Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi sneezed loudly, sending up a ripple effect over the stack of papers on her desk. It was winter in New Orleans, damp and wet, cold and moldy. She had caught a bad cold and was suffering mightily for it.

"Bless you!" A perky voice from the ground sang cheerily.

"Thanks," Cay grumpily barked back. She poked her head under the desk. "What are you doing down there?"

Mambozo extracted himself from the small space and clumsily jumped up on a file covered chair. "Picking up crumbs. Honestly, love, you are the untidiest eater this side of Memphis. But I love those fallen pastries."

Cayenne fondly stroked Mambozo's head and chucked him under his chicken chin. Mambozo, the talking chicken with a Cuban accent, saved her life once and had settled his sunny, twisted humor into her life, living out of her office and avoiding her dog Roux as much as possible. He often helped her with cases, filling in the bits and pieces of New Orleans history that she would never find in a history book and would never learn as a Northern transplant. As the sole proprietor of Del Roi Investigations, she enjoyed having Mambozo's insight, though she always kept him out of sight when the customers walked through her storefront door. Most new customers would not so taken with poultry parading around an office. Neither was Mambozo keen on letting people know he could talk and was a low priest of voodoo, either.

She was about to talk Mambozo into making some of his good Cuban coffee when she heard the tinkle of the front door. Mambozo flew quickly to the floor and discreetly hid under the desk.

A tall, rugged black man somewhere in his early to mid-fifties entered the small office, filling it with presence. He was dressed to the nines, in a grey striped suit, worn but smartly pressed. He walked ramrod straight as if proud to be walking into a private detective's office with a problem. He carried a medium sized cardboard box under his left arm. With his free right arm, he tipped his stylish hat.

"Good afternoon. Ms. Del Roi, I assume?" He smiled a wide smile that immediately captivated Cay. "I hope you are doing well this afternoon. I've been referred to your services by my good friend Rufus Thibodeauxof the New Orleans Police Department." He spoke his words crisply as he placed the box on the desk. "I'm hoping you might help me with a little task." He extended his hand to shake.

Cayenne pushed out hers in return. "A friend of Rufus's is always welcomed. My name is Cayenne McKenzie Del Roi, Private Investigator."

"Frank Montana."

Cay took his hand and gasped. His handshake was friendly enough, but his skin were the roughest she had ever felt. Glancing down, she saw callouses and scars criss-crossing his palms and fingers. The right index finger looked as if it had been punctured repeatedly. His skin felt like a mound of sandpaper crumpled into a tight, muscular ball, and she could see a ragged scar disappearing far into his coat sleeve.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Montana." She finally found her voice to speak.

"Please call me Mo. And I apologize for my hands. I have worked with them for many years and they're a bit ornery."

She motioned his toward the seat that Mambozo had been strutting on just a few minutes earlier, and cleared several flowing files from the center of her desk. "Please have a seat. What can I do for you?"

"I'm hoping you can help find someone for me and deliver a package. Rufus said you are good at unusual detective work." Rufus was an old friend of the family's who was a detective for the New Orleans Police Department and had taken on the solemn duty of being her father figure since her own father died a few years ago. He often steered business her way.

Cay tried to sound professional as she got down to business.

"First my fee, Mr. Montana. I ask for an upfront fee of…"

"Please call me, Mo. Rufus said he would take care of all the expenses." He passed a business card sporting Rufus's name and direct line to his office at the NOPD. On the back in his distinctive scrawl was writing "Boo, take good care of Mo and send the bill to me… ruf."

Cayenne was stunned. Rufus wasn't cheap, but he of all people knew what a private detective's bill could end up totaling. Cay knew this must be a very special friend.

She grabbed her legal pad of paper to take notes. "Why don't you start from the beginning? Who do you want me to find and what do you want me to deliver?"

"I want you to find my daughter. And when you do, I want you to give her this package." He gestured at the cardboard box on the desk. Cay noticed he avoided her eyes.

Cayenne stood up and made herself as tall as she could. "I'm afraid, Rufus or no, I'm going to have to look in the package. I'm not for hire for delivering illegal contraband."

Mo sat quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. I understand," he said softly. "But what you see here must remain between us even if you decide not to take the job."

He opened the box and gently, almost lovingly folded back well used tissue paper. He revealed what appeared to be a pile of old feathers. As he took it out and fluffed it out gently, Cayenne saw a bedraggled headdress of wilted feathers. The head band was a pattern of yellow flowers with a garish coat of bright yellow paint. Bright blue, red and black beads formed a small mosaic of an odd assortment of knives, flower, flames, and vines. Yellow painted jewels were ringed by sparkly crystals and it looked both intricate and pathetic as it sat limply in Mo's rough hands.

"I know it doesn't look like much," he apologized, "but it is worth a large amount to me and to my tri…family." Cay noticed he stumbled a bit. "I would like my daughter to have it."

He reached into his inside coat pocket, retrieved a picture, and pushed it toward Cayenne. "This is my daughter."

She picked up the picture and gazed upon the face of a very young woman with clear dark skin, attractive braided hair and piercing black eyes.

"I'm not really into the missing persons thing, Mr. Montana. That seems a police matter. I'm surprised that Rufus didn't tell you that himself."

To Cay's surprise, Mo smiled and nodded his head. "That's why I went to Rufus in the first place. I was reluctant, since the police have never done my people much good. But he recommended that for discretion sake's, you would be a better person to put on the job." He looked her straight in the eye. "She's not missing. I just don't know where she is right now. And I don't care to go looking for her."

Cay shook her head. "I'm afraid I'm not following you."

Mo paused, and then said his words in a measured tone. "I used to belong to the Yellow Magnolias of the Ninth Ward." Cay heard a sharp intake of breath under the desk. She gave Mambozo a swift kick. Mo looked intently at Cay for any recognition in her eyes. "Does that mean anything to you?"

She glanced under the desk. Mambozo was mouthing the words, "MARDI GRAS."

Cay relaxed. Mardi Gras was something she knew about. She realized why Rufus had sent Mr. Montana her way. After the events of the last Mardi Gras, Cay was introduced to all the customs of Mardi Gras when trying to solve a mystery of a killer rubboard. Now she was on familiar territory.

"Well, of course, Mr. Montana. I've never heard of the Krewe of Yellow Magnolias, but I belong to a krewe myself. When is your parade? Do you use this headdress in your parade? Or maybe your float? Or do you use it for your ball?"

She started writing down the information. She felt a prick on her leg by Mambozo and let out a yelp. "Sorry" she said, rubbing her leg. Then she noticed that Mr. Montana was looking at her with a bemused smile.

"Many apologies, Ms. Del Roi, but we have no krewe, we have no established parade route, we don't throw a ball, and we have no need of a float. And we don't throw beads, either."

Cay put her pen down. "I guess I still don't understand. Is this some kind of new tradition?"

"Only since the late 1800s. Have you ever heard of the Mardi Gras Indians?"

"Are you like the Zulus?" Cay felt she was grasping at straws. "You know, the guys with the coconuts?" She could almost feel Mambozo rolling his eyes in embarrassment.

Again, the smile. "Well you are getting closer. Poor black folk have never been able to participate in the excesses, the society, and the hoopla of the Mardi Gras Krewes. Quite bluntly, racism never allowed it. That's why the Zulus began, to mock the white folks. They put on black face and threw coconuts at the crowd to make fun. Now, they are one of more popular parades around."

He continued. "The Mardi Gras Indians developed in the poor neighborhoods. They marched for their neighbors, their friends, and their families. They still do. Up until a decade or two ago, our parades were illegal. We were considered gangs."

Mo grimaced. "I prefer our traditional term of Tribe. I guess as long as we don't terrorize the white people, don't knife each other any more and stay out of the way of the King Rex parade, folks don't pay us much mind."

He looked down on the strange item in his hand. "This headdress is part of our history. It's very old. My grandfather told me it dates back well before the original Magnolias started at the turn of the century, all the way back to the Chocktaws."

He smiled again. "My daughter only dates back to 1981."

Cay shuffled uncomfortably in her chair and asked the question she was dreading. "With all due respect, Mr. Montana, how come you don't know where your daughter is? Why don't I try to find her and you can deliver this yourself. This looks like a family heirloom and I guessing she would like to receive it from you."

Mr. Montana gave Cay a harden look, and a flash of fear rolled over her. Then it disappeared as suddenly as it came.

"It is best that my daughter at this time does not know where I am or how to get a hold of me. It is for her own safety." Mo placed the headdress back in the box.

Cay continued her interview, getting the names and addresses of friends. He didn't have a lot of information to give her.

"My daughter Eliah has been seeing a young man named Raynaldo. I do not know his last name. I believe that he spends time with the Marching Arrows." He stood up and straightened his coat. "I do not approve of her dating a member out of the tribe, and I do believe that this young man will break her heart some day. But there's none too many young people interested in the old ways these days, so I guess fathers don't have the final say." Mo seemed resigned. "I'm out of touch with the wards these days, so I don't know much how to reach them."

"Not a problem. With the internet and the phone book, you can find anything," Cay said, reassuringly.

Again, a sharp prick to her shin from below the desk.

Mr. Montana tipped his hat again to Cay with an amused look. "These organizations don't usually put an advertisement in the Yellow Pages, but perhaps I am mistaken. You are, of course, the detective."

He extended his rough, calloused hand once more and shook Cay's, holding it firmly, almost meaningfully. "I hope you can help me, Ms. Del Roi. There's a lot at stake here. That package means a lot to my whole family."

He walked toward the door and halfway between the door and the desk, he stopped and turned around. Cay saw him look toward the floor. She suddenly realized that Mambozo had come out from the desk and was in plain view looking at Mr. Montana.

Cay was horrified. Mambozo knew better.

She was even more shocked when Mambozo dipped his head in a little bow and said, "Me humbah."

Mr. Montana looked stunned, then pleased, then very worn. He dipped his head slightly in a bow as well. He said in a low musical voice, sounding like the wind of the Caribbean, "Boonaro."

Again, Mambozo dipped his head and answered back. "Boonaro"

When Mr. Montana had passed out the door and the bell tinkle had faded, Mambozo turned around and looked at Cayenne. He put his little chicken lips together and emitted a low whistle. "Love, you don't have a clue who that was, do you?"

Cay was still in shock. "What the hell is this 'me humbah' stuff? What did he say to you?"

"Boonaro. It's an old Indian phrase." Mambozo said. "And you could have done with a little humbah yourself. You were just talking to the Big Chief of the Wild Indian Tribe of the Yellow Magnolias, grand nephew of Tootie Montana, and a member of the most notorious tribe of the 70's and 80s. You never even offered him coffee."

He clucked his little chicken cluck and shook his head.

"What do they teach you up North?"

Coming January 9, 2005:
CHAPTER TWO: Rocking and Bowling.

Copyright by Aileen M. McInnis, 2005. All Right Reserved