Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Read online

  Two expired license plates were tacked to the wall. Next to them was a picture of a young man leaning against a pickup truck and wearing an uncertain smile and a red sweatshirt with Badgers in fat white letters. He looked vaguely familiar.

  I stared at the photo for a few minutes, but he didn’t become any more familiar. He didn’t look any less uncertain either. From the description Whit Fletcher had given me, I was fairly certain I was looking at Hugo Berdal about ten years ago. I wanted to ask him what he had done with the pot, but he wouldn’t have told me. It didn’t matter. I knew where it was.

  44

  “You went without me?”

  “I didn’t want you to miss your pay from the lunch shift. You’re buying the drinks tonight.”

  “It’s my turn?”

  “It is. On top of that, I need you more for the second trip.”

  Susannah’s eyes grew larger, quite a feat when you consider how large they are to begin with. “What do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to be my lookout.”

  “You’re going to break into Berdal’s apartment again?”

  “It won’t be again. I keep telling you I’m not a burglar.”

  “Yeah, and you’re not a prospective renter either. You have multiple ways of getting into places you aren’t supposed to be in.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But I don’t need to break in because I can just open the back door and walk in.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “I shoved a hunk of clay into the cavity in the rear door jamb where the bolt goes in. If my guess is right, the bolt is sticking into the hole no more than an eighth of an inch, and even a non-burglar like me should be able to pry it back.”

  “Why didn’t you put in enough clay to stop the bolt altogether? That way you wouldn’t have to pry anything.”

  “Because I didn’t want to leave the door flapping in the wind. The manager could spot that even through his cloud of cigarette smoke.”

  “So why are we going back?”

  “I think I figured out where the pot is.”

  “This is even more exciting than the museum caper because we’ll actually be working together.”

  “Caper?”

  “Don’t spoil this for me, Hubie. Where’s the fun of being criminals if we can’t talk like those old gangsters movies?”

  “Okay. Just remember if anyone comes along while I’m trying to find the pot, you have to pretend to be my moll.”

  “I’ve never even been to Los Alamos.”

  “That’s not surprising. It’s not on the way to anywhere, and there’s not much reason to go there. Except there might be for you. The place has more men than women.”

  “I’m not in the market right now.”

  “You probably wouldn’t like them anyway. Tristan says—let me see if I can remember this—Los Alamos is full of guys who, when the waiter says, ‘I’ll be your server,’ think it’s funny to reply, ‘I’ll be your client.’”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Me either. Tristan said it’s a joke. I thought you might understand it.”

  “Is that some kind of an insult because I’m a waitress?”

  “No. It’s just that Tristan said it has something to do with computers. You’re younger than I am, and you grew up with computers.”

  “I grew up on a ranch near Willard. There wasn’t a computer in the county so far as I know. What do all these geeks do?”

  “They work at Los Alamos National Labs.”

  “Doing what?”

  “They used to make atomic bombs, but I don’t think they do that anymore.”

  “Geez, that’s scary. We aren’t going to glow in the dark when we get back, are we?”

  “I’ve never heard of any problems in the town itself, but there are some off-limits sites that are dangerous. Back when they were building the first atomic bomb, no one knew exactly how much enriched uranium it would take to make a bomb, so they ran experiments to determine critical mass.”

  “Critical mass? That sounds like when the priest uses the homily to complain about sinners in the Church.”

  “It’s a term from physics. If you get enough radioactive material in one spot, the atoms bombard each other with gamma rays and other little bitty thingies.”

  “Itty bitty thingies?”

  “It’s a technical term from physics. The atoms start splitting apart, and that creates more—”

  “Itty bitty thingies.”

  “Right. And if you have enough uranium around, a chain reaction­ begins and that leads to an atomic explosion. So making an atomic bomb is just a matter of having two pieces of radio­active material that are below critical mass and then jamming them together. They ran experiments to gauge critical mass. They piled up uranium ingots and slowly pushed another piece close to the pile to see if it started to go critical.” I eased my margarita carefully toward hers to illustrate.

  “Wouldn’t it explode if it went critical?”

  “You would think so, but apparently they could detect the start of a chain reaction using a Geiger counter, and they would jerk back the little piece of uranium they had pushed close to the pile. Of course they had to do that before the reaction got to the point of no return. They nicknamed moving the little piece in and out ‘tickling the tail of the dragon.’”

  She shuddered. “They must have been fearless.”

  “I guess they were. Sort of like pioneers, going where no one had gone before. They were young scientists about to unlock the mysteries of the forces that hold atoms together.”

  “Maybe we’d have been better off to leave it a mystery.”

  “No doubt. But the human will to learn is inexorable. Someone was going to create atomic fission. I’m glad we got there ahead of the Nazis.”

  “Were they sorry they let the nuclear genie out of the bottle?”

  “Some of them didn’t live to see it happen. The dragon killed them.”

  “That’s terrible. Did they know that could happen?”

  “Oh, they knew. The first person to die has achieved a sort of macabre fame as the first victim of the atomic age. Ironically, his father was an x-ray technician.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  I shook my head. “The son was named Harry Daghlian. He was a boy genius with an engineering degree from Purdue. I expect he knew the dangers of radiation.”

  “Daghlian. Could he have been Basque?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds Armenian to me. But he did have something in common with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He put himself through college by waiting tables.”

  45

  Martin took the carafe from my coffee maker, walked outside and emptied it on the street.

  He came back with a milk jug of water and filled the reservoir. I gave him a fresh filter and he added coffee and hit the Brew button. In a few minutes we were drinking coffee and he was telling me what he had found out about firstNAtions.

  “It ain’t no nation. And it ain’t first—extortion has been around a long time.”

  “They run a protection racket?”

  He nodded. “Indians set up to sell their wares, and these two show up to collect what they call an all tribes franchise fee. Pay the fee and you get protection from the guys collecting the fee.”

  “They said they wanted the Bandelier pot back. They didn’t say anything about protection money.”

  “Far as I know, they only operate on federal land. Like at four corners, which is a good sales site. The talk is that they have some tie to an official. Maybe they’re paying a bribe for the privilege of running the scam.”

  “So why would they scare me if they weren’t trying to make me pay protection money?”

  “Maybe beneath their gruff exteriors, they
are true pot aficionados.”

  I chuckled. “Sure they are. That’s why they smashed the one from Acoma.”

  I took a sip of the coffee. It was good and I told him so.

  “It’s the water. A coffee bean is a coffee bean. Don’t matter if it’s grown by Juan Valdez in the highlands of Columbia or Bob Marley in the lowlands of Jamaica. The only thing determines the taste is how long you roast it and the water you brew it in. The water in Albuquerque has pesticides, fertilizers and fish poop. This water has nothing but H2 and O. Coffee is just something to flavor water. Good water—good coffee.”

  “Tell me where the spring is. I may drive up and get a few gallons each month.”

  “You took our land. Now you want our water?”

  “We didn’t take all your land. We left you a little bit.”

  He snapped his fingers. “And to think we never thanked you.”

  “You’re all a bunch of ingrates.”

  “Anyway, if I took an outsider to our spring, I’d probably be scalped.”

  “Might be an improvement over the pony tail.”

  He affected his Jay Silverheels voice, “Women with straw hair love pony tail.”

  “The pony tail has nothing to do with it. Women like you because you’re exotic and have the physique of a dwarf Schwarzenegger.”

  “And I make good coffee.”

  “Yeah, there’s that. How’s your uncle?”

  “Happy to have the two thousand.”

  “And I suppose he doesn’t know about the five hundred for the scholarship fund?”

  “No. He doesn’t like kids from the pueblo going off to college.”

  “Afraid they won’t come back?”

  “Even if they do, they ain’t the same person who left.”

  “Same for everybody, Martin. You send young people off to college, and they come back different. Some of them turn into pot thieves.”

  “It’s different with Indians.”

  “You don’t think a Jewish family has the same sort of fear if their son goes off to Notre Dame? Or a Basque family if their daughter goes to BYU?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that a lot of my people don’t like the scholarship fund.”

  “So why do you support it?”

  “Because you white guys are not going away. I’m tired of the reservation doctors and teachers being Anglos. I’m tired of having our cultural centers designed by white architects and built by white engineers. I think we can get the white man’s knowledge and still save our culture.”

  “Russell Means say the written word is a tool Europeans use to subjugate Indians.”

  “Yeah, and he wrote it down, so what does that tell you? I don’t give a damn about politics, Native American or otherwise. I just want a better life for my people, and I think we have to figure out how to get the white man’s education and retain our identity.”

  “It seems to be working for Asians and Hispanics.”

  “They don’t live on reservations.”

  46

  “Hurry up, Hubie. I’m freezing my ass off.”

  “I told you to bring a heavier jacket. We’re at seventy-five hundred feet. Of course it’s cold.”

  “I didn’t know we were going to be outside this long. You told me you jammed the lock.”

  “I did, but the bolt must have slipped further into the clay than I anticipated. I can move it a little bit with this knife, but not quite enough.”

  I had a thin blade against the bolt, and I could pry it almost out of the jamb. But every time I thought I had it, it slipped and sprang back. I heard it snap back for about the tenth time.

  “Why don’t you just pick the lock?”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Bernie Rhodenbarr can do it.”

  “He’s a fictional character, Suze. Give me some real-life advice I can use.”

  “Okay, dammit. Pry the bolt back as far as you can manage.”

  I did so and she stepped back and delivered a karate kick to the door. It flew open.

  “I finally got it,” I said.

  She gave me a withering look. “Close the door and turn on the heat.”

  “We better not. It might attract attention.”

  I took off my coat and gave it to her while I started going through the drawers.

  She was shining the flashlight on the walls looking at the pictures.

  “Aim it where I’m searching,” I requested in a stage whisper.

  She did and I got a good look at rubber bands, broken pencils, cough drops, business cards, an empty Scotch Tape dispenser, utility bills, paper clips, buttons, a broken nail clipper, loose matches and a condom.

  “God, there’s no wrapper on that. Is it used?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s still rolled up.”

  “Gross. Why would anyone have an unwrapped condom?”

  “Maybe she changed her mind and he was too cheap to throw it away.”

  “Oh, yuk.”

  “Let’s try the kitchen.”

  We turned towards the sound of the dripping sink when I suddenly flashed back on something I had just seen.

  “Wait. Shine the light back on the chest of drawers.”

  I’d been looking in the drawers, but what I wanted was on top of the chest, held down by the lamp. Only an edge was showing. I unfolded it, looked at it and stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Let’s go,” I whispered, but too softly to be heard over the coughing of the manager.

  He came through the front door and turned on the lights.

  “You want to tell me what you’re doing here?” he demanded.

  “Well,” I said sheepishly, “I was out with my girlfriend and we had a powerful urge to … well, you know, but it’s too cold for the back seat of a car. Then I remembered this apartment is vacant, so I figured …” I let my voice trail off to make the story seem authentic and also because I had no idea what to say next.

  “People usually rent a place before they start screwing in it. I should call the police.”

  “No,” I said, “don’t do that. I was going to rent it, but I didn’t think you’d be open for business this late at night, so I just sort of figured …” Once again my voice trailed off for lack of anything to say.

  “If you’re going to rent it, I need a deposit now. Otherwise, I’m calling the cops.”

  “How much is the deposit?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  I looked in my wallet and found a hundred and seventy dollars. Susannah was able to muster up twenty-three.

  “Will you take one ninety-three?”

  He shook his head but held out his hand. We gave him the money.

  “Here’s the key. I’ll need a month’s rent in advance before you can move in. But considering your situation, you can stay here tonight.”

  I turned on the heat after he left since there was no longer any reason to hide our presence. Susannah sat on the side of the bed and feigned a coquettish look.

  “Looks like we’ve got the place all to ourselves, sailor.”

  47

  As we drove back to Albuquerque, Susannah said, “I can’t believe you touched that thing.”

  “Well, you propositioned me.”

  “It’s a good thing I wasn’t serious. Pulling that thing out of the drawer would have been a complete turnoff.”

  “Geez, it wasn’t used or anything.”

  “All the same, I want you to wash your hands with Clorox when we get back.”

  “I already washed them in Berdal’s apartment.”

  “That doesn’t count. It was his thingy. You need to wash them on neutral ground.”

  We were following Highway 4 west. The road turns south at Valle Grande then passes through Jemez Springs where’s there’s a retreat f
or wayward priests. It continues past the soda dam and the Jemez Pueblo before meeting U.S. 550 at San Ysidro. From there it’s an hour back to Albuquerque.

  “Well, Hubie, you finally did it. You are now officially a burglar.”

  “Me? You’re the one who kicked the door open. I just followed you in.”

  “I only kicked it in because your stuffed clay trick wasn’t working.”

  “How was I supposed to know the spring would be strong enough to push the bolt that far into the clay?”

  “Maybe you should have tested it on your own lock.”

  “Mine are deadbolts. They don’t have springs. But you’re right. It wasn’t a very effective technique. Good thing I’m not a burglar. I’d be very bad at it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter because we got what we came for.” She hesitated for a minute and then added, “What did we come for?”

  “Remember I told you about the picture of Berdal and a pickup truck?”

  “Yeah, I saw.”

  “Well, there were also two expired plates with ‘truck’ on them. So I figured he must be a serious pickup guy. He had a small rented apartment and a pickup. The pot was not in the apartment, so—”

  Susannah finished my thought. “It must be in the pickup. But wouldn’t the police have impounded it?”

  “They would have if it had been at the Hyatt, but it wasn’t. I asked Whit how Berdal got there, and he said they didn’t know. After they found the body, some of the investigators went to the garage and the streets around the hotel and copied down every license plate. None was registered to Berdal.”

  “Maybe the pot isn’t in his truck. Maybe Berdal took it to the Hyatt to sell to Guvelly or exchange for the finder’s fee.”

  “You’re forgetting that I have a computerized snapshot of Guvelly entering my shop after Berdal went to the Hyatt, so Guvelly obviously didn’t have the pot.”

  “Oh, right. So how did Berdal get to the Hyatt? And why didn’t he take his truck?”

  “I don’t know how he got to the Hyatt. But I do know why he didn’t drive there in his truck.”