The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Page 13

  “You want to be my accomplice?”.

  “Accomplice before the fact to be precise,” she said.

  I thought about it while I took another sip of my margarita. “O.K., you can go to the Museum and take some pictures of the pot and measure it.”

  “That sounds sort of boring, Hubert, like you’re giving the safe part of the plan to the girl and keeping the exciting part yourself.”

  “Not at all. The measuring part will be risky. You’ll have to take down one of the ropes, and actually put the tape snugly against the pot at several different places. If the staff catches you, you’ll be in trouble. Of course you won’t have damaged anything, so they can hardly charge you with a crime, but they won’t be very pleasant and they will almost certainly throw you out. And you should think carefully before you agree to do this, because if they find out who you are and report you to the University, you could join me as an ex-student in disgrace.”

  “You think the art history department would kick me out just for touching a pot in the Museum?”

  “Probably not. You could just say you needed the measurements for a paper you wanted to write on the pot, and any reasonable person would see your actions as a minor lapse of judgment. But people in the arts are not always reasonable.”

  “Yeah, remember the surrealists,” said Martin.

  “Good point. I just want you to go into this with your eyes wide open.”

  “I understand, Hubie. You’re sweet to worry. But really, this is the most fun I can imagine, and we’ll be in on something together.” She hesitated, then said, “But do you really need me? I don’t want to spoil anything.”

  “I need you for two reasons. First, there’s a security camera at the entrance. I was in the Museum a couple of days ago and I’ll have to go in one more time. Maybe it’s not a big deal, but when they review the pictures from the camera, I think it’s better if I’m not on their film three times. Second, the tape measure you’ll be using is the cloth type used in sewing. A steel tape like carpenters use would set off the metal alarm. They look in purses and they sometimes ask patrons to empty their pockets into a little dish before passing through the metal detector. You’re a girl, so if you just happen to have a cloth tape, they won’t think that’s unusual, and you can put it back in your pocket or purse.”

  “A man could carry a sewing tape, too, Hubie.”

  “Only if he were an art historian.”

  “Hubie! I…”

  “Just kidding,” I added quickly. “I’m just trying to cover every detail no matter how minor.”

  “So we’re planning a heist! This is so exciting. Show me exactly what I have to do.”

  “In case anyone asks,” said Martin, “I was never here.”

  30

  “This one won’t make you drowsy,” he said to me.

  Usually you can’t find anyone to help you, which in this case would have suited me fine, but instead I had the world’s most attentive pharmacist. He had on a white lab coat with a nametag identifying him as Brian. There were no other customers and I guess he was bored. I had told him I wanted to browse, but he insisted on assisting.

  “That’s not the one I’m looking for,” I said.

  “Oh,” he beamed, “you have a specific brand in mind; why didn’t you say so? I can find it in a jiffy.”

  “I don’t remember the brand name,” I told him.

  “Do you remember if it made you drowsy? Because there are two general classes of allergy medicines, drowsy and non-drowsy.”

  “All I remember is it was a spray.”

  “We have a few of those down this way,” he said as he moved along the aisle. “Not as many as we used to have; most people prefer tablets.” He seemed disappointed I didn’t want tablets.

  “Do they? Well, I want a spray.”

  “How about this one? It’s particularly good against the sorts of pollens we get this time of year.”

  “No, that’s not what it looked like. It was in a plastic bottle.” Actually, I had no idea what sort of allergy spray I was seeking because I’ve never bought one in my life, but I did know I wanted a plastic spray bottle and one with an allergy spray label on it would suit my purposes well.

  I was about to give up and try another store.

  “This one?” the clerk said, holding up a spray bottle of the sort I wanted.

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “You know, I can’t recommend this brand; it’s really just a saline nasal spray to moisten the sinus membranes. That helps, of course, but it’s not really going to fight antigens.”

  “That’s O.K.; I’m a pacifist.”

  He looked at me warily. “What I’m saying is this one is not very effective.”

  “Well it worked for me when I used it before, so I’ll just take it.” I reached for the bottle, but he held it away from me.

  “It also has benzalkonium as an additive, and there is some evidence to suggest it may cause birth defects.”

  “It’s O.K.,” I said, “I’ve taken a vow of chastity.”

  “You’re a priest?”

  “No.”

  He hesitated for just a moment and then said, “Oh.”

  He didn’t make any move to hand me the bottle, and I wondered how rude it would be if I just picked another one off the shelf. Maybe it would anger him and he would refuse to ring up the sale. Since he was the only employee in the store, that would leave me with no option other than shoplifting, and I really had in mind starting my criminal career in a more spectacular fashion; i.e., by getting a pot from a museum.

  Finally he said, “Do you want the small bottle or the large one?”

  “The large one, please.”

  He seemed even more disappointed that I was buying the large one.

  After the drugstore, I went to a tattoo parlor. I expected a bunch of hirsute Harley jockeys, but what I found was a skinny kid with moist eyes and floppy ears. He was eating peanut brittle, and from the look of his teeth, it was not the first time. I let him show me some tattoos because I felt sorry for him, and he seemed pleased to practice his sales pitch. I wasn’t surprised by the array of designs on offer: eagles, hearts, barbed wire fencing, Marine Corps symbols, Confederate flags, and busty women. What did surprise me were his suggestions about which parts of my anatomy might be the venue for those designs. The only place off limits was my nose.

  I finally told him there were so many choices that I’d need to think about it, and I convinced him to sell me a jar of the herbal pigments used for temporary tattoos. They have a color and patina that was just right for my purposes.

  My final stop was at the grocery store where I bought a box of the cellophane gloves servers use in delicatessens.

  When I got home I dumped the saline solution down the sink along with the benzalkonium and any other chemicals that might have been in there. I washed the bottle out with water and dried it by the simple expedient of leaving it in the dry Albuquerque air for five minutes, then I poured the herbal pigments into the spray bottle.

  I had asked Tristan to come by, and he arrived just as I finished putting tattoo pigment in an allergy spray bottle, and how often do you get to do that?

  “Hey Uncle Hubert. Did you call because you want a report on Kaylee?” He went to my refrigerator and helped himself to a bottle of Cabaña. “Why do you buy beer brewed in El Salvador?”

  “Because it’s five dollars a case cheaper than Corona.”

  “I think you should worry more about taste than cost.”

  “That’s because you’re not the one paying for it. And it tastes just as good as Corona.”

  “You should stick to judging champagne.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “I don’t want a report on Kaylee, but I guess I should have one.”

  “Well, she made a pass at me right after we got in my car, but thanks to your warning and my pure heart, I was able to fend her off.”

  “Not tempted at all?”

  “She’s so
rt of attractive in a way, I don’t know how to describe it…”

  “Earthy.”

  “Yeah, that’s good. Earthy. But I don’t think she and I have much in common. Selena and I took her to the alternative band concert last night, and it wasn’t too big of a drag having her along. She actually has a pretty good sense of humor.”

  “How was the concert?”

  “It was great, and thanks again for the loan.”

  “It was a gift; not a loan.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you always say, but when I end up as the next Bill Gates, you’ll change your mind. Incidentally, I think I have a new favorite group.”

  “What are they called—the Concrete Banana?”

  “That’s a good one. No, they’re called SCR.”

  “Why do so many rock groups go by initials—REM, U2, AC/DC. Wouldn’t it be better advertising to say the whole name rather than just initials?”

  “Would you be more likely to buy REM if you knew what it stood for?”

  “I wouldn’t be buying a rock album in the first place.”

  “An album is what you put pictures in, Uncle Hubert. We buy CD’s these days.”

  “I know that,” I said in mock exasperation. “What does it mean anyway?”

  “It means ‘rapid eye movement’.”

  “I know that, too. What I meant was what does SCR stand for? Slime coated reptiles? So cool Republicans?”

  “There are no cool Republicans. And it stands for Stem Cell Research.”

  “I’m sorry I asked. What can you tell me about things that will detect if someone is trying to record me?”

  “Wow, Uncle Hubert. First a hidden camera and now a bug detector. Are you secretly a spy?”

  I ignored the question and listened as Tristan started to explain how such devices work. I cut him short and ask him just to get me something I could take to a meeting with someone who might try to record me, and he said he would bring one by the next morning.

  31

  I met Susannah at Dos Hermanas.

  After the refreshments were on the table, she said, “I talked to my boss and he agreed to hire Kaylee as a pot scrubber. Actually, he’s not doing her any favor; other than mojados, you can’t find people to do that work, so he’ll be happy to have her. The only question is whether she will do it.”’

  “I suspect it’s either that or prostitution.”

  “Hubie!”

  “Well,” I pleaded, “what other skills does she have?”

  “I don’t know; I only spent a few hours with her before I turned her over to Father Groaz. How’s she doing with Tristan’s friend?”

  “O.K. I guess. At least she hasn’t shown up on my doorstep again. But she can’t stay there long. Will pot scrubber wages pay for an apartment?”

  “I doubt it. The only one of the scrubbers I know is a guy named Arturo; I think he’s the only one who speaks English. He lives with his parents out in the south valley somewhere. The others come and go as a group, so I suspect it’s one of those eight in a room deals.”

  “I’ll have Tristan bring her to meet your boss. Maybe he might have some ideas about temporary lodging?”

  “Maybe. He has a lot of low wage workers and high turnover.”

  Susannah had the pictures of the pot and its measurements. She had selected a Tuesday morning thinking there was less chance of other people being around. I started to tell her you can be alone in the Valle del Rio Museum almost any time you want because they...but I’d done enough haranguing about museums for the week, so I let it pass.

  “You didn’t leave any prints did you?”

  “Oh geez, I didn’t even think of that. Should I …”

  “I’m just joking. There’s no problem with your prints being in the Museum; after all, it is open to the public and they have a photographic record that you have been there. The only problem would be if your prints are on the pot.”

  “Well of course they’re on the pot, Hubert; I had to touch it to measure it, didn’t I?”

  “No problem, Suze.” I smiled at her. “We’ll just wipe them off after we get the pot out of the Museum.”

  32

  “Downtown Albuquerque,” said Mrs. Walter Masoir, “was charming. Mind you, some of the shops had tacky names like ‘Teepee Tailors’ and ‘Dessert Sands Coffee Shop,’ but at least you could find a proper dress and enjoy a watercress sandwich with tea served in china cups.”

  “It sounds nice,” I agreed.

  “Porters,” she said. “They had porters to carry your packages to your automobile.” She breathed the sort of sigh that indicates longing for a lost age of refinement. “The malls ruined all that. I can’t imagine why anyone would shop in those dreadful places.”

  “Maybe it’s the parking,” I suggested.

  “Nonsense,” she was quick to reply. “It’s no good having parking if the shops sell shoddy merchandise. And all those young children.” She turned to face me. “Where are their parents?”

  I shook my head.

  “Exactly,” she said. “What did you say your name is, young man?”

  “Schuze, Ma’am, Hubert Schuze.”

  She had come into my shop that morning wearing a tailored blue suit and a coral broach. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew the name when she introduced herself.

  “Well, Mr. Schuze, your shop is a delightful respite from the tawdry merchandise offered elsewhere in this city and especially in this venerable square.”

  The venerable square, as she described Old Town, is on a site known in 1650 as El Bosque de doña Luisa. If Luisa could see her grove today, I fear she too would sigh. Mrs. Masoir was right; many of the old adobe homes are now shops selling rubber rattlesnakes and prickly pear preserves. But several sell good pottery, although I’m the only purist who eschews contemporary works.

  Mrs. Masoir struck me as the sort of woman who preferred to be called Mrs. Masoir and who used words like ‘venerable.’ She had parked directly in front of my shop, and I had gone outside to warn her she couldn’t park there. She turned her face up to me, a round face with sparkling blue eyes and a small turned up nose, and said, “Nonsense, I can park anywhere.”

  Then she pulled a handicapped parking permit out of her purse and hung it on the rearview mirror of her old Chrysler, twenty feet of russet steel with a white vinyl roof, vintage sixties. Her vintage was considerably earlier.

  “The State gave me this permit because I use a cane.” She shook her head as if to indicate the State was run by ninnies. “I’m certainly not disabled, but I kept the permit because those handicapped spaces are the only ones that accommodate my automobile. Do you think they make parking spaces smaller these days because of all those imported cars?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but you can’t park here even with a handicapped permit; this is a fire lane.”

  “Nonsense. The nearest handicapped space is two blocks away. I’d never make it that far if there were a fire.”

  While I parsed that logic, she lifted her cane off the passenger seat and held out her hand. I took it and helped her out of the car, and that’s how she came to be in my shop admiring my wares and questioning me. She had asked for a place to sit down, and I had retrieved a kitchen chair from my residence behind the shop. From that perch, she had been holding forth on the decline of Albuquerque in particular and Western Civilization in general.

  “Are you an archaeologist, young man?”

  It was a simple question. I did study archaeology, but I never received a degree in it, so how should I answer?

  Honesty is always best, so I said, “I studied archaeology at the University of New Mexico, but they kicked me out before I graduated.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “Did you know my husband?”

  “He retired before I became a student. I knew of him.”

  “He didn’t retire. He was forced out.” She stated it matter-of-factly with no hint of anger or regret.

  “So was I.”

  “So you said and quite fort
hrightly. I suspect Walter would have enjoyed having you as a student.”

  “The pleasure would have been mine,” I replied.

  She looked behind the counter. “Is that a genuine María?”

  “It is.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “About fifteen years.”

  “My husband needs to buy me an anniversary present. Perhaps he will come to see it.” She rose to her feet. “Help me with my shawl, Mr. Schuze.”

  33

  “Guess what I did all day?” It was several days after Susannah had brought the pictures and measurements, and the pot selling business remained as slow as continental drift.

  “You worked on our project,” Susannah answered.

  “How did you guess?”

  “That’s the way you are, Hubie. Once you start on a project, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

  “An interesting metaphor, Suze, but dogs bury things. I dig them up.”

  “It’s not a metaphor, Hubie; it’s a simile.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Mrs. Chisholm cares, Hubie. She was my seventh grade teacher and she was a demon on that topic.”

  “Another metaphor?”

  “No, it’s a simile. She actually was a demon—little horns, a tail...”

  Her head turned towards the door and her eyes lit up. “Hubie, I forgot to tell you; Kauffmann is here.”

  He strode between the tables with a championship gait—head up, arms relaxed, a smile affixed to his face. He was six feet tall but seemed even taller, and he had shoulders as broad as the west mesa.

  Susannah introduced us, and he gave me a firm grip and an even firmer smile.

  “Great to meet you, Hubie. My little Susannah thinks you’re super.”

  Hubie? My little Susannah? For all his perfection, there was something grating about this instant familiarity. Then I told myself not to be so quick to judge. Susannah likes him. Be a nice guy, I told myself.

  “She tells me the same about you,” I replied. “Join us for a drink?”