THEY own the most profitable casino in the world. Last year, they raked in an amazing $800 million--twice as much as any other casino, including Atlantic City's Taj Mahal and the MGM Grand in Las Vegas--from gamblers trying their luck at blackjack, poker, bingo and slot machines. And this year, their operation, which boasts 15 restaurants and two luxury hotels, is grossing $2.5 million every day, a pace that could make them $1 billion by year's end.

To say that the 318 members of the Connecticut Mashantucket Pequot Indian tribe--half of whom are Black --have hit the jackpot is an understatement. In the three years since their Foxwoods Resort Casino opened in the sleepy town of Ledyard in the southeastern part of the state, many members of the tiny tribe have gone from minimum-wage, dead-end jobs to multimillionaire status, talking business with the governor, playing golf with celebrities and driving fancy cars.

In fact, the Pequots have made so much money they've even gotten the attention of previously untouchable, casino-mogul Donald Trump, who, they say, angrily refers to them as the "Michael Jordan Indians" because many look--and actually are--more African-American than Native-American. But his potshots are mild compared to the swipes some of the White locals and government officials have taken at the tribe that has bought up more than 5,000 acres, become the second largest employer in Connecticut and the state's largest taxpayer.

"We've been called every name you can of," says Joey Carter, a Black Pequot tribal member and head of public relations for the group. "But what I tell them is, 'You can call us anything you want, but when you call us, call us at the bank."'

That's where Carter and the other executives of the tribe, most of whose Black and White members are one-eighth Pequot Indian, will probably be--at the bank, arranging for the bail out of a school, the take over of a business, the purchase of a piece of land or some other venture.

So far it's paid off. The tribe's good investments have resulted in a grand lifestyle for its members. Each person who proves genealogically that he or she is at least one-sixteenth Pequot is given a new house, a managerial job or training paying a minimum of $50,000 per year, free education from private elementary school through graduate school (with a $30,000 annual stipend while in college), free healthcare and free day-care. And Pequot mothers are paid $30,000 annualy vith medical benefits for five vears, even if they don't work and choose to stay home to raise their children.

"It's the rebirth of a people from ground zero," says Michael Thomas, one of four Blacks running the seven-member Pequot Tribal Council. "The White man drove us into the swamp and we survived. Now we're on top and we're going to see that our people are taken care of"

But while success came fast for the Pequots, it didn't come easy, and it didn't come with a guarantee it would last. In fact, Pequot history, from the time 350 years ago when the tribe was almost killed off by war and disease through the 1970s, is filled with tragedy, struggle and story after story of wrongdoing by White settlers and later the White-run U.S. government. Pequots were massacred 300 years ago, enslaved--and produced offspring--with Blacks 200 years ago and have been economically deprived ever since. Having grown to more than 15,000 Indians in the 1600s, the Pequots reached their lowest point in 1970 when the tribe, prevented from helping itself by state laws prohibiting indians from running economic enterprises on their land, had dwindled to just two elderly half-sisters who had remained on the reservation. The pair, known for preaching, "Hold on to your land," successfully fought to keep the state from turning the Pequots' 216 acres into park land.

Perhaps inspired by the sisters' resilience, a few tribal members returned to the reservation and reorganized a tribal government. But it wasn't until 1976 that the Pequots began their resurgence, as tribal members successfully filed suit to regain the more than 2,000 acres that had been taken from them over the centuries. The tribe's next significant feat was opening a bingo parlor in 1986, taking advantage of a new state law that allowed federally recognized Indians to operate non-casino gambling enterprises on reservations.

But before bingo--which they patterned after the Seminole Indians bingo hall in Florida--became a reality, the tribe had to first find a bank that would loan it $5.3 million to build a facility. Unsuccessful in the United States, the Pequots searched internationally for the money until finally they found an Arabian bank that would make the loan.

"When we built it, we didn't know what we were doing," says Carter, a multimillionaire who was a beer-drinking handyman living with seven people in a two-bedroom apartment and making $5 an hour cutting wood on the reservation during the pre-casino days. "It all happened so fast. It was like we went from rags to riches in two days. I remember it was 90 degrees the first day of the bingo hall and before we could open the doors, there was a line of people encircling our building, waiting to play bingo. That's when we said 'BINGO!'"

And it's been bingo ever since for Carter and the others on the reservation, many of whom moved back from different parts of the country to help run the bingo operation. Not satisfied with only bingo, the Pequots took advantage of additional changes in state and federal laws in 1993 to reach an agreement with a reluctant State of Connecticut that allowed the tribe to exclusively offer slot machines and other casino-type gambling. In exchange, the Pequots agreed to pay the state 25 percent, or a minimum of $100 million, of the total money they brought in from the slot machines each fiscal year. Last year, the Pequots paid Connecticut $133 million in taxes, more than anyone else in the state.

After several expansion projects, the facility now totals 1.5 million square feet and employs 10,200 people. Buses from all parts of New England pour into the 24-hour casino, the only place to gamble in Connecticut. It's a carnival-like atmosphere in the 193,000-square-foot casino, where the clanking coins, ringing bells and constant calls for drinks by cocktail waitresses dressed in skimpy outfits can be deafening at times. In the 3,500-seat bingo hall, the scene is just the opposite as a tattered old woman's cry of "bingo" interrupts the silence of the smoke-filled room.

Whatever the sound, it's music to the tribal members' ears, and much better than the dormant lull heard on the reservation just a decade ago when it consisted of two trailers, a dirt road and woods. Now houses, a child development center, a pharmacy, a healthcare center and a multimillion-dollar community center, complete mith an Olympic-size pool gym, and batting cages, can be found just minutes from the casino on the the wooded reservation between the Thames and Pawtucket rivers and Long Island Sound.

Most of the Black and White Pequots, many of whom married into the tribe, have returned. For many Black Indians, it's odd to have White relatives.

"When I came here and saw someone with blond hair and blue eyes and they told me that was my cousin, I couldn't believe it. I knew then I had come into a very unique situation," says Carter, sharply dressed in an expensive suit.

The Pequots have come to believe diversity is their greatest asset and they know there's no place for dislike among the people of different skin colors in their tribe. History has shown that as remarkable as their newly acquired wealth is, it's just as uneasy. Other tribes that have had similar success, albeit not as great, with gambling operations have succumbed to infighting and accusations by tribal members of corruption by their leaders. But the Pequots are working to assure the same doesn't happen to them. With the exception of a few minor disagreements, the tribe has gotten along remarkably well, entrusting their millions to the tribal council, which has invested the money in various businesses, real estate ventures and charitable organizations. They, for example, have given $2 million to the Special Olympics and $10 million to the Smithsonian for the establishment of an American Indian museum.

Even though the tribe says it has attempted to share its success with others, the Pequots are constantly battling local residents, city and state officials who "have controlled our destiny for as long as they can remember and the thought of losing that control and placing it in our hands is eating them up," says tribal council member Kenny Reels.