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

  There’s a sort of democracy to public transportation, everyone paying the same fare and sitting on the same uncomfortable molded-plastic seats. Strangers become instant comrades. A woman next to me asked in halting English how I injured my leg. I answered in Spanish that I had fallen down while drinking water, and everyone around us laughed. When she got off at the next stop she said goodbye as if she expected to see me the next afternoon.

  I suppose many of the riders do see each other repeatedly. They take the same bus at the same time every day to go to work or on Fridays to shop for groceries. They are mostly poor or too young or too old to drive.

  I thought maybe I wouldn’t buy another car. A personal vehicle is convenient, but it is also isolating. When I have to drive on the freeways, I’m always struck by how humorless the other drivers all look, how almost every vehicle contains only the driver.

  Maybe that’s the key. Cars are for drivers. Buses are for passengers. Buses are earth friendly, but they are also people friendly. Being on that bus made me feel more like a citizen of Albuquerque.

  Sharice knew I was in a cast and had agreed to come to my house for our dinner date. So I had to prepare the meal.

  When I reached downtown, I switched from the 54 bus to the 8 and rode to the La Montañita Co-op on Menaul where I bought two fresh trout.

  I had to wait an hour in the hot sun for the next number 8 going back west. I hadn’t replaced the disappeared hat, and I began to worry about my already abused skin.

  And to reassess the idea of depending on buses to get around Albuquerque.

  I didn’t have to worry about the trout because the nice lady behind the counter had packed them with a little bag of ice.

  After I got home and put the trout in the fridge, I crutched down to Miss Gladys’ and was happy to discover she had some grape leaves left over.

  I had slashed an old pair of Levis from cuff to knee on the right leg and worn them every day since getting the cast. Now I faced a dilemma. The split Levis were grungy, and I didn’t want to ruin a pair of good trousers. I considered wearing my bathrobe, but quickly dismissed that option.

  I threw the split Levis in the washer and started cleaning the trout. I had decided to do truchas en terracota, a dish from the menu of Casa Sena in Santa Fe.

  The trout had been gutted but otherwise unprocessed. I washed them and patted them dry. Trout don’t need to be scaled for this dish because the skin disappears.

  I filled the cavities with fresh basil, a pinch of freshly ground green peppercorns, salt and piñon nuts, making sure the nuts were all shelled. Another chipped tooth would be bad for me but even worse for Sharice in her line of work as a dental assistant and hygienist.

  I wrapped the fish in the grape leaves and encased them in clay. I don’t know where Casa Sena gets their clay, but mine came from the banks of the Rio Puerco and was dug up at night. It’s not illegal to dig for clay. But with my reputation, who would believe that was what I was after?

  I put the prepared fish into the fridge and removed a bowl of blue corn posole that had been soaking overnight. I transferred the posole to a large pan and brought it to a low boil in salted water.

  Then I hung the Levis out to dry and took a shower. It was even more refreshing than usual. It’s so arid in New Mexico that perspiration evaporates as it forms, so we never feel sweaty. But that’s how I felt boarding the buses and waiting for one in front of the Co-op. Maybe not being able to move through the air because of the cast was the problem.

  By the time I had showered, shaved, brushed and flossed, the Levis were dry. Hey, it’s the desert. I pressed a stiff crease into them, thinking as I did so of Stella Ramsey, a former paramour who always come to mind when I touch an iron.

  I put my best dress shirt over the Levis, hoping the combo looked somehow chic. I’ve never been certain exactly what ‘chic’ means, but it was the word that sprung to mind every time I saw Sharice.

  The water in the posole had boiled down almost to the desired level. I reduced the heat and added minced garlic, extra virgin olive oil, a handful of chopped fresh Mexican oregano and a cup of roasted green chile.

  I placed two champagne flutes and two bottles of Gruet in the freezer, one a blanc de noirs and the other a rosé. I have a refrigerator-door magnet in the shape of a tiny Gruet bottle which I purchased at their gift shop. I stuck it to the freezer door to remind me to remove the champagne after it was icy cold and before it froze and popped its cork.

  I lowered the lights and lit the candles.

  When the doorbell rang, I put the trout in the oven.

  She was stunning in a white sun dress with string straps at the top that showed off her perfect petit shoulders and a hem at the bottom that did the same for her equally perfect legs.

  Her short hair was in a loose afro. Her eye shadow and lipstick were both violet. I’d never before seen a woman with violet lips, but against her ash grey skin, those lips generated fantasies that arose quicker than I could suppress them.

  She gave me a kiss on the cheek and handed me a stalk of yucca blossoms. Their grapefruit and lemony smell was perfect for a desert evening.

  She looked around the shop. “What lovely pottery. Did you make these?”

  “Some of them.”

  She approached one of the display cases and picked up a wide low bowl I had fashioned after one from San Ildefonso.

  I looked at my reflection in the glass door of the case.

  “Examining your sunburn?”

  “No, trying to see if I have a violet lip print on my cheek.”

  She smiled. “Quality lipstick stays put.”

  I smiled back. “So I guess you could say it’s inviolate.”

  She groaned and held up the bowl. “Can we use this?”

  “Sure.”

  I escorted her through the workshop and back to the dining room.

  She ran some water into the bowl then deftly stripped the yucca stem of its flowers so that they floated in the bowl.

  Then she saw Geronimo scratching at the door.

  “He’s so adorable. Can you let him in?”

  He’s a real chick magnet. I know Tristan says people don’t say ‘chick’ anymore, but that’s what he is.

  “He can be a bit rambunctious,” I warned. I didn’t add that it was only around women.

  I opened the door and he jumped at her. The two of them quickly became fast friends forever or whatever that new phrase is.

  She opted for the blanc de noirs and the patio. Geronimo curled up at her feet and eavesdropped on our conversation which didn’t last long because the trout bakes quickly.

  I excused myself to set the table while she and Geronimo continued to bond.

  I added fresh cilantro and a squeeze of lime to the posole and placed some on each plate. Then I brought the trout to the table on a serving platter.

  Truchas in terracotta is delicious to eat and showy to serve. I struck the clay with the back of a spoon. The clay fissured and Sharice gasped.

  “Amazing,” she said when I lifted the clay, and the grape leaves and trout skin came away with it, leaving the succulent flesh which had cooked in its own steam.

  She complimented me on the trout, the posole and my outfit. “The worn old Levis with neat creases look cool over your cast.”

  “I don’t have any other pants that will slip over the cast, so the only option other than the Levis was my bathrobe.”

  She laughed. “Did you consider it?”

  “Yes, but I rejected it quickly.”

  “Whew.”

  She looked at the bowl on the table with the yucca blossoms. “Did you make this one?”

  I nodded.

  “Makes beautiful bowls and cooks. Impressive.”

  “The bowl is a copy. I can’t take credit for the design. And the recipe is from Casa Sena. I’m just a copycat.”

  “Remember those bowls you ask me to x-ray a couple of years ago? Were they copies?”

  “Yes… or no.”

/>   “One of those, I imagine.”

  She had a soft natural smile that showed her perfect teeth. I was trying to think of her as my date, not my dental hygienist, but those teeth were hard to ignore. Indeed, there was nothing about her I could ignore, neither her bright green eyes, her delicate nose nor the trim firm muscles on her thin arms and legs.

  I yanked my mind back to the conversation and tried to explain my hesitation about the pots being copies. “The ancient potters from San Roque made a set of pots they considered sacred. Their descendents made other sets just like them. So you could say they were copies. But when potters make a pot that’s part of their culture, I don’t think of it as copying. The design belongs to them as members of the tribe.”

  “Why did you want me to x-ray them?”

  “I wanted to see if they were from the original set or from one of the newer sets of copies.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Something like carbon dating? The originals were older so they would x-rayed differently?”

  “I don’t know if an x-ray can determine age, but it can detect metal. The originals had gold discs embedded in their bases.”

  “Wow. And were those originals?”

  “They were.”

  “So you broke them and retrieved the gold?”

  “No way. In the first place, I’d never break a genuine ancient pot. The original potter would never forgive me.”

  She smiled again. I was getting hooked on her smiles. “You believe in spirits?”

  ”I feel a kinship with the ancient potters. Sometimes I even feel their presence. Maybe it’s just in my mind, but it seems real.”

  “And in the second place?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said in the first place you’d never break a pot.”

  “Oh, right. In the second place, the pots were worth more than the gold.”

  “I’d like to see them again. Or have you sold them?”

  “I gave them back to the Ma.”

  “The Ma?”

  “That’s what the people of San Roque call themselves.”

  “You gave them back because they were sacred?”

  I nodded.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  I smiled at her. “Yes, I think I can make love even with a cast on.”

  The way she laughed told me my little joke hadn’t offended her.

  “You’re witty, Hubie.”

  “Shoot. I was trying for sexy.”

  Her demure look told me there was no prospect of us making love that evening.

  Which was fine with me. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to get to know a woman before I jump in bed with her. Of course I couldn’t have jumped in bed given my cast. And I have been known to break my get-to-know-them rule. Once, gloriously, with Stella.

  That was the second time I’d thought of her that day, and she and Sharice are nothing alike. But when a man has sex on his mind, he’s mentally impaired, so it’s a wonder I managed even to prepare the food.

  “What I wanted to ask is how can you give pots back to the Ma because they are sacred and yet dig up and sell other pots?”

  I hesitated because it’s a complicated issue.

  “Am I out of line?” She asked.

  “Not at all. It’s just that it’s a long boring philosophical answer.”

  “’Long boring philosophical’ is a triple oxymoron, Hubie.”

  Beautiful, intelligent and funny. Good teeth, too. I think I was falling in love.

  “There was no doubt the pots you x-rayed belonged to the Ma. But when I dig up an ancient pot from a site abandoned a thousand years ago, there are no modern day people who can claim ownership. I already told you how I feel about the ancient potters. I think they want their work to be appreciated.”

  “Some people say those pots belong to today’s First Nations even if they can’t be traced to a specific tribe.”

  “First Nations, eh?”

  She giggled. Her giggle was just as intoxicating as her laugh. “Okay, I’m Canadian. We call them First Nations. You yanks call them Native Americans.”

  “And all the ones I know call themselves Indians. But that sort of makes my point about labels and ethnicity. You’re Canadian, but your parents were from Jamaica. Your distant ancestors were from Africa. So do you have a tie to the artwork of Africa, Jamaica or Canada?”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “My answer would be all three. And all other artwork everywhere. Artifacts are human before they are Native American, Chinese, European or whatever.”

  I resisted the temptation to drag out one of my Schuze’ Anthropological Premises. The evening was progressing too well to be spoiled.

  The conversation returned to small talk over dessert which was New Mexican green chile caramel truffles from Cocopotamus, an artisanal chocolate maker here in Albuquerque.

  Between her second and third pieces of the chocolate, Sharice said candy is not recommended by those in the dental profession.

  I offered to walk her to her car, but she said to the door would be fine. And it did turn out to be a fine place indeed.

  She turned in the doorway and asked, “How is the chipped tooth?”

  “Fine.”

  Moonlight glinted off her green eyes. “I think I need to check it.”

  She stepped against me. “Closely.”

  When the passionate kiss ended, I said, “I could take off the cast.”

  She laughed and departed.

  14

  I was so smitten by Sharice that I forgot all about the rosé in the freezer.

  Luckily, I saw the magnet on the door before turning out the lights. I removed the bottle and was happy to see it had not yet frozen. I was tempted to open it and have a few more pieces of chocolate. Then I remembered my desire to drink less and lose a few pounds. I stuck the rosé in the fridge and tried to forget it was there.

  Which was easy to do because thoughts of Sharice filled my head.

  The dreams that followed were even better than the thoughts because my censor was off duty.

  On Sunday mornings, I normally eat a breakfast so large that it tides me over for the rest of the day. But I was trying to diet. So while I was at the co-op, I’d bought a bottle of Hollywood Diet Juice made from fruit juices, extracts of green tea, biloba and the mandatory preservatives and stabilizers.

  I can understand the last two ingredients. Who wants to drink something that’s unpreserved and unstable?

  All I know about biloba is it sounds like the guy who discovered the Pacific Ocean.

  Which must have come as a surprise to the millions of native people who were already living on its shores.

  I’m usually suspicious of anything from Hollywood, but I know this stuff has to work. You drink it instead of meals and you lose weight. Duh.

  Martin Seepu showed up around three with one of his uncle’s pots. My relationship with Martin began when I volunteered for a program run by the University that matched college students with adolescents on the reservations. Sort of a big-brother program for Indian kids.

  Our initial meeting was awkward. I suggested things we could do together. He was so unresponsive, I thought maybe he was deaf. Finally, I asked him what he wanted me to do.

  He shrugged. Looking down at the ground, he said, “Teach me something.”

  “What would you like me to teach you?”

  “What you know best.”

  “What I know best is math.” I was majoring in it as an undergraduate. I expected that would curtail his desire for me to teach him something, but he just said, “Okay.”

  So I taught him math. He said very little but learned quickly. I felt awkward because I did all the talking. Eventually, I asked him to teach me something. It was the only way I could think of to make our relationship more balanced. I was too naïve to realize the cultural gulf between us.

  I asked him what he knew best, and he said it was how to draw horses. I knew less about drawing than he had know
n about math. But I started learning and liked it. It was the first time I’d ever attempted anything artistic. And it was good for him because he had to talk to teach. Not much in the beginning, but he eventually came out of his shell.

  One reason why so many students dislike abstract math is they don’t see any purpose for it. Arithmetic is all you need in life. Why waste time on algebra? But most Indians don’t think that way. Because they are marginalized in our economic system, the question of the utility of knowledge is not so important for them.

  It is a morally satisfying irony that Martin, who dropped out of school at fourteen, is more intellectual than college students studying to become engineers or doctors. They learn to practice a profession. He learns because he believes it is better to know than not to know.

  “I’ll chance some of your coffee,” he said.

  “I’ve got some Gruet rosé in the fridge.”

  “Just coffee.”

  “If you don’t drink the Gruet, I’m afraid I will.”

  “Even if I drink it, you just open another one.”

  He knows me well.

  I poured us both a cup of coffee. He took a sip and asked what happened to my ankle. I gave him an abbreviated version of my cliff dwelling adventure.

  When I finished, he said, deadpan, “So you’ve become a grave robber.”

  “It wasn’t a grave.” I had summarized for Martin all the options Susannah and I had kicked around on that topic.

  He nodded. “I agree a murderer wouldn’t haul his victim down there to bury him, but there’s another option.”

  I thought about it for about the hundredth time, but no new explanations came to me.

  “So what is this other possibility?”

  “You taught me math isn’t about numbers. It’s about reasoning. Take your one fact and combine it with two assumptions. The fact is there’s a guy buried there. The first assumption is he was murdered. The—“

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “That’s why it’s an assumption. The second assumption is that a murderer wouldn’t haul a body down there. So what follows by reason?”

  I did abandon math for accounting, but I didn’t forget simple reasoning. “The murderer was already down there.”