Mammon Conquers Bacchus

With police on strike, New Orleans' Mardi Gras collapses

If ever I cease to love, if ever I cease to love," goes the lighthearted theme song of New Orleans' Mardi Gras, "may the Grand Duke Alexis ride a buffalo in Texas, if ever I cease to love." Alas for the Lord of Misrule and his merry minions. With most of the carnival festivities canceled last week because of a protracted police strike, many New Orleanians have no love in their hearts, at least not the special kind that flowers during Mardi Gras. "The police are mad. The city is mad. The taxi drivers are mad. Everybody is mad," said one cabby glumly.

In part it was money madness. New Orleans is a two-industry town (shipping and sightseeing), and it stands to lose as much as $250 million in tourist dollars from cancellation of the festival. Normally jammed this time of year, the city's hotels are half empty. Meanwhile, despite protection by 350 state police and 600 national guardsmen at a cost to the city of $100,000 a day, Bourbon Street merchants began to complain of lost business and increased shoplifting. They promptly smacked a $30 million damage suit on the striking cops and the Teamsters, the union that represents them.

Mardi Gras, more than any other attraction, has created the image of New Orleans as a marvelous place to have fun.

Ever since the "Mistick Krewe of Comus" was organized in 1857, the city has celebrated the week leading up to Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, the day before Lent begins, with a frenzy that turns the entire town into a carnival. Gaudy floats, built by private clubs called krewes, parade through the streets, their brightly costumed riders scattering beads and doubloons to the crowds. Festivities build to a final burst of brilliance on Mardi Gras Day when Rex and Comus, the monarchs of Mardi Gras, reign over their lavish parades and balls in resplendent sequin-and-satin costumes.

As the New Orleans police shrewdly realized, closing down Mardi Gras because of inadequate police protection was their ultimate threat in negotiations with city officials--rather like canceling Christmas. For years the police had no muscle to back up such a threat, but this time Teamster officials came in, led by Joseph Valenti, a tough, cigar-smoking troubleshooter from Detroit. On Feb. 9, when Mayor Ernest Morial refused to deal with a Teamster-backed majority in the department, the police marched out.

It was the maiden major crisis for Morial, 49, the city's first black mayor, and eventually he capitulated. Morial agreed to negotiate with the Teamsters, and the police came back. But Valenti and his negotiators raised the stakes. This time they demanded, among other things, an increase in base pay, from $11,964 to $16,764, for patrolmen, contract coverage for ranking officers, and binding arbitration in disputes over noneconomic issues. The city balked. The new demands would have cost an additional $ 19 million, which it claimed it did not have. Morial accused the Teamsters of trying to wrest control of the police department from the city. The police walked out again, despite a back-to-work court order.

A two-week war of nerves began, while everyone wondered: Would the city capitulate in time for Mardi Gras Day? One by one the parade dates came around and the floats did not roll. The few that did were forced to move to Kenner or some other shopping-center suburb, since Morial could not guarantee order in the downtown area. As Mardi Gras Day drew nearer, public support for the police waned, down from 67% in a local television poll two weeks ago to 17% last week.

Public sympathy was strained even further when Police Union Leader Vincent J. Bruno, related by marriage to New Orleans Mafioso Carlos Marcello, told reporters, "If the talks break down, we'll wreck the city." He later apologized, but not before both local papers had run frontpage editorials denouncing police conduct. Last week the police reduced their demands, but the strike went on.

With the sanitation workers refusing to pick up garbage, firemen manning the police picket lines in sympathy, and federal mediators stymied, many local citizens had had enough. Eighteen of the oldest and grandest krewes canceled their parades, the first time since the Korean War and only the ninth time in Mardi Gras's 122-year history. "We are not going to let Mardi Gras be held hostage by the Teamsters," read a statement issued by the krewes. "It means a half million dollars and a whole year's work down the drain, plus all the fun we miss," lamented Owen Brennan, president of the famous Brennan's Restaurant and captain of the Bacchus Krewe.

With Mardi Gras dead in all but name, there was little celebrating in carnival town. Police huddled in small groups around headquarters and the precinct stations while national guardsmen carrying M-16 rifles patrolled public buildings. On Canal Street, New Orleans' main boulevard, the bleachers erected for the parades stood empty, bereft of bunting. The jazz clubs and hookers on Bourbon Street were having a hard time keeping up spirits--or selling them. "It's our first time in New Orleans and we're heartbroken," mourned Robin Holabird, 25, who had come from Reno with her husband to celebrate. In the "city that care forgot," even Bacchus had proved no match for Mammon.

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