The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (Pot Thief Mysteries) Read online

  “My legal opinion is that you are not required to report it under NAGPRA. But my personal opinion is that it would be an act of civic responsibility to inform them of it since knowing that there had been a grave there might be of some archaeological significance. If, on the other hand, the body you partially unearthed was a recent death, then you are required under New Mexico law to report it so that the authorities can record the death and attempt to discover its cause. But once again, the disappearance of the body may render that obligation moot as well. It is no more helpful to the State, perhaps even less so, than it is to the BLM to be told where a body used to be buried.”

  “It sounds like I don’t have to report it either way.”

  “You should probably do so. But you have no legal obligation.”

  He could have saved the explanation and said only those last five words. But he charges by the hour.

  “Can we talk about the pot now?” I asked him.

  “May I see it, please?”

  Tristan handed him the pot Martin Seepu had brought me. Tristan had become both my driver and my porter. I couldn’t carry a pot and use crutches.

  Kent lifted the pot into a beam of light and examined it.

  “Mariela will like it. The price you mentioned on the phone was five thousand. I had one of my paralegals withdraw cash as you requested.”

  He handed me an envelope. I opened it on my lap and counted it below table level.

  I looked up and said, “There is only forty five hundred in here.”

  He smiled. “I took the liberty of deducting my fee.”

  25

  On the way back home, I gave Tristan sixteen hundred dollars to match the half of his tuition he’d saved from his summer job.

  “I’ll add it to the running total of what I owe you,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  He took me to Dr. Batres’ office where I paid my dental bill. Sharice was with a patient, so I didn’t get to see her. I dealt with that disappointment by rationalizing that I preferred to envision her in her white sun dress rather than a blue lab coat.

  Our next stop was at the pharmacy where I’d rented the crutches. I rented them only for three weeks because I was short of cash. Tristan ran in and paid enough to take me up to six weeks.

  But not before he argued about it.

  “Why are you renting crutches? There’s a place that lets you use them for free.”

  “I know. That was the first place I called. Turns out you get to use the crutches free, but they say that for sanitary reasons, you have to buy the hand-grip pads and the armpit pads. Those pads were more expensive than renting.”

  “After six weeks of rental, you will have spent enough to have bought the crutches, much less the pads.”

  “I don’t want to own crutches.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reason I don’t have life insurance. I don’t want to prepare for things I don’t want to happen.”

  Our final stop was the Old Town Savings Bank. This time I went in, releasing Tristan from his duties since the Bank is within shambling distance from my house.

  I paid my mortgage and met with a young woman named Saundra who had a small cubicle and a big customer-service smile. I told her I wanted to borrow some money using my equity in my building as collateral. She gave me a sheaf of papers to complete. I’ve never applied for a national security clearance, but it has to be easier than applying for a second mortgage.

  When I got home, I placed the thousand dollars for Martin’s uncle in my secret hiding place. Then I called Whit Fetcher, a detective with the Albuquerque Police Department, and asked him to drop by.

  After shelling out for the tuition, dentist, crutches, mortgage and the money for Martin’s uncle, I had just enough left from the forty five hundred to pay for the margaritas that evening.

  But it was still early. I hobbled over to the Plaza and sat down on a shaded bench.

  Although Layton’s explanation had the ring of sophism, it was not for me to question. He said I had no legal obligation to report the body. I was off the hook. Legally.

  But I didn’t feel as good about it as I should have. Part of that may have been being broke. If I had found a couple of valuable pots high above the Rio Doloroso, I might have been fretting less.

  But there was more to it than that. I was still worried about the dirt of the illegal antiquities trade rubbing off on me. And I felt guilty about missing Frank Aquirre’s funeral. And maybe about Dolly, although it was clear that Dolly didn’t think I had wronged her in any way.

  “Hallow, Youbird.”

  That’s the way it sounded. But I’ve gotten so used to it that I no longer think of it as an accent. It’s just how Father Groaz sounds.

  “Whot happen to your foot?”

  Father Groaz is fluent in Latin, Spanish, French, Italian and his native Rusyn. Yes, Rusyn, not Russian. It’s a Slavic language spoken in and around the Carpathian Mountains.

  His English is fractured. Combine that with his booming bass voice, his thick beard and a black robe draped over a 6’ 4” 250 pound frame, and you have someone right out of central casting if you’re filming a vampire movie.

  Inside that barrel chest beats a heart of gold. The parishioners love him, and even we non-Catholics in Old Town look to him for advice.

  I told him how I sprained my ankle, including everything that led up to it.

  “So I came out here to sit and think about the dead guy I accidentally unearthed.”

  I looked up at him. “I guess I came in search of spiritual guidance.”

  His deep-set eyes sparkled. “Then is a lucky coincidence that I come along. I am in that line of work.”

  “Susannah says there are no coincidences.”

  He stuck his hand into his beard and rubbed his chin. Or maybe he was petting a gerbil. That beard is its own ecosystem.

  “She is correct sub specie aeternitatis.”

  I thought about that. I’m not fluent in Latin even though I took four years of it. But that was decades ago. I attempted to read Spinoza in the original Latin three years ago to see if I had retained enough to do so, but I hadn’t. I gave up and switched to the English translation. Even in the English version, that phrase was still in Latin, as if it were one of those Latin terms we use every day, like vice versa, alma mater and et cetera.

  But who uses sub specie aeternitatis in everyday English?

  I knew it meant literally ‘under the aspect of eternity’. But like many other phrases, the literal translation is probably not the real meaning. Alma mater literally means ‘nourishing mother’, but what it really means for us is the school we graduated from.

  I didn’t see how sub specie aeternitatis was related to coincidences, so I just set it aside and asked Father Groaz what I should do about the corpse.

  “You should say a prayer of forgiveness.”

  “I did that immediately after I covered the hand and tamped down the soil.”

  “Should you also report it to the police?”

  “I discussed that with my lawyer. He says I have no obligation to report it.”

  Groaz looked perplexed. “Why does he say this?”

  “Because the point of reporting a body is so the police can dig it up, try to identify it and see if it died of natural causes or foul play. Since the body is no longer where I found it, that intent cannot be met.”

  “Hmm. You are satisfied with this advice?”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I were.”

  “Perhaps you remember the Biblical story of David leading the hungry into the Temple to eat the holy bread on the Sabbath. David broke the laws of Moses, but Jesus said David wass not wrong. You have to look beyond the letter of the law.”

  “So I should report it to the police?”

  “I don’t know. But you should learn from David. Do whot you think is right, Youbird.”

  “I will. As soon as I figure out what that is.”

  26

  Fle
tcher showed up at four as we had agreed.

  “Case you don’t know it, Hubert, we cops are like doctors. We don’t make house calls no more, so this better be something good.”

  I pointed down to my cast.

  “You called me to report a broken foot?”

  “It’s not broken. It’s sprained.”

  “It still ain’t a police matter unless someone sprained it while assaulting you.”

  “I sprained it by accident, but that wasn’t the point. The point is that I couldn’t come to the police station because of this cast.”

  “We got ramps, automatic doors, little bells in the elevator to let you know what floor you’re on, Braille tags, you name it. It’s that accessibility law. A deaf and blind guy with no legs can make it in there.”

  Whit is not politically correct, and some would say he’s a bit slack as regards ‘to protect and serve’. I’ve known him a long time. He’s relentless in going after the bad guys. His police procedures and his English are both occasionally improper, and he’s been known to make a buck or two on the side when no one is likely to be damaged as a result of it.

  “The reason I called you was I need to find out something about missing persons.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like if there’s one from a certain area.”

  He stood a little straighter. “What’s this about, Hubert?”

  “You know I don’t dig in graves, right?”

  “That’s what you tell me.”

  “Well, it’s true. But a lot of other pot hunters do. And one of them was recently surprised to find a body.”

  “Finding a body can’t be much of a surprise to someone digging in a grave.”

  “The surprise was not the body. The surprise was that it wasn’t prehistoric. It was someone who died recently.”

  “So you was out digging for pots and found a fresh corpse.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Right. It was a guy you know.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s his name.”

  “See, that’s the problem. He told me about finding the dead guy because he wanted the police to know. But he doesn’t want to get involved because he wasn’t supposed to be digging in a prehistoric site. So I can’t give you his name.”

  “Okay, Hubert, I’ll play along. Where did this guy find the stiff?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “The dead guy was probably from Taos or Rio Arriba County. Or maybe Sandoval. Maybe even Los Alamos.”

  “Well, that narrows it down.”

  I walked with him over to the pot I’d bought from Alvar Nuñez. I was getting better at using crutches.

  “This pot was found in the same place as the body.”

  “Was it found under the body? Cause it’s busted and most of it is missing.”

  “I don’t know where it was found because I didn’t find it.”

  “Right. The guy you know found it.”

  “No, it was found by a teenager.”

  “Let me guess – you don’t know his name either.”

  “I don’t. But it passed from the teenager to someone I do know named Alvar Nuñez. And Alvar sold it to me.”

  Whit looked at the card with the price on it.

  “Three thousand dollars? The thing is just a couple of pieces glued together.”

  “Right. Think what one like it would bring if it wasn’t broken.”

  “Gimme an idea, Hubert.”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Are you trying to tell me there may be one like that where you dug up the dead guy?”

  “A guy I know dug him up.”

  “Right. And that guy might be able to find a pot like that if he could clear up this dead guy thing?”

  I nodded.

  “Well why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

  27

  “Your reading is weird, Hubie. No one reads Spinoza, especially in Latin.”

  Martin had joined us at Dos Hermanas. He was having a Tecate. Susannah and I were having our usual margaritas.

  “It was your suggestion, remember? You wanted me to read The Burglar who Studied Spinoza by that Block guy.”

  “And did you?”

  “Part of it,” I said weakly.

  “And then you not only switched to the actual Spinoza, but in Latin to boot.”

  “I wanted to see if I could still read in Latin.”

  “And?”

  “I gave up and went to the English translation.”

  “And that’s when you ran across ‘subspecies eternity’. It sounds like a lower breed of animals that live forever.”

  Martin laughed.

  “It’s not ‘subspecies eternity’,” he said. “It’s sub specie aeternitatis.”

  “Father Groaz used it to support your belief that there are no coincidences,” I said.

  She brightened. “Yeah? How so?”

  “I didn’t ask him.”

  “I can guess,” Martin said.

  “Give it a shot,” said Susannah.

  “To see something sub specie aeternitatis is to see it as God sees it, outside of time. Humans are in time. We change. Things around us change. What is true one day may not be true the next. But God is outside of time and unchanging. He sees things as they really are. So if you can see everything at once and not have to wait for it to unfold in time, there are no coincidences. Everything is part of a grand plan.”

  Susannah and I stared at him for a few seconds. We looked at each other. Then we looked back at him.

  It was Susannah who finally spoke. “Two things,” she said. “First, I can buy that everything is part of a grand plan. That’s why I say there are no coincidences. But second, and more importantly, this is a bar, guys. This is not a place for theological discussions. This is a place to talk about booze, food, romance, sports and adventure.”

  Now it was Martin’s and my turn to look at each other then back at Susannah and back at each other.

  Martin spoke. “That’s what theology is about – booze, food, romance, sports and adventure.”

  Susannah said, “I don’t get it.”

  Neither did I. So I was happy that Martin spoke up.

  “Theology is not about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Or at least it shouldn’t be. It’s about how to live. And life includes booze, food, romance, sports and adventure.”

  “Tell us about your tribe’s theology,” said Susannah.

  He pulled a huge knife from his belt. “First we must have the blood ceremony,” he said, deadpan.

  “How about another Tecate instead,” I said.

  He placed the knife back in the sheath.

  We signaled for Angie. Martin ordered his Tecate, specifying that he wanted it in a can. I ordered my usual margarita.

  Susannah hesitated.

  “Can you make a cucumber jalapeño margarita?”

  Angie looked at her as if she were Father Merrins in The Excorcist.

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Angie finally said.

  “I’m not surprised. It was invented by a friend, Stephanie Hunt Raffel.”

  Angie continued to stare at her.

  “I’ll have my usual,” Susannah finally said.

  After Angie left, I said, “What was that about?”

  “I think we’re in a rut, Hubie. My friend Stephanie served me a cucumber jalapeño margarita the other day and it was great.”

  “We’re not in a rut. We’re in a groove. I like my margaritas as they serve them here.”

  “Oh, yeah? Listen to this. You start by blending a peeled and seeded cucumber, a seeded jalapeño, lime juice, tequila, blue agave sweetener, and triple sec until the mixture it is smooth and frothy. Then you dip the rim of a glass into a combination of kosher salt, chile powder and turbinado sugar. Pour in the liquid, garnish with cucumber slices and top with a drizzle of Grand Marnier.” She r
aised her eyebrows and waited for a response.

  I had to admit it sounded terrific. I love cucumbers, jalapeños and margaritas. It just never occurred to me to combine them into one concoction.

  I said to Susannah, “When I told you that Doctor Koehler introduced his hunting guide to me as Alonso Castillo Maldonado, you thought it was odd that he gave me all three names. But you just did the same thing for Stephanie Hunt Raffel.”

  “You’re a bad influence on me. I told you people can’t have two last names, and you said they aren’t last names, they’re Appalachians.”

  “’Appellations’,” I corrected. “Or ‘apellidos’ in Spanish,” I added.

  “Whatever. I don’t know whether Hunt is Stephanie’s middle name or one of those apple edos, so I used both Hunt and Raffel.”

  “Is she Hispanic?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You said she was your friend.”

  “She is, but we don’t sit around talking about our ethnicity. Let’s find another topic. If we continue on this one, you’ll start explaining your Anthropological Theses.”

  The drinks came and Martin took us back to the subject of his tribe’s theology.

  He picked up his cold can of Tecate and blew on it. When his warm moist breath hit the cold surface, it condensed and swirled around the can.

  “In the beginning there was only mist,” he said dramatically and smiled. “Eventually, a wind moved through the mist. The wind separated the light from the dark. The light became the Holy People. The dark became the serpents. Both the Holy People and the serpents were spirits. Nothing physical existed. The Holy People and the serpents started fighting. The Great Spirit, who we call aeternitatis, was unhappy and made them both physical. Their first dwelling place in the physical world was the Great Mesa. The serpents liked the great Mesa because they could come and go as they pleased. But the Holy People became thirsty because there was no water. So they left the Great Mesa and went to the canyons. They travelled at different speeds. Those who arrived first became men. The later ones became women. Because they were second, the women were made to bear children. The men ate of the ears of white corn and the women of the ears of yellow corn. Then the Coyote appeared and told them that each man should take a woman. If they did so, new Holy People would be created.”