Randy White - Everglades

DeAntoni shrugged, ignoring the suggestion, then changed the subject to wrestling.

I could see Tomlinson in the rearview mirror, chuckling, not the least bit offended, enjoying the man, his quirkiness.

We drove past Monroe Station and the dirt road turnoff to Pinecrest, then into the Big Cypress Preserve. At Fifty Mile Bend, in the shadows of tunneling cypress, we approached the cottage that is Clyde Butcher’s photo gallery. Tomlinson said why not stop in, say hello, take a look at some of the great man’s black-and-white masterpieces, Clyde was a hiking buddy of his.

DeAntoni replied sarcastically, “You got a swamp hermit buddy who’s an artsy-fartsy photographer? That’s a hell of a surprise,” and kept driving.

We didn’t slow again until we entered the Miccosukee Indian Reservation east of Forty Mile Bend-beige administrative buildings among pole huts, airboats, brown-on-white Ford Miccosukee Police cars-then the Florida deco tourist attractions, Frog City and Cooperstown.

At the intersection of the Tamiami Trail and 997, DeAntoni got his first look at the Miccosukee Hotel and Casino. It was in the middle of nowhere, elevated above the river of grass, fifteen or twenty stories high.

The casino was a massive stucco geometric on the Everglades plain, abrupt as a volcanic peak, painted beige, blue, Navajo red. It had a parking lot the size of a metropolitan airport. The lot was already half full at a little before noon on this Saturday. Lots of charter buses and pickup trucks.

“GAMING AND ENTERTAINMENT,” DeAntoni said, reading the marquee. “Now, that’s one place I wouldn’t mind stopping. Back in New York, I’d drive to Cornwall-the Mo hawks got a pretty nice casino there. Best one’s in Connecticut, though, a place called Foxwood Resort, run by the Pequots. You think this Miccosukee place is big? This place ain’t nothing compared to Foxwood. It’s the biggest casino in the world. They take in one billion dollars a year.”

Tomlinson whistled, then said, “Far out, man. A billion? You’ve got to be exaggerating.”

“Nope. I read it in the Times and the Post, too.”

“I knew it was big, but not that big.”

“Bigger than anything in Vegas. A clean one billion a year, and they’re proud of it-which I don’t blame ’em for. Man, they got three or four hotels, golf courses, more than twenty restaurants, everything open twenty-four hours a day, and the state doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it. No say at all. Not even taxes, ’cause they’re Indians. They even got their own police department.”

He glanced away from the steering wheel to speak to me. “Why is that? Why do Indians get to open casinos, but regular people can’t? I never checked into it.”

“I’m not sure myself.” I looked over my shoulder. “Let’s ask the expert.”

Still smiling, Tomlinson answered, “I’m allowed to speak? I don’t want to irritate our driver.”

DeAntoni said, “Your weird talk, that’s the only thing that drives me nuts. Gambling and casinos-that’s something I like. If you got something to say.”

Tomlinson told him, “I know something about it. I have lots of Skin friends-that’s what they call themselves. As in Redskins. The AIM people, man, I was really into their act, occupying Wounded Knee and Alcatraz. The American Indian Movement. The best of their warriors are still out there, fighting their asses off. The right to run gaming businesses, casinos, that’s all part of the movement.”

He said, “The Skins call it the New Buffalo-casinos, I mean. Tribes used to depend on the buffalo for survival. Get it? Gaming houses are what they depend on now. It’s become the same thing. A way for the tribes, their families and children, to live, stay healthy.”

I turned and gave Tomlinson a warning look-he tends to ramble and this was not a good time to ramble. But he’s also quick to catch on. So he straightened immediately and gave us the concise version. He explained that Indian reservations are on federal trust land, governed only by federal or tribal laws. States have no jurisdiction over Indian reservations, unless jurisdiction is specifically authorized by Congress.

In this way, reservations are actually sovereign nations. Unless prohibited by federal law, each Indian nation can decide for itself what gaming may be conducted. Gaming, not gambling, which is considered a dirty word by those involved.

Tomlinson said, “Back in the nineteen eighties, when the state of California tried to screw over the Cabazon tribe, that’s what really got the ball rolling. There were less than seventy people left in that little tribe, almost extinct. This little ghost band, out there on the rez, not bothering anybody.

“So what happens? State bureaucrats tell them they can’t play bingo on their own rez. Old ladies sitting around smoking, watching Ping-Pong balls fly up the chute. Their thrill for the week. But then the U.S. Supreme Court said, screw you, California, individual states have no say over Indian land. Which is when the idea for Indian casinos started booming.”

But that wasn’t the end of the controversy, Tomlinson added. Concerned about the Cabazon decision, Congress passed the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act of 1988 (IGRA), attempting to balance the interest between the state and tribal sovereignty.

Tomlinson said, “Roughly, what that law says is, Indian tribes have the exclusive right to regulate gaming activity on Indian lands. The state can’t say crap unless all forms of gambling are prohibited statewide. For instance, here in Florida, we’ve got a bunch of state lotteries to generate income because we’ve got no state income tax. So IGRA says it’s hypocritical and illegal for the state to interfere with gambling on sovereign Indian territory.”

I said, “That’s how the ’Glades Indians got into the gambling business. I didn’t know.”

“The Seminoles, man. Yeah, they were the first. Their chief at the time, James Billie, he was a genius. An old Vietnam combat vet, and he didn’t take any shit. But, in Florida, the Skins have always had to fight.”

As an example, Tomlinson told us that, for more than two hundred years, the state and federal government refused to officially recognize the Florida Miccosukee as a tribe.

Every twelve months, Miccosukee leaders filed petitions with the Bureau of Indian Affairs for “tribal confirmation.” Every twelve months, their petition was denied.

In the 1960s, the Miccosukee came up with a brilliant finesse. They sent a tribal delegation to Cuba where Fidel Castro signed documents recognizing the tribe as “a duly constituted government and a sovereign nation.” It assured them of international legal status.

Embarrassed, the U.S. government had no choice but to finally “confirm” the Miccosukee as a tribe.

“Florida hasn’t made it easy for any of them,” Tomlinson told us. “Back in ninety-one, the Seminoles had to sue the state in federal court because Florida refused to abide by IGRA statutes. The state insists it has the right to regulate gaming, so the Skins were all pissed off-Miccosukee and Seminole-and it’s still in the courts.”

Tomlinson tapped the car window, indicating the casino. “So the kind of gambling you can do in there is low-stakes stuff-compared to other casinos, anyway.”

DeAntoni said, “Too bad. Up at Foxwood, the Pequot Indians, they got thirty-some crap tables going day and night. I love to play those double-thunder slots, too. Or get a vodka on the rocks and play baccarat. Man, that’s recreation. ”

Parroting DeAntoni’s earlier sarcasm, Tomlinson replied, “You love to drink hard liquor and gamble, huh? A big-city guy like you. That’s a hell of a surprise.”

At the gatehouse, a guard dressed in tropical whites-including pith helmet-told us that he was sorry, but, unless we were accompanied by an owner, or on a member’s list, or unless we had an appointment with a Sawgrass real estate representative, he couldn’t allow us to enter.