Free Jackpot Blood: A Nick Herald Genealogical Mystery by Jimmy Fox

stipulated that tribal income earned from reservation sources could not be taxed; individual Indians paid income tax, like all Americans, but most reservation-derived income was exempted, with the exception of per-capita distributions of casino profits, a big gray area that cloaked constant experimentation—critics called it questionable accounting—by tribes partnered with non-Indian casino companies.
    Chief Claude was one of the first American Indians to realize the potential of the tribal-tax-exemption loophole when combined with the landmark 1988 legislation, which required states to negotiate the issue of reservation gambling. In succeeding years, he led his tribe from small-time weekend bingo to big-league casino profits.
    “My genealogist friend here,” Chief Claude said, “is one of our great weapons against the envy of the white man. He helps us in our rebirth. We call Nick the Midwife-of-Yesterday Man.”
    Nick had never been overly fond of the title. But in spite of the slight revulsion he felt at being the midwife of anything—the sight of blood made him queasy—as a former teacher of literature he admired the chief ’s evocative style.
    Tommy had lapsed into a reverie over his coffee cup. He shifted in his chair and sat up straighter. “Chief Claude—”
    “‘Chief ’ implies power that’s hereditary or oligarchic,” the older man interrupted. Nick knew him to be unflappable, sometimes irritatingly dogmatic and didactic, but good natured in even the hottest debate. “These days we’re democratic. I’m elected, and any adult can be. Your tribe ought to be set up the same way, like a business with a board of directors accountable to the stakeholders. People are supposed to call me ‘chairman,’ but nobody does.”
    Nick said, “It’s a sign of respect, Chief.”
    “Respect, my foot!” the chief exclaimed. “You ought to sit in at one of our council meetings.”
    The three men laughed.
    “As far as your business analogy goes,” Nick said, “the titles ‘chairman’ and ‘CEO’ have become synonymous with ‘crook’ in my mind. Every time I look at my IRA statement, I feel less like a stakeholder and more like a ‘shameholder’! You might want to stick with ‘chief,’ after all.”
    This amiable interlude seemed to help Tommy vocalize what was on his mind.
    “It’s all sort of overwhelming,” he said. “I mean, I’ve worked in a lumber mill all my life, and now I’m supposed to be, well, the chairman. How do I get started? I’m not really sure we
are
a tribe, now that the government says we’re one. Some of my people are having secondthoughts. They’re saying recognition isn’t a good thing. Especially since my brother was”—he looked down at his work-toughened hands—“since Carl died. I’ve had some requests to get our congressmen to reverse the recognition bill. Most of us didn’t even know about the old pending application.”
    Chief Claude grinned at Nick. “We Louisiana Indians are a superstitious bunch. You mix the old Indian ways with Catholicism, see what you get? A mighty jumpy critter, that’s for sure. They had a meeting, Nick. It was a slim margin to go on with establishing a proper tribe and start looking into building a casino.”
    “Irton and Grace Dusong broke the tie,” said Tommy.
    “That close, was it? I remember good old Irton from Korea. Nick, we used one of our ancient languages,
Yama
—the Mobilian Jargon, you whites call it. Used it to talk in code over the radio, like the Navaho Marine Code Talkers of World War II. Except we never got as good a press as they did. Maybe you can write up one of your articles on us.” A twinkle in his eyes, he turned to Tommy. “How’d you vote, son?”
    “For, of course,” Tommy stated, slightly offended. “But my wife, she voted against. Brianne’s kind of a headstrong girl, worries about what gambling will teach our kids about life.”
    “They should learn from all of this,” Chief Claude