The Iko Iko Affair

[wendiez.livejournal.com]

The Iko Iko Affair

By WendieZ

The year is 1966.

            My partner never ceases to amaze me. Whether it’s his seemingly limitless treasure trove of obscure information or his familiarity with gypsies which, I suspect it runs far deeper than he lets on, Illya has a way of producing the right information when it’s needed.

He’s also a master of disguises; sometimes I’m not sure it’s him if it’s a disguise I haven’t had prior knowledge of. Which leads me to one assignment in particular that could have ended badly if Illya hadn’t been, well, Illya.

Illya went ahead of me to New Orleans on the intelligence that THRUSH seemed much too interested in the newly repaired and rebuilt levees since the devastation of Hurricane Betsy in September of the previous year. While the city, built on the Mississippi River delta, was always living on borrowed time, its periods of extreme peril were few and rather far between. I don’t know, maybe there’s some voodoo god of hurricanes they were appeasing or something.

Anyway, Illya went down in mid-February to insert himself into the culture of the area, which just happened to be in the middle of carnival season. I might have envied him this if I didn’t know that when Illya is on assignment, the entire female population could parade naked in front of him and if they were not directly involved in the affair he wouldn’t give them more than a cursory look. Even they were involved, he was still all business. Illya was in New Orleans to work, not party.  Okay, I still envied him, but only because I like to mix business with pleasure if I can get information or gain a confidence.

When Illya’s time in New Orleans stretched from one week to three without the invitation to join him, I went from envious to downright impatient. While I knew he wasn’t delaying my arrival as part of his sometimes quirky sense of humor, I began to wonder what was taking so long.

Finally, the word came that it was time to join Illya’s little THRUSH-trouncing party and I was on a plane as fast as I could get to the airport. However, instead of my partner meeting me at New Orleans International Airport, I was greeted by a lovely Creole native and local UNCLE agent, Laurent Decoudreau. “Well,” I commented to the lady as we headed to the car, “you’re a much more welcoming sight than my often grumpy partner.”

Laurent had evidently been primed by Illya, because she didn’t rise to my compliment, sincere as it was. “Mr. Kuryakin has been extremely helpful in obtaining THRUSH’s intentions for our levees. He’s been undercover posing as one of the day laborers THRUSH has been hiring. He’s going to meet us tonight at our office to discuss what he found out and what we can do about it.”

The view on the drive to my hotel made me anxious to get settled into my room and then check out the festivities that seemed to be going on throughout the city. Agreeably, Laurent said she would be happy to give me a tour for a nice dinner in the French Quarter.  It just so happened, she knew a place where the food was hot and the jazz was cool.

Our table met all the requirements: near the band, and off to one side at the wall where we had a view of all the entrances, including the door to the kitchen. The band was just beginning their current set when our Sazarac cocktails arrived. Laurent was a charming companion and eager to share in the fascinating history of the city. We had just started our entrée, a dazzling crawfish étouffée, when a skinny, brown-skinned, black-haired man with surprising blue eyes squatted at the table beside me and looked directly at me with a grin.

“Bonswa! Komen çapé kouri, mo lami?”

Instinctively, I had reached for my gun, but Laurent’s stifled urge to laugh gave me pause. That and the lack of change in her body language suggested that this was some kind of joke aimed at me.

The language he spoke sounded like a variation of French, but while I couldn’t translate it directly, I had a fair idea of what this stranger had said to me. Except, I suddenly realized this wasn’t a stranger, at all. “Illya?” I ventured, mostly because I couldn’t imagine who else would approach me this way.

“Yé pèl mò Élie Levesque. At least, that’s my name when I’m on duty. How was the tour of the city?” Illya pulled up a chair, hailed a waiter and put in his own dinner order.

“Entertaining, thanks to my native tour guide,” I replied. “What is that dialect of French you were speaking?”

“Louisiana Creole. It has the same relationship to French as Ukrainian has to Russian.”

“Leave it to you to pick up another dialect. That’s quite a disguise. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“That’s the idea, but I’m afraid this disguise is a little more than just skin-deep. We used walnut juice on my skin because I wouldn’t have been able to tan quickly enough to be as dark as I needed to be. And hair dye for my hair and eyebrows. The hair dye can be bleached out, but the walnut juice has to ‘wear’ off.’  My partner then picked up a fork and sampled a large portion of my meal.

“Hey,” I protested. “Wait for your own, partner.”

“Mo manje,” he replied his mouth full.

“Yeah, I know you’re rude and have no manners.”

He swallowed. “I said ‘I’m hungry.’ I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Well, then I get a big taste of your supper.”

Illya’s dinner arrived a few minutes later and he turned his attention to it, only allowing me a small taste.

“You can’t be that famished, tovarisch,” I said and fought him for another forkful.

Illya was sober. “I told you, I haven’t had anything since breakfast.  The overseers’ don’t give us a lunch break and most of the workers can’t afford to bring food for lunch anyway. The working conditions are deplorable. A THRUSH operative by the name of Anton Faberge is in charge of the operation and he’s running it like a sweatshop.”

“Perhaps we might enlist your work friends to help us for which they could be amply rewarded.” I suggested.

“I’m way ahead of you, Napoleon. We already have their support. All we have to do is tell them what we want them to do.”

I was interested in Illya’s plan. “What do you have in mind?”

“Later, after dinner. I’ve been singing creole chants all day.  I’d like to savor the cuisine, both culinary and musical before we make plans.”

“Perhaps you’d like to dance while ‘Élie’ finishes his dinner,” Laurent suggested with a smile. It was the first positive sign she’d given me all day in response to my best charming behavior. A moment later, she was in my arms and we were dancing to the soft jazz improvisations of the quartet. Now that’s what I call being in my element.

We met at the UNCLE offices at ten o’clock, where I really got a good look at the extent of Illya’s disguise. “What’s with the blue eyes? I thought you’d have brown contacts in.”

“There are many blue-eyed dark-skinned Creoles, Napoleon. It’s all a matter of genetics. Besides, the work is dirty making contacts a little impractical.”

“I hope you found out something useful about our friends.”

Illya smiled, his dark skin making his teeth almost shine. “You bet I did.” He pulled a map of lower Louisiana from a file cabinet and laid it on the desk. “THRUSH is definitely interested in wreaking havoc with New Orleans since it’s a major tourist attraction, but that’s not all of it. Mo Ché?” Illya and Laurent exchanged covert little smiles and I wondered if he had made an exception to his all business rule while on assignment. It could explain why she wasn’t warming up to me.

Laurent, who I discovered had a degree in Civil Engineering, continued with an explanation of an ongoing project of the US Army Corps of Engineers to prevent the Mississippi River from changing course. If Mother Nature had her way, eventually the river would merge with the Atchafalaya River and begin to silt a new delta below Morgan City. “The water supply to New Orleans and Baton Rouge would be seriously affected. Furthermore, this project has a time constraint. If they can’t stabilize the amount of water flowing to the Atchafalaya River, the Mississippi will shift and nothing will be able to reverse it again.”

Now, I’m not the most technologically minded person on the planet, but even I could see what THRUSH’s plans were leading up to. “They’re planning to sabotage the Corps of Engineer’s efforts to the point where they won’t be able to keep the river from shifting. But, how?”

Laurent pointed to the map. “My undergraduate degree is in civil engineering. There’s only one place they could do it. The Old River Control area. If they take out the closure dam and the floodgates, they probably won’t flood the area, but the first surge from a storm will. And I’m sure that’s just the beginning of their plans.”

“So where does that leave us?” I asked, feeling very much out of my element.

Laurent smiled. “It just so happens that the Governor is coming to Mardi gras this week, but also to inspect the repairs and rebuilding of the damage from Betsy last year. I contacted their office this morning to arrange for you, Napoleon and me to join his attaché. The press and TV news will be covering his inspection.”

 Then Illya added, “Meanwhile, I’ll arrange a little ‘revolution’ among the workers about the working conditions and the pay.”

I was beginning to see a diabolical plan taking shape. There was going to be a rousing demonstration of workers’ rights in front of the governor, TV cameras rolling with the main characters in the scene the THRUSH agents in charge of the project posing as officers of the Corps of Engineers. That would certainly get media attention enough to alert the real Corp of Engineers. Suddenly, THRUSH, who prided themselves on their subtlety, was going to have more attention they bargained for.  So simple, it was almost fool-proof.

            We arrived with the Governor at the Old River Control area shortly after nine o’clock. When I got out of the second of the Governor’s limousines I noticed a strategic lack of unskilled workmen at the construction site and our hosts were falling over themselves to please. They explained that their day laborers were on another site, hence the light crews.

            I sighed inwardly. So much for Illya’s workers’ revolution in the sight of the Governor and the news media. It looked like it was going to be up to Laurent and me to stir up trouble. No sooner had we begun the tour of the construction site, a large transport sped wildly up the dirt road towards us. It came to a skidding stop and what seemed like fifty dark-skinned Creoles jumped from the flatbed. Actually, it was only it was only twenty, but they appeared as though they were a formidable force.

            I saw Illya jump down from the drivers’ side and lead the group towards the construction site. Almost immediately, they began to sing a familiar-sounding song, clapping in rhythm: “My grandma and your grandma, sitting by the fire. My grandma says to your grandma ‘I'm gonna set your flag on fire’. Talkin' 'bout, hey now, hey now. Iko iko an nay. Jockomo feena ah na nay
Jockomo feena nay—”

            “Iko iko,” Laurent explained whispering. “That’s practically the theme song of the Mardi gras.” As if she had given a signal, members of the Governor’s entourage and media joined in softly.

            The leader of the false Corps of Engineers recognizing Illya leading the group went to confront him. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

            Illya grinned at him. “Bonjou, bossman,” he said with a perfect Creole accent. “We are here to work. There is much to do here.”

            “I told you to work down at the other site today, you stupid Chole!” He glared at the group of men behind Illya. “Go back where you came from!”

            But my partner was an expert in antagonism. “Non, we will work here. There is no work at the other place.”

            The THRUSH was getting flustered. “Go away! Can’t you see we’re busy here?”

            “Wi, what is going on?” Illya was playing his part to the hilt, jumping up and down to see who we were.

            The THRUSH was trying to appease both the Governor and the media. The more he tried to talk the group of workers to leave, the more Illya badgered and the more excited the group behind him became.  It was apparent that Fabergé was losing control, an especially bad thing when you consider that when THRUSH loses control of a situation, the guns come out.

            Evidently, that was exactly what Illya and Laurent were also thinking and we acted accordingly: Illya took out Fabergé while Laurent and I took care of the two underlings. One thing we forgot about was the cameramen from the local TV stations. Before we realized it, Laurent and I had microphones in our faces, and the questions were flying fast. All I could remember thinking was that Mr. Waverly was not going to be pleased.

            Then Illya did something unexpected. He motioned to two workmen behind him to pick up Fabergé and present him to the Governor. A third man went ahead of them to act as spokesman. He proceeded to tell the Governor in his thick Creole accent about the working conditions Fabergé had been forcing on the day laborers. The news media took to this human interest story even more readily than our faux pas and we were able to slip away without being noticed.

            “Nice diversion,” I told Illya. “The Governor will have Fabergé and his cohorts cooling their heels in a nice Federal Prison cell if they’re lucky.”

            “If THRUSH doesn’t dispose of them first,” Laurent added.

            “My money is on the cyanide capsule in the molar,” Illya finished. “Do you think we should warn the Governor?”

            I thought about it for a moment and decided against it. “Nah, if we’re lucky they’ll do it on camera and there’ll be a big investigation, which, of course will go nowhere.”

            “Personally, I’d like to be far away when that happens. Tomorrow is Fat Tuesday and I intend to make it live up to its name. I also have an invitation to parade with one of the tribes, though I won’t be wearing any of the regalia of some of the members. This mission has been illuminating. I’m finding the customs of the various ethnic groups here during carnival season utterly fascinating.”

            It was clear that Illya’s plans for Mardi gras were not going to include Laurent or even me. It seemed only proper then for me to make the invitation. While my enigmatic partner took advantage of his semi-permanent disguise to indulge in some uncharacteristic abandon, I found spending some private time with a certain lovely French Creole lady a fine way to experience New Orleans in the height of carnival season.\

Author’s note:

The song refers to the collision between two Mardi gras Indian tribes, the various native American tribes which parade through the streets during the carnival season. The chant of the tribes was set to music by James “Sugar Boy” Crawford in 1953.  A variation of the song was recorded by The Dixie Cups in 1965, who themselves were natives of New Orleans and remembered the chants  they sang as children.

The original words of the chorus, according to linguists of the French Creole language,

are believed to be:

Ena! Ena!
Akout, Akout an deye
Chaque amoor fi nou wa na né
Chaque amoor fi na né
(Wikipedia)

Finis

Comments

[avery11.livejournal.com]

This is absolutely terrific! The setting, the characters, the plotline, the dialogue--all first-rate. Brava!