Died Blonde by Nancy J. Cohen Page A

searched for a parking space.
    “That’s right. Warfare and diseases brought by the whites killed many of the Native Americans. That left the territory open for other settlers. In the early 1700s, a band of Oconee Indians migrated south from Georgia. Sim-in-oli means ‘wild,’ so that’s where their name originated. Other groups joined them. They all spoke a language called Hitchiti until another band arrived who spoke Muskogee.”
    “Were those the Miccosukee?” They seemed more prevalent; Marla had noticed their land on Alligator Alley heading west toward Naples and on the Tamiami Trail in Miami.
    Tally shook her head, tendrils of blond hair escaping from her twist. “The early Seminoles clashed with whites over escaped black slaves, hunting grounds, farmland, and other issues. Sometime after the War of 1812, General Andrew Jackson attacked the Seminoles, destroying their villages. Those remaining were herded into reservations, but not all complied. The government tried to get rid of them, and thus started the Second Seminole War. Some Native Americans retreated to the Everglades. They differentiated into the Hitchiti speaking group known as the Miccosukee, and the Creek Seminoles who speak Muskogee.”
    “Their problems brought them together in one respect,” Marla commented, pointing to the casino. “Now they all speak the language of money.” A loud crack of thunder ripped the air. Pulling into an empty space just vacated by a Caprice, she switched gears and cut the ignition.
    Outside, Marla surveyed a confusing array of building entrances. Jackpot…Do-It-Yourself…Bingo. A few droplets of rain hit her head. They’d never make it to the third entry before the deluge.
    Tally took the lead, pushing open the first door they encountered. “I’m sure we can get through to the bingo section from here. Holy smokes, this is like Las Vegas.”
    Dazzled by row after row of slot machines, Marla hesitated. While thunder rumbled outside, clinks and bells filled the cavernous interior. Somber patrons sat on green vinyl seats, punching buttons on devices that swallowed their money. Mustering her nerve, she strode forward, noting that the minimum bet was one dollar.
    “Not Las Vegas,” she commented wryly. “There you can play for a nickel.”
    Gold Rush, Super Touch Lotto, Golden 7s, Joker Poker. These were games she’d never heard of. What happened to the old-fashioned slots with an arm that you pulled, hoping to get cherries or a row of bars?
    “I wonder if all the tribes have casinos,” she murmured, glancing at the carpet underfoot. It sported a vibrant design of tangerine sunbursts. She noted similar colors in the paintings on the walls that depicted various Indian scenes: riders on horseback, women in colorful skirts in a chickee hut, warriors on a hunt. Thatching rimmed the ceiling, creating the effect of being in an encampment. Modern amenities intruded by means of mounted televisions playing sports games and radio music blaring from loudspeakers.
    “Cocktails, cappuccinos, expresso,” called a server circulating through a section of poker tables inhabited mostly by men with solemn expressions.
    Pushing past a glass door, they entered the bingo room, where cigarette smoke tinged the air. Apparently the state law prohibiting smoking in public places did not apply to the reservation. Marla’s nostrils clogged while she noted the guards hovering about the exits and the white-shirted attendants roaming the crowd.
    “I guess we have to go over there,” she said, pointing to a line snaking from another door.
    When it was their turn to pay, Marla drew out her wallet. “We’re supposed to meet Rosemary Taylor here,” she said to the cashier, a woman whose world-weary face barely glanced at hers. “I understand she comes regularly.”
    “Oh, yeah. That’s her over there.” Waggling her finger, the woman indicated a dirty blonde in a lavendar dress. Rosemary sat at a long table, one of many that reminded