PI On A Hot Tin Roof

story gets the coconut.”
    “But don’t they just throw the coconuts like beads?”
    “Not any more—because people kept getting hurt. So mostly they just hand them out these days. Think there’s even a law about it.”
    But Raisa was hardly listening. She was already fabricating her coconut tale, intoxicated with the notion of sanctioned prevarication. “Okay, Daddy, how’s this: Please, Mr. Zulu-man, my mama said if I didn’t come home with a coconut, I don’t get any dinner.”
    “Good. And then if he gives you a silver one, say she said no dessert if it isn’t gold.”
    “And then the minute he hands me the gold one, I’ll pass the silver one to you. And keep ’em both.”
    Talba laughed. Darryl frowned. “Let’s not push our luck. You want to hear about the Indians?”
    “Yeah. Are they real Indians?”
    “They’re black, just like us. They just dress like Indians. Call themselves gangs.”
    “But why, Daddy?”
    “Well, in the old days, I guess they identified with Indians. Because Native Americans weren’t treated very well, either.”
    “I mean why do they call themselves gangs like the Crips and the Bloods? I thought gangs were bad guys.”
    “These gangs just pretend-fight. They send out a Spy Boy to let them know when another gang’s coming, and the Flag Boy has a great big flag that he can use to signal the chief it’s there. And then, when they meet up, each chief tries to make the other one bow to him, and they do war dances and sing to each other.”
    “But why, Daddy?”
    “Ah, the eternal why. ’Cause it’s Mardi Gras, and it’s fun. Then, these other gangs dress up like skeletons. And some of the women are Baby Dolls.”
    “I don’t want to be a Baby Doll. I want to be an Indian.”
    “I think they’re mostly men. But, listen, want to meet one? Talba has a friend who knows Big Chief Alabama Bandana. She might introduce you.”
    “That his real name?”
    “Hey, the boat’s docking.”
    Zulu was just turning onto Basin Street when they got there. On sighting the first float Raisa was as shocked as any Yankee. “Those are the stupidest costumes I ever saw!”
    The famous Zulu warriors wore their trademark blackface, with cartoon white lips and fright wigs. They sported grass skirts and carried spears. “Daddy, this is embarrassing!”
    “Baby, are you a sociologist or a videographer?”
    That got her into gear. Immediately, she started taping. But when the time came, she didn’t get to do her spiel: A lady Zulu beckoned her over, said, “You’re the cutest little girl I ever saw,” and without further ado, presented her with a gold coconut, “to match your hair.”
    Undone, Raisa blurted, “Hey, could I have a silver one, too?”—and two other riders fell all over themselves bestowing silver ones on her, whereupon she cracked them all up by shouting, “Oh, man! This is the best Mardi Gras ever!”
    Talba could have kissed those Zulus. “One for each of us,” she said.
    Raisa retorted, “What’ll you pay me for one?”
    Talba had thought the Indians might be an anticlimax after that, but their finery was so far beyond spectacular even Raisa was awed. As soon as the first Spy Boy came into view, she blurted, “Look, Daddy, he looks like a purple cloud!”
    “It’s the Poison Oleanders,” Talba explained, and she had to admit that Raisa had nailed it—the Indians’ forest of waving plumage did indeed resemble a gorgeous cloud of feathers. “If the Oleanders are here, Angie’ll be around. My friend.”
    And when the chief marched grandly into view, Angie was in the second line, dressed in her accustomed black, accessorized with a Goth wig and a lot of temporary tattoos.
    For a while Raisa occupied herself taping a little girl about her own age decked out head-to-toe in pink feathers facing off Alabama himself, whom she actually called “Sir” when Angie finally introduced them.
    And then she turned to Talba: “You didn’t say your friend was white.”
    Angie shrugged. “She can’t help it. Born that way.”
    “It’s okay,” Raisa said. “I got a white friend too.”
    Talba wondered if she meant Lucy, and hoped not. They weren’t going to be friends after Jane Storey got through with Lucy’s daddy. And again, she thought about the others in Buddy’s life. Kristin would be devastated, but better off in the long run. Royce and Suzanne were so self-involved she couldn’t bring herself to care much, and Adele had seen a lot worse. Lucy