“Oof! Fuggin’ hum-job!” says one of them, a nervous, grinning goon with stringy, unkempt hair, powerful halitosis, and a nose that evidently demands picking on a regular basis.

True enough, the ruts in the road have been rattling their teeth, but out of loyalty to his son Edwin resents any criticism of the Hummer, or the slang reference to it as a hum-job. What he’d like to do is give Mr. Stink Breath a smack on his thick forehead with something heavy, a lead paperweight perhaps. Instead he orders the driver to slow down. That lasts for a few hundred rattling yards and then inevitably the big V-8 finds its own speed and they keep jouncing.

When one of the morons bumps his head on the roof, Edwin has to remind him to tighten his seat belt. The man looks dumbfounded—the idea obviously never occurred to him—then complies and nods his thanks.

I am surrounded by overgrown children, Edwin decides. Big stupid kids with guns. Wonderful.

After three miles on unpaved, rutted road, they come upon a large sign. A very prominent sign that demands attention.

YOU ARE ENTERING

THE SOVEREIGN TERRITORY OF THE

NAKOSHA NATION.

VISITORS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO CARRY

OR POSSESS FIREARMS OF ANY KIND.

VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO ARREST. NO

EXCEPTIONS.

The Hummer idles, huffing fuel like a juvenile delinquent.

“So what do we do?” Sally Pop wants to know, peering at the sign, which is large, professionally lettered, and illuminated with cove lighting.

“You’re asking me?” Edwin says, turning in the passenger seat to stare at him.

“I mean, is this enforced or what?”

Edwin shrugs. “I assume they’ll pat you down.”

“Can they do that?” Stink Breath wants to know. “I mean can an injun really arrest a white man?”

Edwin stares at the man, who is, in his opinion, barely Caucasian. “They make their own rules,” he says.

“But Florida, anybody can carry a piece,” Stink Breath says. “I looked it up.”

“This isn’t Florida,” Edwin points out. “This is the Nakosha Nation.”

“It’s fucked is what it is.”

“Sally?” Edwin says, exasperated. “Handle this please.”

Sally’s plan is they all get out, open the rear door, and secure the handguns in one of the storage wells, under the peel-up carpet. Four men, eight guns. A nice symmetry, Edwin is thinking. You want to know how many weapons, count the bent noses and multiply by two.

The rutted road continues for another eight miles. For all of it, every shudder and jounce, Edwin ponders on the possibility that the Nakosha have another, even more private access road, and that it is as smooth and well paved as the autobahn. Restricted to tribal members, of course. Each of whom now has a net worth in the multiple millions, no small thanks to him. Men who not so long ago trapped reptiles for food, who rarely operated a flush toilet, these same men now logged on to check their diversified portfolios because Edwin Manning had said yes, why not, by all means let the gambling begin. At the time it seemed a prudent investment for the fund, a business decision based on anticipated return, no more, no less. All of which had led him here, to this road from hell, and to the hell his son was enduring.

Talk about unintended consequences.

The road, hemmed in by dense mangrove for most of its winding length, widens as it approaches the settlement. A dozen or so homes built in the traditional manner, on sturdy stilts that lift each building a good ten feet above the flood-plain. Roofs expertly made from thatches of sable palm fronds. Very picturesque. At one time, Edwin knew, most of the family had lived—barely survived was more like it—in a decrepit trailer village, since leveled and replaced by luxury versions of the traditional chickees, the designs borrowed from, if not actually executed by, the neighboring Seminoles.

The village has no security gate, no obvious security guards, but moments after the Hummer parks in the shadow of the chickee huts, black-haired men emerge as if from nowhere and surround the vehicle. They could be brothers or cousins, all with similar dark eyes, thick hair the color of glittering coal dust, and not a smile among them.

Edwin lowers his window. “Edwin Manning. I’m here to see Joe Lang,” he announces. “I called.”

“No guns.”

“Fine,” Edwin says.

He exits the vehicle, raises his arms, expecting to be patted down. Indicates that Sally and the boys do likewise. Soon they’re all standing around with their arms in the air. The black-haired men stare at them but do not touch.

“No guns.”

“Fine, sure,” says Edwin. “We agree, no guns. We are not carrying firearms. Go ahead, check.”

One of the men, little more than a teenager, really, but stocky and confident, holds out his hand and says, “Give me the keys.”

Edwin says, “Somebody give him the keys, please!”

With key in hand the youth goes directly to the back of the vehicle, opens the rear door, lifts the rug, and exposes the assortment of handguns stashed in the storage well. He looks at Edwin, just the trace of a satisfied smirk starting to show. “The penalty for possession of firearms is ten years, unless the council decides to show mercy.”

“Fuggin’ hell!” blurts Stink Breath. “Are they crazy?”

The stocky teenager shrugs his indifference. “We passed that law because white men kept coming on our land. Jacking gators, running dope, distilling alcohol, all those crazy-ass white man activities. Only an idiot would insult us by ignoring the law.”

“I freely admit these men are idiots,” Edwin says, “and I’m an idiot for employing them. Take the guns. Now, may I please see Joe Lang? It’s a matter of life and death or I wouldn’t be here.”

A voice comes down from above.

“Up here,” it says.

A man in a snakeskin vest looks down from the porch of a newly built chickee, gestures to Edwin. “Just you. Rico? See the others get something cold to drink.”

Edwin climbs the steps, moves into the shade under the thatched roof of the wraparound porch. “Joe,” he says. “Thank you for seeing me. Nice place you got here.”

“Sit.”

Edwin knows better than to offer to shake hands. Nakosha tribal members sometimes embrace, but never acquired the habit of gripping hands, and tolerate the practice only out of politeness. The man in the snakeskin vest pours iced tea from a heavy glass pitcher dewed with moisture. He’s of slender, wiry build, fifty or so, with creased skin the color of saddle leather. Bare chested under the vest, and his faded jeans are fastened at the waist by a hand-tooled leather belt with a solid gold buckle cast in the shape of an alligator jawbone.

“You like the vest?” he asks, admiring his own garment. “Rattlesnake skin, imported from the Philippines. Only rattlers around here are farm raised. They sell ‘em in the casino gift shop. Five grand. The vest, not the rattlers.”

Edwin waits, sips his iced tea, well aware that the man in the vest, like his brothers and cousins, does not like to be rushed into the meat of conversation. Eventually he nods his assent, invites Edwin to begin the real discussion.

“You know about Ricky?” Edwin begins. “What he’s done, what he’s doing, what he wants?”

“We do not speak of that person. He is dead.”

“I understand,” Edwin says, “but if he doesn’t get what he wants he’s going to kill my son.”

“The person is crazy. He is not Nakosha.”

“He was. He’s still your nephew. I need your help, Joe. Surely you and your family owe me that much.”

The man in the vest avoids eye contact, stares off into the distance. “We’re very sorry for your troubles, Mr. Manning, but we can’t speak to the dead. And even if we could, the person would not listen. The person will do what he wants to do.”