"I didn't think there were many Indians around here any more." Cay said, taking a cautious sip on her steaming coffee cup. "Besides, he looked too black to be an Indian."

Mambozo had made good strong Cuban coffee, and Cay rolled the warm cup in her cold hands as she puzzled aloud the visit of Mo Montana.

Mambozo clucked. "Many people in New Orleans don't know much about the Mardi Gras Indians either, so I'm going to cut you some slack." He settled into the slightly condescending tone he affected when took it upon himself to instruct Cayenne in some tradition in this strange part of the world.

"The Mardi Gras Indians have been around a long time, but their roots go even deeper. Forget what you think you know about the Mardi Gras when it comes to the Indians," Mambozo said, again clucking and shaking his little head. "The Carnival path and the Wild Indian path rarely crossed because of the color line that haunts this city. While white society was developing the Mystick Krewe of Comus and partying with the Duke of Russia, black folks were barely out of slavery. You can bet they were still cooking and nursing the babies while the krewes were parading."

Mambozo smiled. "But black folk know a little something about dancing and celebrating. Here in New Orleans, before Emancipation, the slaves were allowed to meet on Sunday down at what was known as Congo Square to sing and dance. They would drum and sing their songs they brought from Africa and forget their troubles for awhile.

"There were lots of bad times during those days. There were more and more slave rebellions in the mid 1800's." Mambozo took another sip of coffee. "It came to pass that the slaves weren't allowed to gather no more because folks were afraid of them. Except for Mardi Gras, that is. New Orleans even then made an exception for Mardi Gras. After slavery was gone, folks continued to gather on Sundays to practice for Mardi Gras and they developed their own Carnival traditions."

"I still don't get the Indian connection." Cay said, shaking her head.

Mambozo nodded his head. "Back when a slave would run, often he would find a refuge with the Indians, like the Choctaws, the Chickasaws, and the Opelousas. Guess they knew what it was like to be the bottom of the heap. Anyway, many of the slaves married into the tribes."

"When the free blacks started their own way of celebrating, they named their krewes after Indian tribes. There is a West African tradition to dress like those whom you respect. So it was a sign of respect for the Indians who accepted slaves when they ran and gave them a place to stay. After the Wild Bill show came through town in the late 1800's, black folk started dressing up like Indians complete with war whoops and fancy costumes. 'Masking Indian' they call it. Looking at the Mardi Gras Indians, you might think the Sioux Indians plunked themselves smacked down in the middle of the 17th Ward except the faces are black and every is dancing to a funkier beat, their feathers are colored brighter than the sun, and everyone is eating Southern grits and red beans."

He stopped to pose a question. "You know that song Iko, Iko that every bar band does in town?"

Cay nodded.

"That's a Mardi Gras Indian song. It was made famous nationally by the Dixie Cups back in the Sixties, but every New Orleans kid grew up hearing that one."

"Sound like a lot of fun. I like this part of Mardi Gras," Cay said, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Now, love, don't go showing up in some little cowboy skirt and hat and a Roy Rogers attitude. You could get yourself killed."

"Why?"

"Back in the early 20th century, the Mardi Gras Indians used to be real, real secret. Nobody masked unless he was a really bad dude. The Indians protected their neighborhood and you didn't go where you didn't belong. Mamas weren't proud when their sons wanted to mask."

"That why people call them gangs." Cay remembered Mo's comment.

"That's right, love. Used to be on Mardi Gras Day, the police were so stretched so thin that it became a opportune time to settle old scores. 'Kiss your wife, hug your momma and sharpen your knife' an old chief used to say. Until recently, the police would come and break up the parades and the competition for fear there would be a fight.

"About the 1940's, the tribes finally figured out that if they kept killing each other, no one would be left. So they started fighting out their battles in who sang the best and who had the best outfits." Mambozo chuckled, "Being the prettiest, they called it."

"The Indians only march on Mardi Gras Day and again on St. Joseph's Day, though now you can see them down at the Jazz Festival. The chief decides the parade route as he marches and they don't bother with permits and notifying the city. When they meet another tribe, they have a show down. But now they compete being pretty and in singing. The chief makes his own outfit, trying to outshine the other Big Chief. No one sees it but his family until the day of competition. It can take an Indian all year to make it. And then he tears it down and builds a whole new one for the next year."

Cay remembered Mr. Montana's hands. She nodded, "That is why Mo's hands were so scarred and calloused. That was from sewing."

Mambozo nodded. "Mardi Gras through the eye of a needle. The outfits are expensive. Thousands of dollars. But you never saw such fine feathers. Uptown uses lots of beads. Downtown uses feathers and sequins. Big Chiefs have to sew their way to the top of the tribe. They still are bad dudes, they just fight by trash talking, preening and singing, trying to make the other tribe back down first. As they parade through the neighborhood, the Spy Boy keeps an eye out for other Indians. When paths cross, the competition begins. Spy Boy to Spy Boy, Flag Boy to Flag Boy, and finally Big Chief against Big Chief. Every body has a role. They fight to make the other tribe humbah. Humbah means you bow down and recognize your opponent is greater than you."

"What do you know about the Yellow Magnolias?" Cay asked.

Mambozo answered in a quiet voice. "They were the fiercest, the prettiest, and the most secretive Indians in town. No one messed with the Yellow Magnolias. They won more showdowns than lost. Many folks were hurt back then, what with knifings and fighting. But Mo went up state to Angola Prison for a long time and the tribe hasn't been seen for a decade. Looks like he's back. Maybe that's how Rufus knows him."

"Prison? Mo just got out of prison?" Cay yelped, spilling the rest of her coffee on her lap.

The sharp shrill of the phone interrupted the history lecture and coffee shower. Cay answered and recognized the perpetually breathless voice of her best friend Marcy.

"Hey, where y'at?" Marcy didn't wait for an answer. "Want to go with me to the Rock 'n' Bowl tomorrow night? Zydee Bob Beaux is sitting in with Alfonso Delacroix and the Swamp Rockers. You know I'm crazy about him! Come on, they give zydeco dance lessons ahead of time and I could finally get you dancing."

"Sure, sure. Sounds fun. Hey, do you know any Mardi Gras Indians?" Cay asked.

"Not personally. I've only seen them once, when I got caught in traffic over on Felicity. They practically marched over the top of my car, making me stop to let the tribe parade through. Those costumes are to die for. All those feathers in those bright colors. Mm mm mm." Marcy paused to take a quick breath. "Hey, I think that Zydee Bob has something to do with that all. I saw him second lining in that same parade."

"Second line?"

You know, that's all the riff raff that follows along the parade and dance. It's the best place to be in the parade, unless you are leading it with a big flambeaux. Why all the sudden interest in the Indians?"

"A new case I'm working on. Doing some background research on someone who is connected with the Mardi Gras Indians."

"Well, I'll talk to Zy and see if he can help us out. You can ask him in person, too, tomorrow night."

**************************************************************

The lessons were over by the time Cay made it to the Rock 'n' Bowl in midtown. As she opened the door to the club, she could hear the heavy bass beat and saucy accordion of Alfonso Delacroix and his band. She also heard the crash of bowling balls into the pins as bowlers and partiers filled the lanes. Cay laughed as she climbed the stairs. Where else could you throw a few lanes, dance a zydeco two-step, and wash it all down with a couple of weak beers?

"Throw a lane," Cay said it out loud and laughed. Her Chicago background was showing. She reached the top of the stairs, paid her fee and looked around the place to get her bearings.

"Cayenne! Over here."

She saw Marcy frantically waving her over to a table near the band. Cay made her way through the dancers. As she walked along the narrow edge of lane that remained along the dance floor, she look up to the stage and her eyes met those of Zydee Bob Beaux. He was playing the rubboard, making it look smooth and sexy. Alfonso Delacroix was wailing on the piano accordion and behind him the Swamp Rockers played out and infectious groove. Zy nodded at her as she passed and Cay felt her heart skip a beat. She hoped that Zy forgave her for helping to put his brother Beaux in jail during the last Mardi Gras. Old grudges can die hard.

As she worked her way toward the table, Marcy removed her coat from the chair that she had been saving next to her. Cayenne plopped herself down at the table.

"I talked to Zy and told him you were interested in the Indians," Marcy shouted in her ear, over the high wailing vibrato of the Alfonso's accordion. "He was pretty reluctant to let me know anything since it was you who were asking. With some persuasion I finally got him to tell me that the drummer is with a tribe. He said something about the Marching Arrows."

Marching Arrows! Cay felt she hit the jack pot. "I'm impressed, girlfriend. That's a lot of information to get in such a short time."

"Well, actually, I saw him last night at the Pon Pon's and bought him a couple beers after the dance. He was most generous with information." Marcy demurely sipped her beer. "But he said that we shouldn't be too pushy. He said I should do the talking, because your Yankee accent tends to spook people."

It wasn't until after the third set that Cay, a little drunk on Lite Beer and dizzy from countless jitterbugs, saw a look pass between Marcy and Zy. It was a definite head wag that meant, "Meet me in the back." Another look directed toward Cay also sent a message. "And you, keep your mouth shut."

Marcy led the way to the back of the stage and Cay followed, dodging dancers and drunk patrons. As Cayenne tried to focus on keeping her lips glued to each other, she noticed an intense looking black man about 30 years of age watching her as he stood near the railing separating the bowling lanes from the dance floor. He was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, but he looked out of place amongst the dancers. She looked him right in the eye. He gave her the barest of nods in return.

Cay stopped, wondering if she knew this man. Marcy noticed her pause. She grabbed her arm to pull her along. "C'mon, Cay. Let's go."

She looked back at the man. He was no longer looking in her direction, but watching the bowlers.

Marcy tugged on her sleeve again, pulling her into a back hallway leading to a small, stuffy room. It was a makeshift break room for the band. The room smelled of stinky bowling shoes and was piled with cracked balls, broken furniture, and old band posters. Zy sat in an old broken chair propped up on an empty wooden crate, and next to him, a twitchy young man sat on a drummer's stool drinking a beer.

"Darling," Zy smiled when Marcy entered the room. He popped up out of his shaky seat and gave her a big wet kiss. Cay made a mental note to ask Marcy what really happened the night before, but her thoughts were interrupted, when Zy gave her a quick, sweaty hug as well. His look, however, was unmistakable. Cayenne was on a short leash.

"This is my friend Marcy," Zy presented her to the other musician, who sat up straight on his tool in obvious interest. "Marcy, this is Tags. Rhythm is his game."

Marcy extended her hand and stepped closer. "You guys are great. The Swamp Rockers are the best band this place hires."

Tags smiled and ran an appraising eye over Marcy. He barely looked at Cay. She bit her lip and kept silent.

Zy sat back down and pulled Marcy into his lap. "Tags, Marcy is interested in learning more about the Marching Arrows. Any chance of seeing a sing?"

"Man, no problem," Tags said, a big smile on his face. "We are pushing toward Super Sunday and we're practicing every weekend. Stop by Dash's Bar over in Gert Town this weekend. Let 'em know you are with Tags if you catch heat."

"Thanks, Tags. I'll look forward to it." Marcy gave a sexy look in the drummer's direction. "Can I bring my friend here?"

He hardly looked at Cay. "Sure, darling. I'll be looking for you."

Cay and Marcy stayed for two more sweaty dances before deciding to call it a night. They called a Crescent City cab and slipped down the stairs into the dark, damp night.

"Marcella!" Cay chastised Marcy as the cab pulled up in front of the Rock 'n' Bowl and they climbed in the back seat. "You are enjoying my detective work just a little too much. That was quite a show up there."

"Darling, you catch more flies with Southern honey than with sharp Yankee wit. We got ourselves an invitation. What more do you want?" Marcy asked with a mischievous smile.

Cay did not answer. As the cab pulled away from the building, she saw the same man who had been watching her earlier inside standing in the shadow of the building. She looked in the rear view mirror of the cab and saw him light a cigarette as he intently watched the cab pull out on to Carrollton Avenue.

Coming January 12, 2005:
CHAPTER THREE: The Marching Arrows

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