higbee’s political ambition was not an end in itself, Nick suspected, but a means to do good. A rare bird in Louisiana.