Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Read online

  I went back to the house and went through the same routine. I rang the doorbell and waited. When no one answered, I knocked loudly. When no one answered, I went back to the rental car as I had done before. But this time I didn’t drive away. Instead, I brought my supplies from the hardware store and a box I brought from Albuquerque and put everything on the front porch.

  As I lined up the things I would need, I was wishing I didn’t have to do this in broad daylight. But I didn’t have a choice. I certainly wasn’t going to break in at night when someone would be home. I set to work.

  I’m a treasure hunter, not a burglar, so I don’t know the methods burglars use to break in to houses. I had put together my own plan, perhaps unorthodox, but it suited my needs.

  I took a new lockset out of its plastic packaging, thinking as I struggled to do so that breaking into the house would be easier than breaking into the plastic packaging. I studied how the lockset worked, took out its cylinder and put the lockset down on the porch. I placed the screwdriver I’d purchased next to the lockset.

  Then I took out the sledgehammer.

  I checked my watch. Then I gave the lock a solid blow. The brand was Defiant, no doubt a serviceable lock, but it couldn’t defy a twelve-pound sledge. It broke like a dry stick. Pieces of the lock fell around my feet with a clinking noise, and I heard other parts of it fall off inside the house.

  I also heard the alarm go off, but I had anticipated that. I ran inside the house and was gone less than a minute. I came back to the door and removed the cylinder from the lock I had destroyed. I put the old cylinder in the new lockset and installed the entire unit in the door. This takes only a few seconds because all you do is insert two long bolts from the plate that goes on the inside part of the door through to the plate that goes on the outside and then tighten them up. It takes longer to describe than to do. I turned the thumbscrew, wiped everything clean with my handkerchief and pulled the door shut.

  I tried it just to be sure, and it was locked as tightly as when I had arrived. I wiped off the outside parts of the lock, picked up the broken lock parts and tools and returned to the car. All of this had taken less than five minutes.

  The homeowners now had a new lockset identical in appearance to the one I had smashed. Because it had the old cylinder, their keys would fit. I figured they might wonder why the alarm went off, but false alarms are not unheard of. Maybe they would put it down to a surge in the power source and forget about it. And nothing was missing, so why worry?

  I had been on Sunset for about two blocks when I saw a police car with its lights flashing start up the hill. I headed back down Sepulveda. About halfway to the airport, there was a forlorn strip mall with a nail salon, a discount clothing store, a cell phone dealer, a doughnut shop and several vacant spaces. I drove around back, wiped down all my new hardware and the broken lock parts and threw everything into their Dumpster.

  I had some time to kill, so I consulted the map and drove to Venice. I discovered it actually has canals like its eponymous sister in Italy.

  It also had a guy playing guitar on roller skates, a panhandler advertising himself as “The World’s Greatest Wino,” street dancers, comedians, jugglers, weightlifters, skaters, preachers, artists, scantily clad women and even more scantily clad men.

  And New Mexicans think Santa Fe is weird.

  It was a depressing combination of hyperactivity and forced gaiety, the buskers pretending they like the tourists, and the tourists pretending they liked being there. I understood the phrase “alone in a crowd.”

  I left the boardwalk and walked to the beach. I’d never seen an ocean in person, so I decided I might as well have a look. Of course I’ve seen beaches in movies. I’ve never understood the appeal. The sand was like the sand in New Mexico—gritty. The water was too cold for swimming. The view was boring, water as far as the eye could see. I wanted to go home.

  The flight from Albuquerque was my first trip in a commercial plane. A friend of my parents who was a pilot at Sandia Air Force Base once took me up in a T-28. I remember the pilot quipped as we approached the plane that his primary goal was the number of landings matching the number of takeoffs. The other thing I remember is getting airsick. Fortunately, the ride to LAX was smooth. Of course the pilot had not done the loops and barrel rolls that the Air Force pilot executed for my entertainment.

  I suspected the afternoon desert wind would begin before the return flight, and it might not be so smooth. So after returning the car and catching the shuttle back to the terminal, I went to the bar to fortify myself for the flight home. In a truly upscale bar, you can specify how you want your drink prepared and be assured it will happen as you direct. Airport bars don’t fit in that category, so a margarita was out. So was champagne since the only brand on offer was fermented in bulk. I won’t mention the brand, but it’s a common given name for French men and rhymes with ashtray, which, come to think of it, is appropriate.

  I ordered a double Jim Beam on the rocks and retired to a corner table to sip and review what I had done. After being falsely accused by Susannah many times, I had finally done it. I had broken into a house. I had not broken into the Valle del Rio Museum even though I admit I gained entrance by subterfuge. I had not broken into Berdal’s apartment the first time even though I admit I posed as a prospective renter. And I hadn’t broken in the second time either—although I was trying to—because Susannah herself had kicked the door open. But no one had been with me today. I had not tricked anyone. I had plainly and simply, without any delusion or assistance, broken into a house. I was now a burglar.

  But wait! I wasn’t really a burglar because I hadn’t stolen anything. That made me feel better. That and the second double bourbon.

  I thought about the cactus scent and botanic overtones of tequila and how it resonates with the desert. I didn’t know what resonates with California. Wine, I guess, but I don’t like wine except when it has bubbles.

  Bourbon was right for the moment. The woodsy smell and smoky flavor comforted me like a familiar jacket on a cold night. So I had a third. Or was it a sixth? They were doubles after all.

  Whatever the number was, I could have purchased an entire bottle in New Mexico for less. But I wasn’t in New Mexico. I was about to get on a plane where the seats are uncomfortable even if you’re only five six, and I needed fortification.

  As we bounced and lurched through the sky, I made a mental note never to fly again.

  58

  I got back before five but was in no shape to meet Susannah for drinks, so I called and left a message. I topped a fried corn tortilla with refried beans, diced tomatoes, sliced jalapeños and fresh cilantro. Sort of a giant nacho. Despite the bourbon and the bumpy flight, I risked a cold beer. It seemed to have a medicinal effect.

  The weather had turned warmer, so I climbed into my hammock to rest. I fell asleep and awoke around midnight to the smell of damp chamisa and the feel of light cool rain on my face. I stumbled inside and slept for another eight hours. After my usual shower and my usual breakfast, I was ready for my meeting with Kaylee and Arturo.

  I asked Arturo to wait in the shop and tell me if any customers came in. I took Kaylee back to my living quarters.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me about your former life in Texas?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not a fugitive from justice? The police aren’t looking for you?”

  “No.”

  “How about someone who’s not a policeman? A former boyfriend, a parent, a social worker or parole officer.”

  “Hubert, I’m not a criminal.”

  “Okay, what are you?”

  She looked into my eyes. “I’m just a high school dropout from Texas who was in a bad situation. One day it got worse, and I ran away. I didn’t plan it. I just walked out the door and started hitching west. I’ve never planned anything in my life. I didn’t plan to drop out
of school. I just got tired of failing, so I quit going. I didn’t plan to work as a waitress. I just saw a sign and went in. I didn’t plan to get involved with who I got involved with. He just walked in the diner one day and I left with him after work.”

  She lowered her head and started crying.

  “I’m sorry to make you dredge up sad memories.”

  She looked up at me and she was smiling. “I’m not sad, Hubert. I’m happy. These are tears of joy. For the first time in my life, I have a plan. I want to marry Arturo, work my way up to waitress, and make enough money so that we can get a place of our own. Maybe someday I’ll be so rich I can buy one of your pots.”

  “Do you love Arturo?”

  “I don’t know what love is. He’s a very nice person, and I like to be with him. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I guess so. Can you go out and ask Arturo to come in and watch the place while he’s here.”

  “Remember the first time I came here? I offered to watch the shop, but you didn’t trust me.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She got up, and I stood up out of habit. She thrust herself against me and gave me a wet kiss. Then she stepped back with a big smile and said, “Just wanted you to get a hint of what you passed up.” I think it was that sense of humor Tristan mentioned.

  Arturo was shorter than me, about Kaylee’s height, and slight of build. He had smooth light brown skin, big damp eyes and a long horsey face. Underneath the big smile was a look of apprehension. He shook my hand limply. I sat down, but he remained standing.

  “Mr. Schuze,” he began, and I smiled because he pronounced it “choose,” which struck me as charmingly unsophisticated. “I am here today,” he continued quite formally, “to ask for the hand of Kaylee.”

  I realized he had been holding his breath, and now that he got out the line he memorized, he let out a long sigh.

  “Do you love her?”

  “More than anything in the world. She is the most beautiful girl I ever see, and she is the first girl who is ever nice to me.”

  I stood up and offered my hand again. “Congratulations,” I said.

  He ran out to the front and they were gone.

  59

  Old town has twenty-four businesses classified as galleries, nine gift or souvenir shops, fourteen jewelers, an equal number of “specialty shops” and thirteen eating establishments from coffee joints to upscale restaurants.

  What binds us together is architecture, low adobe buildings with odd angles and organic shapes, hidden patios, brick paths, small gardens, wooden balconies and wrought-iron benches. And over three hundred years of history.

  The center of it all is the gazebo, half bandstand, half Danish wedding cake, a quirky construction on an adobe base with a hexa­gonal roof. Or maybe it’s octagonal. The wooden posts seem misaligned with the roof they support, so not even Pythagoras could figure the angles.

  The finials are Victorian gingerbread and the eclectic theme is topped off by a cupola that would be right at home on top of a lighthouse.

  Something is usually happening under the gazebo, be it a band concert or a political debate.

  On this day, it was a wedding.

  Arturo and Kaylee stood in front of a justice of the peace who made short work of pronouncing them man and wife.

  Father Groaz was there along with Whit Fletcher, Tristan and his neighbor Emily. But the largest contingent was the staff from La Placita. The pot scrubbers and busboys were dressed in clean white guayaberas, and they had taken up a collection to pay for a mariachi band called Los Lobos Solitarios who led a procession to the restaurant playing Las Mañanitas.

  I listened to the slow melodic thumping of the guitarrón, heard the plaintive voices of the singers and the staff who joined in, and smelled the scent of roasting chilies and frying tortillas wafting from the kitchen. I silently thanked the fates for letting me be born in Albuquerque.

  The wedding buffet started with a series of toasts each followed by a shot of tequila. The toasts were almost all in Spanish, so I had to translate for Susannah, which was a good thing because otherwise I might have been throwing back tequila shots.

  The buffet spread was simple: guacamole, flautas, salsa, chalupas, carnitas, chile con queso, and a mountain of chips, both blue corn and yellow. And of course there were biscochitos for dessert. There also, sitting incongruously amid the traditional dishes, was a steaming chafing dish full of Summer Squash Pie courtesy of Nuestra Señora de Los Casseroles. Miss Gladys Claiborne explained to me, although I had not asked, that the ingredients were frozen sliced yellow squash, sautéed yellow onions, Kraft parmesan cheese from the green cylindrical cardboard container, pulverized Ritz crackers, three strips of bacon crumbled up, and the fat left over from frying the bacon. Much to my amazement, the kitchen crew all had seconds. It must have been the bacon grease.

  Miss Gladys Claiborne held up the dish for me to examine. “Would you just look at this? Those Mexican boys picked this dish so clean I won’t even have to wash it!” She was a contented woman.

  When finally the happy couple was set to depart on their overnight honeymoon, the pot scrubbers and busboys paraded by the couple, each accepting a peck on the cheek from Kaylee and stuffing as many ones and fives into Arturo’s coat pocket as they could afford.

  “Don’t you want to kiss the bride?” asked Susannah.

  “I already have,” I replied.

  As the party broke up, Fletcher and I discussed the logistics of a meeting for the next night in my shop. I gave him the list of people we needed there. He returned my hinges and told me there were no fingerprints on them.

  I walked home and reinstalled the hinges on my cabinets. Then I read the last article in the Pythagoras anthology. The other ones had been about Pythagoras’ life and philosophy. The last one was about his mathematics. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to follow it. It had been a long time since I studied math.

  You may recall from your high school math that the Pythagorean Theorem says that the square of the long side of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the two shorter sides. It doesn’t really matter if you remember that. The important thing about Pythagoras’ discovery is not the formula itself—it’s the fact that there is a formula.

  Pythagoras was the first human to see that there are universal patterns. Those unfailing regularities allow us to do everything from calculating the interest on a savings account to sending rockets to the moon.

  We may wear different clothes, worship different deities, speak different tongues and eat different foods, but we are all held on Earth by the force of gravity, which is the same from Albuquerque to Albania.

  Pythagoras was the first person to discover the regularities behind the immense variety of everyday experience. As I followed the logic of his proof of the theorem that eventually came to bear his name, I became so absorbed in the reasoning that I forgot all about murders and police.

  I am awe-inspired by Pythagoras’ insight. You may find it confusing or even boring. Some people are awe-inspired by majestic mountains, some by poetry and others by abstruse mathematics. But whatever the source, we all need a little awe in our lives.

  60

  “You all set for the big night tomorrow, Hubie?”

  “I am.”

  “Nervous?”

  “A little. But I took my mind off it by reading another article about Pythagoras.”

  “Geez, how much of that can you stand? You seem like a normal person in most other respects.”

  “Thanks, I think. Actually, I’m all through with Pythagoras for now.”

  “So what will you read next?”

  “There’s a book called Longitude I’ve been wanting to read.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about how an English clockmaker solved the problem of how sailors in the middle of t
he ocean can figure out what longitude they’re on.”

  “Wow, that sounds really exciting, Hubert,” she said sarcastically. “And why would you care? You never travel anyway.”

  “I travel everywhere, Susannah. There is no frigate like a book.”

  “That’s a poem, right?”

  I recited it for her:

  There is no Frigate like a Book

  To take us Lands away,

  Nor any Coursers like a Page

  Of prancing Poetry—

  This Traverse may the poorest take

  Without oppress of Toll—

  How frugal is the Chariot

  That bears a Human Soul—

  “It doesn’t scan very well, does it?” she observed.

  “Maybe it was the way I read it.”

  “Maybe. But it still seems strange to worry about longitude when you’ll never be on a real frigate.”

  “Or a courser, whatever that is. But look at it this way. I couldn’t go to the stars even if I did travel, but I still care about where they are.”

  “Come on, Hubie, read something normal for a change. I can lend you one of my burglar books.”

  “I keep telling you, Suze, I’m not a burglar.”

  She laughed. “They’re not how-to books. They’re fun murder mysteries where the crime is solved by a burglar.”

  “I know that. You’ve told me about them before. I’ve just never read one.”

  “Why don’t you try one? I have them all.”

  “Which one do you recommend?”

  “How about The Burglar in the Closet?”

  “Is that some sort of suggestion about my sexuality?”

  “Huh? Oh, I get it. Well, how about The Burglar Who Read Spinoza? You told me you read Spinoza.”

  “Does it really involve Spinoza?”