Chapter Six

Governor Dill and Mr. Nickels sit at a table, viewing an unfolded map. The Governor waves his hand over the map. He addresses Nickels and the Gofers.

“So this area upstate is where you want to build your next ‘Honest Injun’ casino. Right near where there just may be a new stretch of Interstate and a new state road. And maybe a spanking new big shopping mall.”

He looks around at everyone.

“Hmmm. Well,” he says, “I have it on good authority that you may have chosen for yourselves a fortunate site, a fortunate site indeed!”

Everyone laughs. The Gofers rub their hands greedily.

“Now remember, Governor,” Nickels says, “we need your help about that ‘sacred burial site,’ using these old maps we, ahem, ‘found’ which authenticate our rights to the area.”

Dill replies, “Yeah, the maps look real, all right. And I’m glad you shared them with me. We need each other. But you have to get busy on your end getting the locals agreeable about ‘their’ sacred burial ground. Then, it’s just a matter of throwing me, and my boys, a bone or two from the place.”

He looks around. No one is laughing. Governor Dill is chagrined.

“Uh, sorry. Poor choice of words there, fellows. That is – Give us our just dues from the proceeds of your ‘Honest Injun’ project. – You know what I mean?”

Now everyone relaxes. They all nod and smile. The Governor looks at the map keenly and examines its markings more closely. He continues.

“Now let’s see. Where exactly is the site-specific area under detail located as to the coordination of the coord-? – Oh, hell, where’s the damn graveyard?”

Nickels gestures to his chief lieutenant, Running Fever.

“Okay,” Nickels says, “Running Fever, show the ‘Gov’ where the damn, uh, the ‘sacred Indian burial ground’ is located.”

“Here, Governor Dill, here.”

Running Fever straightens up the map, seeking the correct coordinates.

He says, “Uh, halfway between ‘B-Nine’ and ‘G-48’, Mister Governor.”

Nickels shouts, “Bingo!” The Gofers laugh automatically.

Running Fever circles the spot with a crayon.

The Governor speaks.

“So, this is the part of the site that is B-Nine?”

Running Fever says, “That’s right, Governor.”

“Hmmm. B-Nine. B-Nine. How do we know?”

“Running Fever is our tribal medicine man, Governor,” intones Nickels. “If anyone would know that it was B-Nine, he would.”

The governor drolly replies, “I see.”

Dill picks up the map, keeping a finger on the general area. He continues.

“And you’re sure it’s right there, Nickels? This very spot is what’s going to turn everything on, make everything happen, make us all rich?”

“Yes, sir!” says Nickels.

“Hmmm,” the Governor responds. “Oh, well. Let’s do it!”

The Governor picks up the map and rolls it up. Nickels is relieved and commands the Gofers.

“Alright, you heard the Governor. Let’s make it happen! And remember, men, the only thing which can stop us now is some bureaucratic mess-up way up the line. – You know, like that snail darter thing on the Tennessee-Valley-Damn-environmentalists!”

Everyone whoops as Nickels exudes, “Meeting adjourned!”

Governor Dill has a secretary. Of sorts. A nameplate on the desk of a dizzy blonde in the Governor’s office reads: Today’s Secretary. Handwritten below this is Steffanie and next to her name is a little smiley face. When the telephone rings, she very smartly answers. After dropping the handset.

“Hello. Governor Dill’s office. ‘We’re elected, so you’re connected!’... Well in general, we don’t... Urgent?! Oh, my... And whom may I say is calling?... Colonel Houston? From Washington?... With major problems that are private! Oh, my. Let me put you through right away!”

She can’t put the call through, having no idea how to use the intercom. She gives up and walks to the Governor’s open door and takes a deep breath.

“Governor Major, General Washington is on the phone from Houston! He says his Privates are having an urgent problem or something!”

The Governor is confused. He shakes his head. Behind him looms a large rendition of the famous painting “Washington Crossing The Delaware.” The Governor looks at it.

“Who? What?”

The secretary leaves, leaving the Governor flummoxed behind his overly large desk and his surrounding self-aggrandizing photographs and mementos.

“Damn government cutbacks,” he intones. He picks up the phone.

“Dill here!... What?... What?... An Indian tribe? Trying to get away with our public trust? That’s awful, just awful!... What?... There’s a secret you can’t even share with me?! – Hmmm.”

He picks up a pen.

“Could you spell your name for me, Colonel?... You know I’ll cooperate! Goodbye!”

Dill hangs up the phone and steams.

“Damn bureaucrats! Why I could have been in charge up there.”

He spits in exasperation.

“Why, why I could have been President if it hadn’t of been for my name!”

Dill looks toward a corner where a life size campaign “mock up” rests. It show a distinguished older politician and Dill himself, their hands united, arms up stretched, in a “victory” pose. Behind them is a large red, white and blue campaign sign. It reads:

Why Not DILL – DOLE Next Time?

Dill is downcast. He’s crestfallen.

“I’m ruined! Ruined!”

He ponders. He calculates. He raises an eyebrow.

“This,” he says aloud, rubbing his hands together, “this calls for sterner measures!”